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D0021010J 


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VSAFBS. 


IPANT,      1 


LONDON  LABOUR 


AKD  THE 


LONDON  POOR ; 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  THE  CONDITION  AND  EARNINGS 


THOSE  THAT  WILL  WOEK, 
THOSE  THAT  CANNOT  WORK,  AND 
THOSE  THAT  WILL  NOT  WOEK. 

BY 

HENRY  MAYHEW. 
THE   LONDON   STREET-FOLK; 

OOXPBISINO, 
STREET  SELLEBS.  |        STREET  PERFOBMEBS. 


STREET  BUYERS. 
STREET  FINDERS. 


STREET  ARTIZANS. 
STREET  LABOURERS. 


WITH  NT7MEBOUS  :iI<I.nSTBATIONS   FBOM  FHOTOQBAPHS. 

VOLUME  in. 

LONDON: 
GRIFFIN,   BOHN,    AND    COMPANY, 

STATIONERS'  HALL  COUBT. 
1861. 


^5^..  e..    bO 


i 


{ 


V.1 


'i  y  I » 


.•a«: 


^.^  ^  r  -  •  ^ ^  \  ri.1 


riOUr^*  KUrf  fiiM 


^'  ^a  HCCfVlOJ 


LONDON   LABOUR 


LONDON  POOR. 


THE  LONDON   STBEET-FOLK. 


'  \i  rj.  \/ J. 


XI 


l«AP/  • 


QCmoj  2H\ 


1   •! 


LONDON   LABOUR 


LONDON  POOE. 


THE  LONDON  STKEET-FOLK. 


xjO!(mii:  nxsTED  BT  w.  moma  asj>  bou,  STAaioiD  streit  avd  chaxikq  csom. 


LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAOI 

Kat-Eilliko  at  Sfobtinq  PuBLic-HorsEs  -------7 

Jack  Black,  Bat>Killeb  to  Her  Majksty         ---..-       h 
Prxcn's  Showman,  with  AssiBTAirr  .......45 

Grr  FArx         --.--.-..--63 
Stbeet-Teleboofe  Ezhibitob  .--..---81 

StBEET-AoBOBATB  PKBTOBMniG  --------93 

STRKET-€k>NJIJBOB  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -117 

Cibccb-Clown  AT  Faib           .--------  132 

Street-Pebfobmebs  OS  Stilts         --.-----150 

Old  Sarah        -----..----  igo 

ErmopLiN  Sebenadkbs          -...-.---  190 

LfTTEBioB  or  Photogbafheb's  Tbayellinq  Cakatan      -         ...         -  207 

A  GARBET-MAffrEB,  OR  Ghbap  Gabinet-Makeb    ------  225 

Gaho  OF  Coal-Whuters  at  work  below  Bridge        -----  241 

Cqai^Pobters  FiLuiro  WAOGoa»  at  Coal-Wharf         -         -         -         -         -  261 

Ballast-heaters  at  Work  ih  the  Pool  -------  279 

Lumpers  Dischaboiho  Timber-Ship  ik  Commercial  Dock      -         -         -     '    -  297 

A  Dinner  at  a  Cheap  Lodoino-House     -------  314 

Thames  Lightermen  tcooino  awat  at  the  Oar          -         -         -         -         -  338 

Cab-Driter       -----------  351 

Street  Ticket-Pobtxrs  with  Knot          -..-..-  354 

Yaobaiit  in  the  Casual  Wabd  of  Wobkhovse  ------  387 

Vaobant,  from  the  Befuge  in  Plathoubb-Yard,  Crifplbqate        -         -         .  406 

Vagrant,  from  Asylum  fob  the  Houseless  Poob        -----  428 

Meeting  of  Ticket-of-Leayb  Men           --•---.  430 


CONTENTS 

OF 

VOLUME  m. 
THE  STEEET-FOLK 

PACK 
TdE  DE8TBOYEB8  OF  YeBMIN  ........j 

Stbeet-Exhibitobs      -------.-.43 

Stbeet-Musicians        -------...158 

Stbeet-Yocalists        ------.-..190 

StBEET-AbTISTB  ------....       OQ^ 

exhibitobs  of  tuained  astmais   ------..    214 

Skilled  asd  Unskilled  Laboub     ---.-...221 

GABBET-MAflfTEBS  --------.-221 

The  CoaitHkayebs     ---.--....  234 

Ballabt-IIIen     -------.-..  2G5 

LuMFZBS  ---------.-.  288 

The  Dock-Laboubeb8  -------...  300 

Cni;^  LoDORfG-HousEB         ------...  312 

The  Tbansit  of  Gbeat  Bbttain  and  the  Metbofolxs  -         -         .         .  313 

IiOinx>3r  Watebxee,  Liohtebmex,  and  Steauboat-Men  -         •>         .         .  327 

London  Omnibus-Dbiyebs  and  Conductobs         ---..«  33q 

London  Gab-Dbitebb  -----.....  352 

London  Cabmen  and  Pobtebs        ---.....  357 

IX)NDON  YaOBANTS         ------.•..      3^ 


Meetino  of  Ticket-of-Leave  Men 


430 


CONTENTS 

OF 

VOLUME  HL 
THE  STREET-FOLK. 

PAGE 

The  Debtboyxbs  of  Vebmin  .----...j 

I     Stheet-Exhibitobs      ----------43 

I        STBEET-MrSIdANS  ---------«       JQg 

Stbket-Yocalists         ----------190 

,      Street-Abtistb  ---------.     204 

I     ExmBXTOBS  or  Trained  Animals    --------     214 

I 

j      Skilled  and  Unskilled  Labocb     --------     221 

I        GABBn-MABTKBS  ----------221 

The  Coal-Hkatebs     ----------234 

I      Ballast-Men     -----------     2G5 

LrxFEBS  ------------     288 

'      Tnz  Dock-Labocbebs  ----------     300 

Cheap  LoDGiNo-HorsES         ---------     312 

The  Tbanbit  or  Gbeat  Britain  and  the  Metbofolxs  -         -         .         .     323 

London  Watebmen,  Lightermen,  and  Steamboat-Men  -         -         -         -     327 

I      London  Omnibus-Dritxbs  and  Conduoiobs         -----«     330 

London  Cab-Dbitebs  --------         -.351 

I      London  Cabmen  and  Pobtebs        -----...     357 

I      London  Vaobantb      ----.-....    3^ 

Meetcio  of  Ticketot-Leave  Men  ---....    430 


LONDON    LABOUR 


AND 


THE    LONDON    POOR 


THE  DESTROYERS  OF  VERMIN. 


Ths  Baz-£ili£B. 

IN  "  the  Brill,"  or  rather  in  Brill-place, 
Somers'-town,  there  is  a  variety  of  courts 
branching  oat  into  Chapel-street,  and  in 
one  of  tho  most  angular  and  obscure  of  these  is 
to  be  found  a  perfect  nest  of  rat-catchers — not 
r\iogcther  professional  rat-catchers,  bat  for 
the  most  part  sporting  mechanics  and  coster- 
1  LLongers.  The  court  is  not  easily  to  be  found, 
being  inhabited  by  men  not  so  well  known  in 
Iho  inime\Uate  neighbourhood  as  perhaps  a 
mile  or  two  away,  and  only  to  be  discovered  by 
the  aid  and  dinectioo  of  the  little  girl  at  the 
ueiixhhomiDg  cat's-meat  shop. 

JVJ  r  first  experience  of  this  court  was  the 
usual  diftturbttuce  at  the  entrance.  I  found 
ono  end  or  branch  of  it  filled  with  a  mob  of  eager 
listeners  principally  women,  all  attracted  to  a 
particular  house  by  the  sounds  of  quarrelling. 
One  man  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  dis- 
turbers must  have  earned  too  much  money 
yesterday ;  and  a  woman,  speaking  to  another 
who  hod  just  come  out,  lifting  up  both  her 
lionds  and  laughing,  said,  *^  Here  they  are— at 
it  ai^om !  *' 

1  he  rat-killer  whom  we  were  in  search  of 
WAS  oat  at  his  stall  in  Chapel-street  when  we 
called,  hut  his  wifo  soon  fetched  him.  He  was 
a  strong,  sturdy-looking  man,  rather  above  tbc 
middle  height,  with  hght  hair,  ending  in  sandy 
wliiskers,  reaching  \mder  his  chin,  sharp  deep- 
set  eyes,  a  tight-skinned  nose  that  looked  as  if 
the  cuticle  had  been  stretched  to  its  utmost  on 
its  bridge.  He  was  dressed  in  the  ordinaiy 
cordaroy  costermonger  habit,  having,  in  addi- 
tion, a  dai'k  blue  Guernsey  drawn  over  his 
wai^tcoat^ 

The  man's  first  anxiety  was  to  show  us  that 
raU  were  not  his  only  diversion ;  and  in  con- 
sequence he  took  UB  into  the  yard  of  the  house, 
where  in  a  shed  la^  a  bull-dog,  a  bull-bitch, 
and  a  litter  of  j>up8  just  a  week  old.    They  did 


not  belong  to  him,  but  he  said  he  did  a  good 
deal  in  the  way  of  curing  dogs  when  he  could 
get  'em. 

On  a  shelf  in  this  shed  wore  two  large 
dishes,  the  one  containing  mussels  without  the 
shells,  and  tlie  other  eels ;  these  are  the  com- 
modities in  which  lie  deals  at  present,  so  that 
he  is  properly  what  one  would  call  a^*picklad- 
eel  seller." 

We  found  his  room  on  the  first-floor  clean 
and  tidy,  of  a  good  size,  containing  two  bed- 
steads and  a  large  sea-chest,  besides  an  old- 
fashioned,  rickety,  mahogany  table,  while  in  a 
far  comer  of  the  room,  perhaps  waiting  for  the 
cold  weather  and  the  winter's  fire,  was  an  arm- 
chair. Behind  the  door  hung  a  couple  of  dog- 
leads,  made  of  strong  leather,  and  nrtmnntnl 
with  brass.  Against  one  side  of  the  wall  were 
two  framed  engrarin^s  of  animals,  and  a  sort 
of  chart  of  animated  uatiure,  while  over  the 
mantel. shelf  was  a  vaiiety  of  most  character- 
istic articles.  Amonpr  these  appeared  a  model 
of  a  bull-dog's  head,  cut  out  of  sandstone,  and 
painted  in  imitation  of  nature — a  most  mar- 
vellous piece  of  ugliness.  ^  He  was  the  best 
dog  I  ever  see,"  said  the  host,  "  and  when  I 
parted  with  him  for  a  ten -pound  note,  a  man 
as  worked  in  Uie  New  Road  took  and  raado 
this  model — ^he  was  a  real  beauty,  was  that  dog. 
The  man  as  carved  that  there,  didn't  have  no 
dilficulty  in  holdin'  him  still,  becos  he  was  very 
good  at  that  sort  o'  thing;  and  when  he'd 
looked  at  anything  he  couldn't  be  off  doin'  it" 

There  were  alsi)  a  great  many  common 
prints  about  the  wells,  "  a  penny  eacli,  frame 
and  all,"  amongst  which  were  four  dogs — all 
ratting— a  game  cock,  two  Robinson  Cruaoes, 
and  three  scripture  subjects. 

There  was,  besides,  a  photograph  of  another 
favourite  dog  which  hod  "  had  give  him." 

The  man  apologised  for  the  bareness  of  the 
room,  but  said,  *•  You  see,  master,  my  brother 
went  over  to  'Merica  contracting  fbr  a  railway 


Ko.  i.V. 


\i 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


under  Peto's,  and  they  sends  to  me  about  a  i 
year  ago,  telling  iiie  to  get  together  as  many  . 
Lkely  fellowb  o.^  1  could  (about  u  dozen),  nnd  | 
m^}  tlieni  over  a*»  excavators ;  and  when  1  was  j 
ready,  to  f^o  to  I'eiu's  and  get  ^vliut  money  I  I 
wanted.  Itut  wlien  I'd  gut  tlie  men,  bold  olT, 
all  my  stieks,  and  went  for  tlie  money,  they  \ 
told  mo  my  brother  hud  got  plenty,  and  that  if 
Jie  wanted  me  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
Irisself  not  to  send  some  over  hissclf;  so  I 
just  got  togetlier  these  few  things  again,  and  I 
ain't  heard  of  nothing  at  all  about  it  since." 

AAer  I  liad  sutisfit-d  him  that  I  was  not  a 
collector  of  dog-tax,  trying  to  liud  out  how 
many  animals  he  kept,  he  gave  me  what  he 
evidently  tlnaif^lit  was  "a  treat" — a  peep  at 
his  bull-dog,  wliii'h  he  fetched  from  upstairs, 
and  let  it  jump  ubi»ut  the  room  with  a  most 
unpleasant  hberty,  informing  me  the  wliile 
how  he  had  given  live  poimd  fur  him,  and 
that  one  of  the  first  pups  he  got  by  a  bull  he 
had  got  five  pounds  for,  and  that  cleared  him. 
•*  That  Punch"  {the  bull  dog's  name),  he  said, 
**  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb — wouldn't  Imrt  nobody ; 
I  frequently  takes  him  through  the  streets 
without  a  lead.  Sartainly  lie  killed  a  cat  the 
t'other  aficmoon,  but  ho  couldn't  help  that, 
'cause  the  cat  Hew  at  him ;  tliough  he  took  it 
as  quietly  as  a  man  woidd  a  woman  hi  a  pas- 
sion, and  only  went  at  her  just  to  save  his 
eyes.  But  you  couldn't  ea.sy  get  him  off,  mas- 
ter, when  he  once  got  a  lu»lt.  Ho  was  a  good 
one  for  rats,  and,  ho  believed,  the  stanchest  and 
tiicksiest  dog  in  London." 

When  he  had  token  the  brut«  upstairs,  for 
which  I  was  not  a  little  thankful,  the  man 
made  the  following  statement : — 

<'I  a'n't  a  Londoner.  I've  travelled  all 
about  the  coimtxy.  I'm  a  native  of  Iver,  in 
Buckinghamshire .  I've  been  three  year  heie 
at  Uiese  lodgings,  and  live  year  in  London 
altogetlier  up  to  last  September. 

"  Before  I  como  to  ]^>ndiin  I  wjis  nothink, 
hir— a  laboiu'ing  man,  an  oshkrwator.  1  come 
to  London  the  Kame  as  Uie  rest^  to  do  anytliiuk 
1  could.  I  was  at  work  at  the  eshkewati'ons  at 
King's  Cross  Station.  I  work  as  hard  as  nuy 
man  in  London,  I  think. 

♦«  When  the  station  was  finished,  I,  having  a 
large  family,  thought  I'd  do  the  best  I  couhl, 
so  I  went  to  bi>  forenmn  at  the  (.-aleilonian  Saw- 
mills. I  st<»pp«'d  tlurn  a  twelvemonth;  but 
ontMlay  I  went  f«>r  a  load  and  a-half  of  lime, 
and  where  y<iu  frtfhes  n  loud  and  a-lndf  of  lime 
they  alwoys  givrs  you  fowrpence.  So  as  I  was 
having  apint  oflM-er  out  ;»f  it,  my  master  come 
by  and  saw  \w  drinking,  and  give  me  the 
8a(*k.  Thi'u  Ih-  wanted  me  to  ux  his  pardon, 
audi  might  slop;  Imt  I  told  him  I  wouldn't 
beg  no  onr's  pardon  for  drinking  a  pint  of  beer 
as  wjiH  give  nir.     So  1  left  there. 

*•  Kver  sini-e  the  (.in-at  Western  was  begun, 
my  family  has  bet>n  distributed  all  over  the 
country,  where>rr  there  was  a  railway  making. 
'My  broth«'i*s  were  contractors  for  Peto,  and  I 
generally  worked  fur  my  brothers;  butlhey*ve 


gone  to  America,  and  taken  a  contract  f(>r  a 
railway  at  St.  John's,  New  Biiinswiek,  British 
North  America.  I  can  do  anythmg  in  the 
eshkewadng  way — I  don't  care  what  it  is. 

**  After  I  left  the  Caledonian  Sawmills  I 
went  to  Billingsgate,  and  bt>ught  anythink  I 
could  see  a  chance  of  gettin'  a  shilling  out  on, 
or  to'ards  keeping  my  family.       • 

"  All  my  lifetime  I've  bren  a-dealing  a  little 
in  rats ;  but  it  was  not  till  I  come  to  London 
that  I  turned  my  mind  fully  to  that  si.>rt  of 
thing.  My  father  always  had  a  great  notion 
of  the  same.  We  all  like  the  sport.  When 
any  on  us  was  in  tlie  country,  and  the  farmers 
wanted  us  to,  we'd  do  it.  If  an \ body  heerd 
tell  of  my  being  an  activish  chap  like,  iu  that 
BoH  of  way,  they'd  get  me  to  rome  for  a  day 
or  so. 

*'  If  anybody  has  a  plaro  that's  eaten  up 
with  rats,  I  goes  and  gets  some  feniiu,  and 
takes  a  dog,  if  I've  got  one,  and  manner*:  s  to 
kill  'em.  Sometimes  I  keep  my  own  feirui>i, 
but  mo&tly  I  bon-ows  them,  Tliis  yomi^  man 
that's  with  me,  he'll  sometimes  have  an  onU  r 
ti)  go  tifty  or  sixty  mile  into  tlie  countiy,  ami 
then  ho  buys  his  ferruts,  or  gets  them  the 
best  way  ho  can.  They  ciiarges  a  go«»l  sum 
for  the  loan  of  'em — sometimes  as  much  as 
you  get  for  the  job. 

"You  can  buy  ferruts  at  Ijcadenludl -market 
for  5a.  or  7a. — it  idl  depends;  you  cant  get 
them  all  at  one  price,  Homo  of  'em  is  r«  al 
Cowards  to  what  others  is;  some  won't  even 
kill  a  rat.  The  way  wo  tries 'em  is,  vi'jMits 
'em  down  anywhere,  in  a  room  may  Ik.*,  >viih  a 
rat,  and  if  they  smell  about  and  won't  ^'o  lU) 
to  it,  why  they  won't  do;  'caust  y..u  >ei-. 
sometimes  the  ferrut  has  to  go  up  a  hole,  and 
at  the  end  there  may  be  a  dozen  or  sixteen 
rats,  and  if  he  hasn't  got  the  heart  to  tackli> 
one  on  'em,  why  he  ain't  worth  a  furden. 

"  I  have  kept  ferruts  for  four  or  five  months 
at  a  time,  but  they're  nasty  stinking  tilings. 
I've  had  them  get  loose;  but,  bless  you.  they 
do  no  harm,  they're  as  hinnocent  as  cats ;  they 
won't  hurt  nothink ;  you  cau  play  with  them 
like  a  kitten.  Some  puts  things  down  to  ketch 
rats  — sorts  of  pison,  which  is  tlieir  serret — 
but  I  don't.  I  i-elies  upon  my  dogs  and  foiTuts, 
and  nothink  else. 

"  I%ent  to  desti*oy  a  few  rats  tip  at  linssell- 
square;  there  was  a  shore  come  right  aloiiL:. 
and  a  few  holes — they  was  swarmed  with  'em 
there — and  ilidn't  know  how  it  was;  but  the 
cleverest  men  in  the  world  couldn't  kclclj 
many  there,  'cause  you  see,  master,  they  rnx't 
down  the  hole  into  the  shore,  and  uu  dog  could 
get  through  a  rat -hole. 

*'I  couldn't  get  my  livhig,  though,  at  tiiai 
business.  If  any  gentleman  corner  to  nu  and 
says  ho  wants  a  dog  cured,  or  a  few  rats  d»> 
stroyed,  I  does  it. 

•*in  the  country  they  give  you  fouqience  a 
rat,  and  you  c:m  kill  sometimes  as  many  in  a 
farmyard  as  you  cau  in  London.  The  most  I 
ever  got  for  destroying  rats  was  fom-  bob,  and 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


then  I  filled  np  tlio  brickwork  and  made  the 
holes  good,  and  there  was  no  more  come. 

**  I  calls  myself  a  coster ;  some  calls  their- 
selves  general  dealers,  but  I  doesn't.  I  goes  to 
market,  and  if  one  thing  don't  suit,  why  I  buys 
another. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you've  heerd  of  it, 
master,  or  not,  but  I'm  the  man  as  they  say 
kills  rats — ^at's  to  say,  I  kills  'em  like  a  dog. 
I  m  almost  ashamed  to  mention  it,  and  I  shall 
never  do  it  any  more,  but  I've  killed  rats  for 
a  wager  often.  You  see  it's  only  been  done 
like  for  a  lark ;  we've  bin  all  together  daring 
one  another,  and  trying  to  do  something  as 
nobody  else  could.     I  remember  the  first  time 

I  did  it  for  a  wager,  it  was  up  at ,  where 

they've  got  a  pit.  There  was  a  bull-dog  a 
killing  rats,  so  I  says, 

"  *  Oh,  that's  a  duffin'  dog ;  any  dog  could 
kill  quicker  than  him.  I'd  kill  again  him  my- 
self.' 

**  Well,  then  they  chaffed  me,  and  I  wam't 
goin'  to  be  done ;  so  I  says, 

" *  111  kill  again  that  dog  for  a  soVrin.' 

*'  The  sov^rin  was  staked.  I  wont  down  to 
kill  eight  rats  again  the  dog,  and  I  beat  hira. 
I  killed  'em  like  a  dog,  with  my  teeth.  I  went 
down  hands  and  knees  and  bit  'em.  I've  done 
it  three  times  for  a  sov'rin,  and  I've  won  each 
time.  I  feels  very  much  ashamed  of  it, 
though. 

"  On  the  hind  part  of  my  neck,  as  you  may 
s?e,  sir,  there's  a  scar;  that's  where  I  was  bit 
bT  one;  the  rat  twisted  hisself  round  and 
held  on  like  a  vice.  It  was  very  bad,  sir,  for 
ft  long  time ;  it  festered,  and  broke  out  once 
or  t\"nce,  but  it's  all  right  now." 

Bats. 

"  The  rat,  though  small,  weak,  and  contemp- 
tible in  its  appearance,  possesses  properties 
that  render  it  a  more  formidable  enemy  to 
mankind,  and  more  injurious  to  the  interests 
of  society,  than  even  those  animals  that  are 
endued  with  the  greatest  strength  and  the 
most  rapacious  dispositions.  To  the  one  we 
can  oppose  united  powers  and  superior  arts ; 
with  regard  to  the  other,  experience  has  con- 
vinc«d  us  that  no  art  can  counteract  the 
ei£iicX3  of  its  amazing  fecundity,  and  that 
force  is  incfl'ectually  directed  against  an  ani- 
mal possessed  of  such  variety  of  means  to 
elude  it. 

'*  There  are  two  kinds  of  rats  known  in  this 
country, — the  black  rat,  which  was  formerly 
universal  here,  but  is  now  very  rarely  seen, 
having  been  almost  extirpated  by  the  large 
brown  kind,  which  is  generally  distinguished 
by  the  name  of  the  Norway  rat» 

"  This  formidable  invader  is  now  xmiversally 
diffused  through  the  whole  country,  from 
whemee  every  method  has  been  tried  in  vain 
to  exterminate  it.  This  species  is  about  nine 
inches  long,  of  a  light-brown  colour,  mixed 
with  tawnj  and  ash ;  the  throat  and  belly  are 


of  a  dirty  white,  inclining  to  grey ;  its  feet  are 
naked,  and  of  a  pale  flesh-colour ;  the  taU  is 
as  long  as  the  body,  covered  with  minute 
dusky  scales,  thinly  interspersed  with  short 
hairs.  In  summer  it  frequents  the  banks  of 
rivers,  ponds,  and  ditches,  where  it  lives  on 
frogs,  fishes,  and  small  animals.  But  its  rapa- 
city is  not  entirely  confined  to  these.  It  de- 
stroys rabbits,  poultry,  young  pigeons,  &c.  It 
infests  the  granaiy,  the  bom,  and  the  store- 
house ;  does  infinite  mischief  among  com  and 
fruit  of  all  kinds  ;  and  not  content  with  satis- 
fjing  its  hunger,  frequently  carries  off  large 
quantities  to  its  hiding-place.  It  is  a  bold  and 
fierce  little  animal,  and  when  closely  pursued, 
will  turn  and  fasten  on  its  assailant.  Its  bite 
is  keen,  and  the  wound  it  inflicts  is  painful 
and  difficult  to  heal,  owing  to  the  form  of  its 
teeth,  which  are  long,  sharp,  and  of  an  irre- 
gular shape. 

"  The  rat  is  amazingly  prolific,  usually  pro- 
ducing from  twelve  to  eighteen  young  ones  at 
one  time.  Their  numbers  would  soon  in- 
cresise  beyond  all  power  of  restraint,  were  it 
not  for  an  insatiable  appetite,  that  impels 
them  to  desti'oy  and  devour  each  other.  The 
weaker  always  fall  a  prey  to  the  stronger; 
and  a  large  male  rat,  which  usually  lives  by 
itself,  is  dreaded  by  those  of  its  own  species  as 
their  most  formidable  enemy. 

"  It  is  a  singular  fact  in  the  history  of  those 
animals,  that  the  skins  of  such  of  them  as 
have  been  devoured  in  their  holes  have  fre- 
quently been  found  curiously  turned  insido 
out,  every  part  being  completely  inverted, 
even  to  the  ends  of  the  toes.  How  the  opera- 
tion is  performed  it  would  be  difficult  to  ascer- 
tain ;  but  it  appears  to  be  effected  in  somo 
peculiar  mode  of  eating  out  the  contents. 

"  Besides  tlie  numbers  that  perish  in  these 
unnatural  conflicts,  they  have  many  fierce  and 
inveterate  enemies,  that  take  every  occasion  to 
destroy  them.  Mankind  have  contrived  vari- 
ous methods  of  exterininating  these  bold  in- 
truders. For  this  purpose  traps  are  often 
found  ineffectual,  such  being  the  sagacity  of 
the  animals,  that  when  any  aro  drawn  into 
the  snare,  the  others  by  such  means  learn  to 
avoid  the  dangerous  alliu-ement,  notwith- 
standing  the  utmost  caution  may  have  been 
used  to  conceal  the  design.  The  surest  me- 
thod of  killing  them  is  by  poison.  Nux  vomica 
groimd  and  mixed  with  oatmeal,  with  a  small 
proportion  of  oil  of  rhodium  and  musk,  have 
been  found  from  experience  to  be  very  effec- 
tual. 

"  The  water-rat  is  somewhat  smaller  than 
the  Norway  rat ;  its  head  larger  and  its  nose 
thicker;  its  eyes  are  small;  its  ears  short; 
scarcely  appearing  through  the  hair ;  its  teeth 
are  large,  strong,  and  yellow ;  the  hair  on  its 
body  thicker  and  longer  than  that  of  the  com- 
mon rat,  and  chiefly  of  a  dark  brown  colour 
mixed  with  red;  the  belly  is  grey;  the  tail  five 
inches  long,  covered  with  short  black  hairs, 
and  the  tip  with  white. 


ZOXDOX  LABOVR  AXD  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


"  Tho  water -rat  gcnorally  frequents  the 
sides  of  riverfi,  ponds,  und  diiohes,  where  it 
burrows  and  forms  its  nest.  It  feeds  on  frogs, 
small  lish  and  spawn,  swiius  anil  divc5  re- 
markably fast,  and  can  continue  c  long  time 
under  water."* 

In  Mr.  diaries  Fothergill's  Essay  on  the 
Philo9oph}f^  Stutly,  and  Use  of  Natural  History 
(im3),wo  find  some  roflectinns  which  remind 
us  of  lUy  and  Dcrham.  Wo  shall  cxiract  a 
few  paragraplia  whicli  relate  to  the  subject  in 
hand. 

**  Notliing  can  afTor*!  a  finr»r  illustration  of 
the  beautiful  order  and  simplicity  of  the  laws 
which  govern  tho  creation,  &au  tho  certainty, 
precision,  and  regularity  with  wliioh  tho  na- 
tural checks  in  the  superabundant  increase  of 
each  tribe  of  animals  arc  manngi.'d  ;  and  even- 
family  is  subject  to  the  operatir>n  of  checks 
peculiar  to  the  species — whatever  it  may  be — 
and  established  by  a  wise  law  of  tho  Most 
High,  to  counteract  the  fatal  ciTocts  that  might 
arise  from  an  ev(T-active  populntive  principle. 
It  is  by  the  admirable  disposition  of  tlieso 
checks,  the  contemplation  of  which  is  rJone 
Bufflciont  to  astonish  tho  loftiest  and  most 
comprehensive  wnUL  of  man,  that  tho  whole 
system  of  animal  life,  in  all  its  various  foims, 
is  kept  in  due  strengtJi  and  equilibrium. 

"  This  subject  is  worthy  of  tho  naturalist's 
most  sorioua  consideration.'' 

**  This  groat  law,"  Mr.  F.  proceeds,  "  per- 
vades and  affects  the  wholo  nninial  creation, 
and  so  active,  unwearied,  and  rapid  is  the 
principle  of  increase  over  tho  means  of  sub- 
aistenco  amongst  tho  inferior  animals,  that  it 
is  evident  whole  genera  of  carnivorous  beings 
amongst  beasts,  birds,  fish,  reptiles,  and  in- 
sects, havo  been  created  for  the  express  pur- 
pass  (?)  of  suppressing  tho  redundancy  of 
others,  and  restraining  tlicir  numbers  wiihin 
proper  limits. 

**  But  oven  tho  natural  checks  are  insuffi- 
cient to  restrain  the  etfects  of  a  too-rapid 
pnpulative  principle  in  some  animals  which 
have,  therefore,  certain  destructive  propensi. 
ties  given  to  them  by  the  Creator,  that  operate 
powerfidly  upon  tlicmselves  and  their  off- 
Bpring,  as  may  be  particularly  observed  in  the 
natural  history  of  tho  rahbUy  but  which  is  still 
more  evidently  and  strikingly  displayed  in  the 
life  and  economy  of  tlie  rat, 

**  It  has  been  calculated  by  3Ir.  Pennant, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the 
statement,  that  the  astonishing  number  of 
1,274,840  may  be  produced  from  a  single  pair 
of  rabbits  in  the  short  space  of  four  years,  as 
these  animals  in  their  wild  state  breed  seven 
times  in  a-year,  and  generally  produce  eight 
young  ones  each  time.  They  are  capable  of 
procreation  at  the  age  of  five  or  six  months, 
and  the  doe  carries  her  burthen  no  more  than 
thirty  days. 

"  But  tho  principle  of  increase  is  much 

*  Bewiok'a  H'atory  qf  Quadntpeds,  1790,$MetKf. 


more  powerful,  active,  and  effective  in  the 
common  grey  rat  than  in  any  other  animal  of 
equal  size.  This  destructive  animal  is  conti- 
nually under  the  furor  of  animal  love.  Tho 
female  carries  her  young  for  one  month  only ; 
and  she  seldom  or  never  produces  a  loss  num- 
ber than  twelve,  but  sometimes  as  maiiy  as 
eighteen  at  a  litter — the  medium  number  may 
be  taken  for  an  average  —  and  tho  period  of 
gestation,  tliough  of  such  short  continuance,  is 
confined  to  no  particular  season  of- the  yeixr. 

"  The  embraces  of  the  male  are  admitted 
immediately  after  tlie  birth  of  the  vindictive 
progeny;  and  it  is  a  fact  which  I  liuvc  as- 
certained beyond  any  doubt,  that  tlie  female 
suckles  her  young  ones  nlmost  to  the  very 
moment  when  another  litter  is  dropping  into 
the  world  as  their  successors. 

"A  celebrated  Yorkshire  rat-catcher  whrnn  I 
have  occasionally  employed,  ono  day  killed  a 
lai-go  female  rat,  that  wus  in  the  act  of  suck- 
ling twelve  young  ones,  which  had  attained  a 
very  considerable  growth ;  nevertheless,  upon 
o]vening  her  swollen  boily,  he  found  thijteen 
quick  young,  tliat  were  within  a  few  days  of 
their  birth.  Supposing,  thcn^fore,  that  tho 
rat  produces  ten  litters  in  tho  course  f»f  a 
year,  and  that  no  check  on  their  increase 
should  operate  destructively  fur  tlio  space  of 
four  years,  a  number  not  far  sliort  of  3,<KM),000 
might  \m^  produced  from  a  tiiitjle  i>air  in  that 
time  I 

*•  Now,  the  consequence  of  such  an  nctivo 
and  productive  principle  of  increase,  if  su:l'rivd 
continually  to  operate  without  check,  v.oidd 
soon  be  fatally  obvious.  Wk  have  herrd  of 
fertile  plains  devastated,  and  largo  t<»\vii;*  un. 
demiinod,  in  Spain,  by  rabbits;  and  even 
that  a  military  force  fi-um  Jtomo  was  onco  re- 
que^ted  of  the  grc-at  Augustus  to  suppn-s^  the 
astonishing  numbers  of  tlie  same  auimal  over- 
running tlie  island  of  Mii\,iorca  and  ^liiiorco. 
This  circumstance  is  recorded  by  I'liiiy. 

"If,  therefore,  rats  were  sullcred  if)  mul- 
tiply without  the  restndut  of  the  most  power- 
ful and  positive  natural  checks,  not  only  would 
fertile  plains  and  rich  cities  l»c  undermined 
and  destroyed,  but  the  whole  surface  of  the 
earth  in  a  very  few  years  woubl  bo  rtoidered  a 
barren  tad  hideous  waste,  covered  with  my- 
riads of  fkmished  grey  rats,  against  which  man 
himself  would  contend  in  vain.  But  the  same 
Almighty  Being  who  perceived  a  necessity  for 
their  existence,  has  also  restricted  tlieir  num- 
bers within  proper  bounds,  by  creating  t(»  them 
many  very  poweiftil  enemies,  and  still  more 
effectually  by  establishing  a  propensity  in 
themselves,  the  gratification  of  which  has  con- 
tinually the  eifect  of  lessening  their  numl»ors, 
oven  more  than  any  of  their  foreign  enemies. 

"  The  male  rat  has  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
the  blood  of  his  own  offspring;  tho  female, 
being  aware  of  this  passion,  hides  her  young 
in  such  secret  jiliices  as  8h»)  supposes  likely  to 
escape  notice  or  discovery,  till  her  progf'uy  are 
old  enough  to  venture  forth  and  stand  upon 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


tlieir  own  energies ;  but,  notwitfastunding  this 
pn.'caation,  the  male  rat  frequently  discovers 
tliem,  and  destroys  as  many  as  he  can ;.  nor  is 
the  defence  of  the  mother  any  very  efifectiuil 
protection,  since  she  herself  sometiiues  foils  a 
victim  to  her  temerity  and  her  maternal  ten- 
derness. 

**  Besides  this  propensity  to  the  destraction 
of  thoir  own  offspring,  when  other  food  fails 
them,  rats  hunt  down  and  prey  upon  each 
other  with  the  most  ferocious  and  desperate 
ftuditjT.  inasmuch  as  it  not  un&equently  hap- 
pens, in  a  colouy  of  these  destructive  ammals, 
tliat  a  single  male  of  more  Uian  ordinxiry 
powei^i,  after  having  overcome  and  devoured 
all  competitors  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
females,  reigns  the  sole  bloody  and  much- 
dreaded  tyrant  over  a  considerable  territory, 
dwelling  by  himself  in  some  solitary  hole,  and 
never  appearing  abroad  without  spreading 
terror  and  dismay  even  amongst  the  females 
whose  embraces  he  seeks.  In  this  relentless 
and  bloody  character  may  be  found  one  of  the 
most  powerful  and  positive  of  the  checks 
which  operate  to  the  repression  of  this  species 
within  proper  bounds ;  a  character  which  at- 
taches, in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  to  the 
whole  Mum  genns,  and  in  which  we  may  readily 
perceive  the  cause  of  the  extirpation  of  the 
old  blMck  rats  of  England,  Jdus  raihus;  for  the 
largo  grey  rats,  having  superior  bodily  powers 
united  to  the  same  carnivorous  propensities, 
would  easily  conquer  and  destroy  their 
black  opponents  wherever  they  could  bo 
found,  and  whenever  they  mot  to  dispute  the 
title  of  possession  or  of  sovereignty." 

When  the  young  rats  begin  to  issue  from 
their  holes,  the  mother  watches,  defends,  and 
even  ilghts  with  the  oats,  in  order  to  save 
thezD.  A  large  rat  is  more  mischievous  than 
a  young  cat,  and  nearly  as  strong :  the  rat 
uses  her  fore-teeth,  and  the  cat  makes  most 
use  of  her  claws ;  so  that  the  latter  requires 
both  to  be  vigorous  and  accustomed  to  fight, 
in  order  to  destroy  her  adversaxy. 

The  weasel,  though  smaller,  is  a  much  more 
dangerous  and  formidable  enemy  to  the  rat, 
because  it  can  follow  it  into  its  retreat.  Its 
strength  being  nearly  equal  to  that  of  the  rat, 
the  combat  often  continues  for  a  long  time, 
but  the  method  of  using  their  arms  by  the 
opponents  is  very  different.  The  rat  wounds 
only  by  repeated  strokes  with  his  fore-teeth, 
which  are  better  formed  for  gnawing  than 
biting ;  and,  being  situated  at  the  extremity  of 
the  lever  or  jaw,  they  have  not  much  force. 
Bat  the  weasel  bites  cruelly  with  the  whole 
jaw,  and,  instead  of  letting  go  its  hold,  sucks 
the  blood  from  the  wotmded  part,  so  that  the 
rat  is  always  killed. 

A  Night  at  Bat-Kxlliho. 

CoHsiDEBxifa  the  immense  number  of  rats 
which  iiarni  an  article  of  commerce  with  many 
of  the  lower  orders,  whose  business  it  is  to 


keep  them  for  the  purpose  of  rat  matches,  I 
thought  it  necessary,  for  the  fuU  elucidation 
of  my  subject,  to  visit  the  well-known  public- 
house  in  London,  where,  on  a  certain  night  in 
the  week,  a  pit  is  built  up,  and  regulai-  rat- 
killing  matches  take  place,  and  where  those 
who  have  sporting  dogs,  and  are  anxious  to 
test  their  qualities,  can,  after  such  matches  are 
finished,  purchase  half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen  rats 
for  them  to  practise  upon,  and  judge  for  them- 
selves of  their  dogs'  "  performances." 

To  quote  the  wonls  printed  on  the  pro- 
prietor's card,  "  he  is  always  at  his  old  house 
at  home,  as  usual,  to  discuss  the  zakcy 
generally." 

I  arrived  at  about  eight  o'clock  at  the  tavern 
where  the  performances  were  to  take  place.  I 
was  too  early,  but  there  was  plenty  to  occupy 
my  leisure  in  looking  at  the  curious  t^ce.ne 
aroimd  me,  and  taking  notes  of  the  habits 
and  conversation  of  the  customers  who  were 
flocking  in. 

The  front  of  the  long  bar  was  crowded  with 
men  of  every  grade  of  society,  all  smoking, 
drinking,  and  talking  about  dogs.  Many  of 
them  had  brought  with  them  Uieir  "  fancy " 
animals,  so  that  a  kind  of  *' canine  exhibition" 
was  going  on ;  some  carried  under  their  arm 
small  bull-dogs,  whose  fiat  pink  noses  rubbed 
against  my  ann  as  I  passed ;  others  had  Skye- 
terriers,  curled  up  like  balls  of  hair,  and 
sleeping  like  children,  as  they  were  nuised  by 
their  owners.  Tho  only  animals  that  seemed 
awake,  and  under  continual  excitement,  were 
the  little  brown  English  terriers,  who,  despite 
the  neat  black  leathern  collxu^  by  which  they 
were  held,  struggled  to  get  loose,  as  if  thoy 
smelt  the  rats  in  the  room  above,  and  were 
impatient  to  begin  the  fray. 

There  is  a  business-like  look  about  this 
tavern  which  at  once  lets  you  into  tho  cha- 
racter of  the  person  who  owns  it.  Tho  drink- 
ing seems  to  have  been  a  secondary  notion  in 
its  formation,  for  it  is  a  low-roofed  room  ^^ith- 
out  any  of  those  adornments  which  are  now 
generally  considered  so  necessary  to  render  a 
public-house  attractive.  The  tubs  \^ere  the 
spirits  arc  kept  are  blistered  with  the  heat  of 
the  gas,  and  so  dirty  that  the  once  brilliant  gilt 
hoops  are  now  quite  black. 

Sleeping  on  an  old  hall-chair  lay  an  enor- 
mous white  bulldog,  **  a  great  beauty,"  as  X 
was  informed,  with  a  head  as  round  and 
smooth  as  a  clenched  boxing-glove,  and  seem- 
ingly too  large  for  the  body.  Its  forehead 
appeared  to  protrude  in  a  manner  significant 
of  water  on  the  bram,  and  almost  overhung 
the  short  nose,  through  which  the  animal 
breathed  heavily.  When  this  dog,  which  was 
the  admiration  of  all  beholders,  rose  up,  its 
legs  were  as  bowed  as  a  tailor's,  leaving  a 
peculiar  pear-shaped  opening  between  them, 
which,  I  was  informed,  was  one  of  its  points 
of  beauty.  It  was  a  white  dog,  with  a  sore  look, 
fh>m  its  being  peculiarly  pixik  round  the  eyes, 
nose,  and  inde^  at  all  the  edges  of  its  body. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


On  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place  was  a 
whito  huU-tcrricr  dog,  with  n  black  patch  over 
the  eye,  whidi  gave  him  rather  a  disreputable 
look.  This  animal  was  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  customers  in  front,  and  occa- 
sionally, when  the  entrance-door  was  swung 
back,  would  give  a  growl  of  iuquiiy  as  to  what 
the  fresh-comer  wanted.  The  proprietor  was 
kind  enough  to  inform  me,  as  he  patted  this 
animal's  ribs,  wliioh  showed  like  the  hoops  on 
a  butter-firkin,  that  he  considered  there  hod 
been  a  "  little  of  the  greyhound  in  some  of 
his  back  generations." 

About  the  walls  were  hung  clusters  of  black 
leather  collars,  adorned  with  brass  rings  and 
clasps,  and  pre-eminent  was  a  silver  dog-col- 
lar, which,  from  the  conversation  of  those 
about  me,  I  learnt  was  to  be  the  prize  in  a 
nit-match  to  be  •'  killed  for"  in  a  fortnight's 
time. 

As  the  visitors  poured  in,  they,  at  the  re- 
quest of  the  proprietor  *'  not  to  block  up  the 
baiV*  took  their  seats  in  the  parloiur,  and,  ac- 
companied by  a  waiter,  who  kept  shoutinjr, 
•*  Give  your  orders,  gentlemen,"  I  entered  the 
room. 

I  found  that,  like  the  bar,  no  pains  had  been 
taken  to  rentier  the  room  attractive  to  the 
customers,  for,  with  tlie  exception  of  tlie  sport- 
ing pictures  hung  against  the  dingy  paper,  it 
was  devoid  of  all  adornment  Over  the  fire- 
place were  squore  glazed  boxes,  in  which  were 
the  stulled  forms  of  dogs  famous  in  their  day. 
1^-cininent  among  the  prints  was  that  repre- 
senting the  •♦  Wonder"  Tiny, "  five  pounds  and 
a  half  in  weight,"  as  he  appeared  killing  UOO 
rats.  ^  This  engraving  had  a  singular  look, 
from  its  liaving  been  printed  upon  a  silk 
liandkerchief.  Tiny  had  been  a  great  fa- 
vourite with  the  proprietor,  and  used  to  wear 
a  lady's  bracelet  as  a  collar. 

Among  the  stuffed  heads  was  one  of  a  white 
bull-dog,  with  tremendous  glass  eyes  sticking 
out,  as  if  it  had  died  of  strangidation.  Tlic 
proprietor's  son  was  kind  chough  to  explain 
to  me  the  qualities  that  liad  once  belonged  to 
this  favourite.  "  They've  spoilt  her  in  stuffing, 
sir,"  he  said ;  **made  her  so  short  in  the  head ; 
but  she  was  the  wonder  of  her  day.  There 
wasn't  a  dog  in  England  as  would  come  nigh 
her.  Tliere's  her  daughter,"  he  added,  point- 
ing to  onotlier  head,  something  like  that  of  a 
seal,  *'  but  she  wasn't  reckoned  half  as  hand- 
some as  her  mother,  though  she  was  very 
much  admired  in  her  time. 

•*  That  there  is  a  dog,"  he  continued,  point- 
ing to  one  represented  with  a  rat  in  its  mouth, 
"  it  was  as  good  as  any  in  England,  though 
it's  so  small.  I've  seen  her  kill  a  dozen  rats 
almost  as  big  as  herself,  though  they  killed 
her  at  last;  for  sewer-rats  are  dreadful  for 
giving  dogs  canker  in  the  mouth,  and  she 
wore  hers^  out  with  continually  killing  them, 
though  we  always  rinsed  her  mouth  out  well 
with  peppermint  and  water  while  she  were  at 
work.    When  rats  bite  they  we  pisonoos,  and 


an  ulcer  is  formed,  which  we  are  obleeged  to 
lance ;  that's  what  killed  her." 

The  company  assembled  in  **  the  parlour" 
consisted  of  sporting  men,  or  those  who,  fr«.iii 
curiosity,  had  come  to  witness  what  a  i*nt- 
match  was  like.  Seated  at  the  same  table, 
talking  together,  were  those  dressed  in  the 
coBtermonger's  suit  of  corduroy,  soldiers  with 
their  uniforms  carelessly  unbuttoned,  coacli- 
men  in  their  liver}*,  and  tradesmen  who  liad 
slipped  on  their  evening  frock-coats,  and  nm 
out  from  the  shop  to  see  the  sport. 

The  dogs  belonging  to  the  company  were 
standing  on  the  different  tables,  or  tied  to  the 
legs  of  the  forms,  or  sleeping  in  their  ownrr.«»' 
arms,  and  were  in  turn  minutely  criticised  — 
their  limbs  being  stretched  out  as  if  they  weio 
being  felt  for  fractures,  and  their  mouths  looked 
into,  as  if  a  dentist  were  examining  their  teeth. 
Nearly  all  tlie  little  animals  were  marked  Yfi{\\ 
scars  from  bites.  "  Pity  to  bring  him  up  to 
rat-killing,"  said  one,  who  had  been  admiring 
a  fierce-looking  bull-terrier,  olthough  he  ditl 
not  mention  at  the  same  time  what  hno  in  life 
the  little  animal  ought  to  pui-sue. 

At  another  table  ono  man  was  declaring' 
that  his  pet  animal  was  the  exact  imago  of  the 
celebrated  rat-killing  dog  "  Billy,"  at  the  sanu; 
time  pointing  to  the  picture  against  the  wall 
of  that  famous  animal,  "  as  he  performed  his 
wonderful  feat  of  killing  &00  rats  in  five 
minutes  and  a  half." 

There  were  amongst  the  >'isitors  some 
French  gentlemen,  who  had  cridently  wit- 
nessed nothing  of  the  kind  before  ;  and  whilst 
they  endeavomred  to  drink  their  hc»t  gin  and 
water,  Uiey  made  their  interpreter  translate 
to  them  the  contents  of  a  large  placard  hung 
upon  a  hatpeg,  and  headed — 

"  Every  Man  has  nis  Fajicy. 

RATTING  SPORTS  IN  REALITY." 

About  nine  o'clock  the  proprietor  took  the 
chair  in  the  parlour,  at  the  same  time  giving 
the  order  to  "  shut  up  the  shutters  in  the 
room  above,  and  light  up  the  pit."  This  an- 
nouncement seemed  to  rouse  the  spirits  of  the 
impatient  assembly,  and  oven  the  dogs  tied  to 
the  legs  of  the  tables  ran  out  to  tlie  length  of 
their  leathern  thongs,  and  their  tails  curled 
like  eels,  as  if  they  understood  the  meaning  of 
the  words. 

."  "VMiy,  that's  the  little  champion, '  said  the 
proprietor,  patting  a  dog  with  thighs  like  a 
grasshopper,  and  whose  mouth  opened  back 
to  its  ears.  "  Well,  it  w  a  beauty  1  I  wish  I 
could  gammon  you  to  take  a  'fiver'  for  it." 
Then  looking  round  the  room,  he  added, 
''Well,  gents,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  look  so 
comfortable." 

The  performances  of  the  evening  were  some- 
what hmrried  on  by  the  entering  of  a  young 
gentleman,  whom  the  waiters  called  "  Cap'nn." 

♦•  Now,  Jem,  when  is  this  match  coming  oti?" 
the  CapUin  asked  impatiently;  and  despite 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB. 


the  assurance  that  they  were  getting  ready,  he 
ihreatened  to  leave  the  place  if  kept  waiting 
much  longer.  This  yonng  officer  seemed  to 
lic  a  great  **  fancier**  of  dogs,  for  be  made  the 
Duiid  of  the  room,  handling  each  animal  in 
its  turn,  feeling  and  squeezing  its  feet,  and 
scrutinising  its  eyes  and  limbs  with  such  mf- 
nuteric^s,  tliat  the  French  gentlemen  were 
forced  to  inquire  who  he  was. 

There  was  no  announcement  that  the  room 
aboTe  was  ready,  though  everybody  seemed 
to  understand  it;  for  all  rose  at  once,  and 
mounting  the  broad  wooden  staircase,  which 
led  to  what  was  once  the  ^drawing-room,'* 
dropped  their  abillings  into  the  hand  of  the 
proprietor,  and  entered  the  rat-killing  apart- 
ment. 

■^  The  pit,**  as  it  is  called,  consists  of  a  small 
circus,  some  six  feet  in  diameter.  It  is  about 
as  large  as  a  centre  flower-bed,  and  is  fitted 
with  a  high  wooden  rim  that  reaches  to  elbow 
height  OTer  it  the  branches  of  a  gas  lamp 
are  arranged,  which  Hght  up  the  white  painted 
floor,  and  every  part  of  the  little  arena.  On 
one  side  of  the  room  is  a  recess,  which  the 
proprietor  calU  his  **  private  box,"  and  this 
apartment  the  Captain  and  hia  friend  soon 
took  possession  of,  whilst  the  audience  gene- 
rally clambered  upon  the  tables  and  forms,  or 
hung  over  the  sides  of  the  pit  itself. 

All  the  little  dogs  which  the  visitors  had 
brought  up  with  them  were  now  squalling  and 
barlong,  and  straggling  in  their  masters'  arms, 
as  if  they  were  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
the  uses  of  the  pit;  and  when  a  rusty  wire 
cage  of  rats,  filled  wUh  the  dark  moving  mass, 
was  brought  forward,  the  noise  of  the  dogs 
was  so  great  that  the  proprietor  was  obliged  to 
shout  out — **  Now,  you  that  have  dogs  do 
make  *em  shut  up.** 

The  Captain  was  the  first  to  jump  into  the 
pit  A  man  wanted  to  sell  him  a  bull-temer, 
spotted  like  a  fkncy  rabbit,  and  a  dozen  of 
rats  was  the  consequent  order. 

The  Captain  preferred  ptJIing  the  rata  out 
of  the  cage  hiznself,  laying  hold  of  them  by 
their  tails  and  jerking  them  into  the  arena. 
He  was  cautioned  by  one  of  the  men  not. to 
let  them  bite  him,  for  '*  believe  me,"  were  the 
words,  ••  you'll  never  forget,  Cap'an ;  these  'ere 
are  none  of  the  cleanest.'' 

Whilst  the  rats  were  being  counted  out, 
some  of  those  that  had  been  taken  from  the 
cage  ran  about  the  painted  floor  and  cHmbed 
up  the  young  officer's  legs,  making  him  shake 
them  off  and  exclaim,  **  Get  out,  you  varmint ! " 
whilst  others  of  the  ugly  Ut^e  ftwinmU  gat 
opon  their  hind  legs,  cleaning  their  fkces  with 
their  paws. 

When  the  dog  in  question  was  brought 
forth  and  shown  the  dozen  rats,  he  grew  ex- 
cited, and  stretched  himself  in  his  owner^s 
mns,  whilst  an  the  other  animals  joined  in 
a  flill  chorus  of  whining. 

**  Chuck  him  in,"  said  the  Crataio,  and  over 
vent  the  dog ;  and  in  a  second  the  rats  were 


running  round  the  circus,  i)r  trying  to  liide 
themselves  between  the  small  opouiugs  in  the 
boards  round  the  pit. 

Although  tho  proprietor  of  the  dog  cudea- 
voured  to  speak  up  for  it,  by  declaring  **it  was 
a  good  'un,  and  a  very  pretty  performer,"  still 
it  was  evidently  not  worth  much  in  a  rat -kill- 
ing sense ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
"  second,"  who  beat  the  sides  of  the  pit  with 
his  hand,  and  shouted  "  Hi !  hi  1  at  'em ! "  iu 
a  most  bewildering  manner,  we  doubt  if  tho 
terrier  would  not  have  preferred  leaving  tho 
rats  to  themselves,  to  eigoy  their  lives.  Somo 
of  the  rats,  when  the  dog  advanced  towards 
them,  sprang  up  in  his  face,  making  him  draw 
back  with  astonishment  Others,  as  he  bit 
them,  curled  round  in  his  mouth  and  fastened 
on  his  nose,  so  that  he  had  to  carry  them  as  a 
cat  does  its  kittens.  It  also  required  many 
shouts  of"  Drop  it— dead  'un,"  before  ho  would 
leave  those  he  had  killed. 

We  cannot  say  whether  the  dog  was  event- 
ually bought ;  but  from  its  owner's  exclaiming, 
in  a  kind  of  apologetic  tone,  "  Why,  he  never 
saw  a  rat  belbre  m  all  his  life,**  wo  fancy  no 
deahnga  took  place. 

The  Captain  seemed  anxious  to  see  as  much 
sport  as  ho  cotdd,  for  he  frequently  asked 
those  who  carried  dogs  in  their  amis  whether 
"  his  Utile  'un  would  kill,"  and  appeared  sorry 
when  such  answers  were  given  as — "  My  dog's 
mouth's  a  little  out  of  order,  Cap'an,"  or  **  Tve 
only  tried  him  at  very  small  'uns." 

One  little  dog  was  put  in  the  pit  to  amuse 
himself  with  the  dead  bodies,  tie  seized  hold 
of  one  almost  as  big  as  himself,  shook  it 
furiously  till  the  head  thumped  the  floor  like 
a  drumstick,  making  those  around  shout  with 
laughter,  and  causmg  one  man  to  exclaim, 
*'  He's  a  good  'un  at  shaking  heads  and  tails, 
ain't  he?" 

Preparations  now  began  for  the  grand  mateh 
of  the  evening,  in  which  fifty  rats  were  to  be 
killed.  The  **  dead  'uns''  were  gathered  up  by 
their  taUs  and  flung  into  the  comer.  The 
floor  was  swept,  and  a  big  flat  basket  produced, 
like  those  in  which  chickens  are  brought  to 
market,  and  under  whose  iron  wire  top  could 
be  seen  small  mounds  of  closely  packed  rats. 

This  match  seemed  to  be  between  the  pro- 
prietor and  his  son,  and  the  slake  to  be  gained 
was  only  a  bottle  of  Lemonade,  of  which  the 
father  stipulated  he  should  have  first  drink. 

It  was  strange  to  observe  the  daring  manner 
in  which  the  lad  introduced  his  hand  into  the 
rat  cage,  sometimes  keeping  it  there  for  more 
than  a  minute  at  a  time,  as  he  fumbled  about 
and  stirred  up  wiUi  his  fingers  the  living  mass, 
picking  out,  aa  he  had  been  requested,  "  only 
the  big  'uns." 

When  the  fifty  animals  had  been  flung  into 
the  pit,  they  gathered  themselves  together  into 
a  mound  which  reached  one-third  up  the  sides, 
and  wliich  reminded  one  of  the  heap  of  hair- 
sweepings  in  a  barber's  shop  after  a  heavy 
day's  cutting.    These  were  all  sewer  and  water- 


8 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


ditch  rats,  and  the  smell  that  rose  from  them 
was  like  that  from  a  hot  drain. 

The  Captain  amused  himself  hy  flicking  at 
them  with  his  pocket  handkerchief,  and  offer- 
ing them  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigar,  which 
tlio  little  creatures  tamely  snuffed  at,  and  drew 
back  from,  as  they  singed  their  noses. 

It  was  also  a  favourite  amusement  to  blow  on 
the  mound  of  rats,  for  they  seemed  to  dislike 
the  cold  wind,  which  sent  them  fluttering 
about  like  so  many  feathers;  indeed,  whilst 
the  match  was  going  on,  whenever  the  little 
animals  collected  together,  and  formed  a  barri- 
cade as  it  were  to  the  dog,  ^e  cry  of  **  Blow  on 
fem !  blow  on  'cm ! "  was  given  by  the  spectators, 
and  the  dog's  second  puffed  at  them  as  if  ex- 
tinguishing a  fire,  when  they  would  dait  off 
like  so  many  sparks. 

The  company  was  kept  waiting  so  long  for 
the  matx'h  to  begin  that  the  impatient  Captain 
again  threatened  to  leave  the  house,  and  was 
only  quieted  by  the  proprietor's  reply  of  "  My 
dear  friend,  be  easy,  the  boy's  on  Uie  stairs 
\\ith  the  dog;"  and  true  enough  we  shortly 
heard  a  wheezing  and  a  screaming  in  the  pass- 
age witliout,  as  iif  some  strong-winded  ammal 
were  being  strangled,  and  presently  a  boy 
entered,  carrj-ing  in  his  arms  a  bull-terrier  in 
a  perfect  fit  of  excitement,  foaming  at  the 
mouth  and  stretching  its  neck  forward,  so  that 
the  collar  which  held  it  back  seemed  to  be 
cutting  its  tliroat  in  two. 

The  animal  was  nearly  mad  witli  rage — 
scratching  and  struggling  to  get  loose.  **  Lay 
hold  a  little  closer  up  to  the  head  or  hell  turn 
round  and  nip  yer,"  said  the  proprietor  to  his 
son. 

Whilst  the  gasping  dog  was  fastened  up  in  a 
comer  to  writhe  its  impatience  away,  the  land- 
lord made  inquiries  for  a  stop-watch,  and  also 
for  an  umpire  to  decide,  as  he  added,  *'  whether 
the  rats  were  dead  or  alive  when  they're 
•  killed,'  as  Paddy  says." 

When  all  the  arrangements  had  been  made 
the  "  second"  and  the  dog  jumped  into  the 
pit,  and  after  *'  lotting  him  see  'em  a  bit," 
the  terrier  was  let  loose. 

The  moment  the  dog  was  **  free,"  he  be- 
came quiet  in  a  most  business-like  manner, 
and  rushed  at  the  rats,  burying  his  nose  in 
the  mound  till  he  brought  out  one  in  his 
mouth.  In  a  short  time  a  dozen  rats  with 
wetted  necks  were  lying  bleeding  on  the  floor, 
and  the  white  paint  of  the  pit  became  grained 
with  blood. 

In  a  little  time  the  terrier  had  a  rat  hang- 
ing to  his  nose,  which,  despite  his  tossing, 
still  held  on.  He  dashed  np  against  the 
sides,  leaving  a  patch  of  blood  as  if  a  straw- 
berry had  been  smashed  there. 

"He  doesn't  squeal,  that's  one  good  thing," 
said  one  of  the  lookers-on. 

As  the  rats  fell  on  their  sides  after  a  bite 
they  were  collected  together  in  the  centre, 
where  they  lay  quivering  in  their  death- 
gasps  1 


''Hi,  Butcher  I  hi.  Butcher!"  shouted  the 
second,  '*  ^^ood  dog !  bur-r-r-r-r-h ! "  and  he 
beat  the  sides  of  the  pit  like  a  drum  till  tlie 
dog  flew  about  with  new  life. 

"Dead  'unl  drop  it  I"  he  cried,  when  the 
teirier  "  nosed**  a  rat  kicking  on  its  side,  as  it 
slowly  expired  of  its  broken  neck. 

"  Time!'*  said  the  proprietor,  when  four  of 
the  eight  minutes  had  expired,  and  the  dog 
was  caught  up  and  held  panting,  his  neck 
stretched  out  like  a  seix>ent's,  staring  intently 
at  the  rats  which  stall  kept  crawling  about. 

The  poor  little  wretches  in  this  brief  interval, 
as  if  forgetting  their  danger,  a^ain  commenced 
cleaning  themselves,  some  nibbling  the  ends 
of  their  tails,  others  hopping  about,  going  now 
to  the  legs  of  the  lad  in  the  pit,  and  sniffing 
at  his  trousers,  or,  strange  to  say,  advancing, 
smelling,  to  within  a  few  paces  of  their  enemy 
the  dog. 

The  dog  lost  the  match,  and  the  proprietor, 
we  presume,  honourably  paid  the  bottle  of 
lemonade  to  his  son.  But  he  was  evidently 
displeased  with  the  dog's  behaviour,  for  he 
said,  "  He  won't  do  for  me — he's  not  one  of 
my  sort!  Here,  Jim,  tell  Mr.  O.  he  may 
have  him  if  he  likes;  I  won't  give  him  house 
room." 

A  plentiful  shower  of  halfpence  was  thrown 
into  the  pit  as  a  reward  for  the  second  who 
had  backed  the  dog. 

A  slight  pause  now  took  place  in  the  pro- 
ceedings, during  which  the  landlord  requested 
that  the  gentlemen  *'  would  give  their  minds 
up  to  drinking ;  you  know  the  love  I  have  for 
you,"  he  added  jocularly,  "  and  that  I  don't 
care  for  any  of  you ; "  whilst  the  waiter  ac- 
companied the  invitation  with  a  cry  of  <^  Give 
your  orders,  gentlemen,"  and  the  lad  with  the 
rats  asked  if  **  any  other  gentleman  would 
like  any  rats." 

Several  other  dogs  were  tried,  and  amongst 
them  one  who,  from  the  size  of  his  stomach, 
had  evidently  been  accustomed  to  large  din- 
ners,  and  looked  upon  rat-killing  as  a  sport 
and  not  as  a  business.  The  appearance  of 
this  fat  animal  was  greeted  with  remarks  such 
as  "  Why  don't  you  feed  your  dog  ?"  and  "  You 
shouldn't  give  him  more  than  Ave  meals  a- 
day." 

Another  impatient  bull-terrier  was  thrown 
into  the  midst  of  a  dozen  rats.  He  did  his 
duty  so  well,  tliat  the  admiration  of  the  spec- 
tators was  focussed  upon  him. 

"  Ah,"  said  one,  "  he'd  do  better  at  a  him- 
dred  than  twelve;"  whilst  another  obsen-ed, 
"  Rat-killing's  his  game,  I  can  see ; "  while  the 
landlord  himself  said,  **  He's  a  very  pretty 
creetur*,  and  I'd  back  him  to  Idll  against  any- 
body's  dog  at  eight  and  a  half  or  nine.'' 

The  Captain  was  so  startled  with  this  ter- 
rier's "  cleverness,"  that  he  vowed  that  if  she 
could  kill  fifteen  in  a  minute  "  he'd  give  a 
hundred  guineas  for  her."' 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  before  the  even- 
ing's performance  concliided«    Several  of  the 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TBE  LONDON  POOR. 


9 


ipecUtors  tried  their  dogs  npon  two  or  three 
nts,  either  the  biggest  or  the  smallest  that 
coidd  be  found :  and  many  offers  as  to  what 
**  he  wanted  for  the  dog,"  and  many  inquiries 
as  to  "  who  was  its  fkther,"  were  made  before 
the  company  broke  up. 

At  last  the  landlord,  finding  that  no  "  gen- 
tleman would  like  a  few  rats,"  and  that  his 
exhortations  to  *'  giye  their  minds  up  to 
drmking"  produced  no  further  effect  upon  the 
company,  spoke  the  epilogue  of  the  rat  tra- 
gedies in  these  words; — 

^  Gentlemen,  I  give  a  very  handsome  solid 
silver  collar  to  be  killed  for  next  Tuesday. 
»)pen  to  all  the  world,  only  they  must  be 
nMTice  dogs,  or  at  least  such  as  is  not  con. 
ddered  j^A^^ nomenons.  We  shall  have  plenty 
of  sport,  gentlemen,  and  there  will  be  loadjs 
of  rat'ldlUng.  I  hope  to  see  all  my  kind 
friends,  not  forgetting  your  dogs,  likewise; 
and  may  they  be  like  the  Irishman  all  oyer, 
vho  had  good  trouble  to  catch  and  kill  'em, 
and  took  good  care  they  didnt  come  to  life 
again.  Gentlemen,  there  is  a  good  parlour 
down-stairs,  where  we  meets  for  harmony  and 
entertainment.'' 

JiMMT  Shaw. 

The  proprietor  of  one  of  the  largest  sporting 
public-houses  in  London,  who  is  celebrated 
for  the  rat-matches  which  come  off  weekly 
at  his  establishment,  was  kind  enough  to  fa- 
vour me  with  a  few  details  as  to  the  ^uali^ 
of  those  animals  which  are  destroyed  m  his 
pit  His  statement  was  certainly  one  of  the 
most  curious  that  I  have  listened  to,  and  it 
was  given  to  me  with  a  readiness  and  a  courtesy 
of  manner  such  as  I  have  not  often  met  with 
during  mj  researches.  The  landlord  himself 
is  known  in  pugilistic  circles  as  one  of  the 
most  skilful  boxers  among  what  is  termed  the 
"  light  weights.' 

nis  statement  is  curious,  as  a  proof  of  the 
Urge  trade  which  is  carried  on  in  these  ani- 
mals, for  it  would  seem  that  the  men  who 
make  a  business  of  catching  rats  are  not  al- 
ways employed  as  **  exterminators,"  for  they 
make  a  good  living  aa  ** purveyors"  for  supply- 
ing the  demands  of  the  sporting  portion  of 
London. 

*♦  The  poor  people,"  said  the  sporting  land- 
lord, *'  who  supply  me  with  rats,  are  what  yon 
may  call  barn-door  labouring  poor,  for  tbey 
are  the  most  ignorant  people  I  ever  come  near. 
Really  you  would  not  believe  people  could  live 
iu  such  ignorance.  Talk  about  Latin  and 
Greek,  sir,  why  English  is  Latin  to  them— 
in  fact,  I  have  a  difficult  to  understand  them 
myself.  When  the  harvest  is  got  in,  they  go 
hunting  the  hedges  and  ditches  for  rats. 
Once  l£e  farmers  had  to  pay  2d.  a-head  for 
all  rats  caught  on  their  grounds,  and  they 
nailed  them  op  against  the  walL  But  now  that 
the  rat-ketchers  can  get  3if.  each  by  bringing 
the  vermin  np  to  town,  the  farmers  don't  pay 


them  anything  for  what  they  ketch,  but  merely 
give  them  permission  to  hunt  them  in  their 
stacks  and  bams,  so  that  they*no  longer  get 
their  2d,  in  the  cotmtiy,  though  they  get  their 
3<2.  in  town. 

"I  have  some  twenty  families  depending 
upon  me.  From  Glavering,  in  Essex,  I  suppose 
I  have  hundreds  of  thousands  of  rats  sent  to 
me  in  wire  cages  fitted  into  baskets.  From 
Enfield  I  have  a  great,  quantity,  but  the 
ketchers  don't  get  them  all  there,  but  travel 
round  the  country  for  scores  of  miles,  for  you 
see  d</.  a-head  is  money;  besides,  there  are 
some  hberal  farmers  who  will  still  give  them 
a  halQ)cnny  a-head  into  the  bargain.  Enfield 
is  a  kmd  of  head-quarters  for  rat-ketchers. 

"  It's  dangerous  work,  though,  for  you  see 
there  is  a  wonderftd  deal  of  difference  in  the 
specie  of  rats.  The  bite  of  sewer  or  water- 
ditch  rats  is  veiy  bad.  The  water  and  ditch 
rat  lives  on  filth,  but  your  bam-rat  is  a  plump 
fellow,  and  he  lives  on  the  best  of  eveiything. 
He's  well  off.  There's  as  much  difference 
between  the  bam  and  sewer-rats  as  between  a 
brewer's  horse  and  a  costermonger's.  Sewer- 
rats  are  veiy  bad  for  dogs,  their  coats  is  poi- 
sonous. 

*<  Some  of  the  rats  that  are  brought  to  me 
are  caught  in  the  warehouses  in  the  City. 
Wherever  there  is  anything  in  the  shape  of 
provisions,  there  you  are  sure  to  find  Mr.  Rat 
an  intruder.  The  ketchers  are  paid  for  ketch- 
ing  them  in  the  warehouses,  and  then  they  are 
sold  to  me  as  well,  so  the  men  must  make  a 
good  thing  of  it.  Many  of  the  more  courageous 
kind  of  warehousemen  will  take  a  pleasure  in 
hunting  the  rats  themselves. 

"  I  should  think  I  buy  in  the  course  of  the 
year,  on  the  average,  from  300  to  700  rats 
a- week."  (Taking  000  as  the  weekly  average, 
this  gives  a  yearly  purchase  of  26,000  live  rats.) 
"  That's  what  I  kill  taking  all  the  year  roundi, 
you  see.  Some  first-class  chaps  will  come 
here  in  the  day-time,  and  they'll  try  their  dogs. 
They'll  say,  *  Jimmy,  give  the  dog  100.'  After 
he's  polished  them  off  they'll  say,  perhaps, 
*  Hang  it,  give  him  another  100.'  Bless  you ! " 
he  added,  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  "  Tve  had  noble 
ladies  and  titled  ladies  come  here  to  see  the 
sport— on  the  quiet,  you  know.  When  my  wife 
was  here  they  would  come  regular,  but  now 
she's  away  they  don't  come  so  often. 

"  The  largest  quantity  of  rats  Pve  bought 
from  one  man  was  five  guineas'  worth,  or 
thirty-five  dozen  at  3^.  a-head,  and  that's  a  load 
for  a  horse.  This  man  comes  up  fh>m  Glaver- 
ing in  akind  of  cart,  with  a  horse  that's  a  regular 
phenomena,  for  it  ain't  like  a  beast  nor  nothing. 
I  pays  him  a  good  deal  of  money  at  times,  and 
I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  what  he  does  with  it ;  but 
they  do  tell  me  that  he  deals  in  old  iron,  and 
goes  buying  it  up,  though  he  don't  seem  to 
have  much  of  a  head-piece  for  that  sort  of 
fancy  neither. 

*' During  the  harvest-time  the  rats  run 
scarcer  you  see,  and  the  ketcher  turns  up  rat* 


10 


LOm>OI9  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDOS  POOR, 


keiehing  for  harresi  work.  After  the  harvest 
rata  gets  plentiful  again. 

**  I've  had  as  many  as  2000  rats  in  tliis  very 
honse  at  one  time.  Theyll  consome  a  sack  of 
barley-ineal  a  week,  and  the  brutes,  if  yon 
don't  give  'em  good  stufi^  they'll  eat  one  another, 
hang  'em ! 

*'  I'm  the  oldest  canine  fancier  in  London, 
and  I'm  the  first  that  started  ratting ;  in  fact, 
I  know  I'm  the  oldest  caterer  in  rat-killing  in 
the  metropolis.  I  began  as  a  lad,«nd  I  had  many 
noble  friends,  and  was  as  good  a  man  then  as 
I  am  now.  In  fact,  when  I  was  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years  of  age  I  was  just  like  what  my 
boy  is  now.  I  used  at  that  time  to  be  a  great 
public  charakter,  and  had  many  liberal  fnends 
— ^very  liberal  friends.  I  used  to  give  them 
rat  sports,  and  I  have  kept  to  it  ever  since. 
My  boy  can  handle  rats  now  just  as  I  used  to 
then. 

"  Have  I  been  bit  by  them  f  Aye,  hundreds 
of  times.  Now,  some  people  will  say,  *ltub 
yourself  over  with  caraway  and  stuff,  aiid 
then  rats  won't  bite  you.'  But  I  give  you  my 
word  and  honour  it's  all  nonsense,  sir. 

**  As  I  said,  I  was  the  first  in  London  to  give 
rat  sports,  and  I've  kept  to  it  ever  since.  Bless 
you,  there's  nothing  tliat  a  rat  won't  bito 
through.  I've  seen  my  lads  standing  in  the  pit 
with  the  rats  running  about  them,  and  if  they 
haven't  taken  the  precaution  to  tie  their 
trousers  round  with  a  bit  of  string  at  the  hot- 
tom,  they'd  have  as  many  as  five  or  six  rati 
run  up  their  trouser-legs.  They'll  deliberately 
take  off  their  clothes  and  pick  them  out  from 
thtir  shirts,  and  bosoms,  and  lureeohes.  Some 
people  is  amused,  and  others  is  horror-struck. 
People  have  asked  them  whether  they  ain't 
rubbed?  They'll  say  *  Yes,'  but  that's  as  a 
lark;  'cos,  sometimes  when  my  boy  has  been 
taking  the  rats  out  of  the  cage,  and  somebody 
has  taken  his  attention  o£t^  talking  to  him,  he 
has  had  a  bite,  and  will  turn  to  me  with  his 
finger  bleeding,  and  say,  ^Yes,  I'm  rubbed, 
ain't  I,  father?  look  here !' 

**A  rat's  bite  is  very  singular,  it's  a  three- 
cornered  one,  Uke  a  leech's,  only  deeper,  of 
course,  and  it  will  bleed  for  ever  such  a  time. 
My  boys  have  sometimes  had  their  fingers  go 
dreadfully  bad  from  rat-bites,  so  that  they  turn 
all  black  and  putrid  like— .aye,  as  black  as  the 
horsc-hoir  covering  to  my  sofa.  People  have 
said  to  me,  *  Y'ou  ought  to  send  the  lad  to  the 
hospital,  and  have  his  finger  took  off;'  but 
Tve  always  left  it  to  the  lads,  and  they've  said, 
*  Oh,  don't  mind  it^  father ;  it'll  get  all  right  by 
and  by.'    And  so  it  has. 

(« The  best  thing  I  ever  found  for  a  rat-bite 
was  the  thick  bottoms  of  porter  casks  put  on  as 
a  poultice.  The  only  thing  yon  can  do  is  to 
poultice,  and  these  porter  bottoms  is  so  power- 
ful and  draws  so,  that  they'll  actually  take 
thorns  out  of  horses'  hoo&  and  f^eet  alter 
steeplechosing. 

*'  In  handling  rats,  it's  nothing  more  in  the 
world  but  nerve  that  does  it    I  should  faint 


now  if  a  rat  was  to  run  up  my  breeches,  but  I 
have  known  tlie  time  when  I've  been  kivured 
with  'em. 

**  I  generally  throw  m^  dead  rats  away  now ; 
but  two  or  three  years  smce  my  boys  took  the 
idea  of  skinning  them  into  their  headin,  and 
they  did  about  800  of  them,  and  their  skins 
was  very  promising.  The  boys  was,  after  all, 
obliged  to  give  th^  away  to  a  furrier,  for  my 
wife  didn't  like  the  notion,  and  I  said,  *  Throw 
them  away;'  but  the  idea  strikes  me  t<i  be 
something,  and  one  tliat  is  lost  sight  of,  f<.>r 
the  skins  are  warm  and  handsome-looking — a 
beautiful  grey. 

*'  There's  nothing  turns  so  quickly  as  dead 
rats,  so  I  am  obleeged  to  have  my  duisimen 
come  round  every  Wednesday  morning ;  and 
regularly  enough  they  coll  too,  for  they  know 
where  there  is  a  bob  and  a  pot.  I  generally 
prefers  using  the  authorised  dustmen.  Uiongh 
the  others  come  sometimes — the  filing  dust- 
men they  call  'em— and  if  they're  first,  they  has 
the  job. 

"  It  strikes  me,  though,  that  to  throw  awcy 
■o  many  valiuble  skins  is  a  good  thing  lost 
sight  of. 

"  The  rats  want  a  deal  of  watching,  and  a 
deal  of  sorting.  Now  you  can't  put  a  sowor  niul 
a  barn-rat  together,  it's  like  putting  a  Koos^liion 
and  a  Turk  under  the  some  roof. 

^  I  can  tell  a  bani-rat  from  a  ship-rat  or  a, 
sewer-rat  in  a  minute,  and  I  have  to  look  over 
my  stock  when  they  come  in,  or  they'd  ti(;ht  to 
the  death.  Thcro's  six  or  seven  ditl'c-rent 
kinds  of  rats,  and  if  we  don't  sort  'em  tliey  tear 
one  another  to  pieces.  I  think  when  I  liave  a 
number  of  rats  in  the  house,  that  I  am  a  lucky 
man  if  I  don't  find  a  dozen  dead  when  I  go  up 
to  them  in  the  morning ;  and  when  I  tell  you 
that  at  times — when  I've  wanted  to  make  up 
my  number  for  a  match — I've  given  iil».  for 
twenty  rats,  you  may  think  I  lose  something 
that  way  every  year.  Rats,  even  now,  is  occa- 
sionally Of.  o-dozen ;  but  that,  I  think,  is  most 
inconsistent. 

"  If  I  had  my  will,  I  wouldn't  allow  sewer 
rattmg,  for  the  rats  in  the  shores  eats  up  a 
great  quantity  of  sewer  filth  and  rubbish,  and 
is  another  specie  of  scavenger  in  their  own 
way." 

After  finishing  his  statement,  the  landlord 
showed  me  some  vexr  curious  specimens  of 
tame  rats — some  piebald,  and  others  quite 
white,  with  pink  eyes,  which  he  kept  in  cages 
in  his  sitting-room.  He  took  them  out  fr^m 
their  cages,  and  handled  them  without  the 
least  fear,  and  even  handled  them  rather 
rudely,  as  he  showedlne  the  peculiariUes  of 
their  colours ;  yet  the  little  tame  creatures  did 
not  once  attempt  to  bite  him.  Indeed,  they 
appeared  to  have  lost  the  notion  of  regaining 
their  liberty,  sod  when  near  their  cages 
struggled  to  return  to  their  nests. 

In  one  of  these  boxes  a  black  and  a  white 
rat  were  confined  together,  and  the  proprietor, 
pointing  to  them,  remarked,  **  I  hope  theyll 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THS  LONDON  POOR. 


11 


teeed,  for  thongh  white  rats  is  Tety  searce, 
only  oennring  in  fact  bj  a  ft^ak  of  nature,  I 
fiBkcj  I  shall  be  able,  with  time  and  trouble, 
to  bned  'em  myself.  The  old  English  rat 
is  a  tnuall  jet-black  rat ;  but  the  first  white  rat 
SI  I  heard  of  come  oat  of  a  bmial-gronnd.  At 
(Be  time  I  bred  rots  very  largely,  but  now  I 
leares  that  fancy  to  my  boys,  for  I'Te  as  mnch 
as  I  can  do  ccmtlnning  to  serre  my  worthy 
patroDa.*^ 

Jack  Black. 

As  I  wished  to  obtain  the  best  information 
aboat  rat  and  vermin  destroying,  I  thought  I 
ecmld  not  do  better  now  than-  i^ly  to  that 
eniocnt  anthority  *'the  Queen's  ratcatcher," 
sod  accordingly  I  sought  an  interview  with 
Mr.  "  Jack  "  Black,  whose  hand  -  bills  are 
headed—**  V.B.  Bat  and  mole  destroyer  to 
Her  Migesty/' 

I  had  already  had  a  statement  from  the 
ropj  bug-destroyer  relative  to  the  habits  and 
means  of  exterminating  those  offensive  vermin, 
and  I  was  desirous  of  pairing  it  with  an  account 
of  the  personal  experience  of  the  Queen  of 
Eoglttkd's  ratcatcher. 

In  the  sporting  world,  and  among  his  regular 
cQstomen,  the  Queen's  ratcatcher  is  better 
known  by  the  name  of  Jack  Black.  He  enjoys 
the  reputation  of  being  the  most  feaiiess 
handler  of  rats  of  any  man  livmg,  playing  with 
them—as  one  man  expressed  it  to  me^^*  as  if 
they  were  so  many  blind  Idttens." 

The  flzst  time  I  ever  saw  Mr.  Black  was  in 
the  streets  of  London,  at  the  comer  of  Hart- 
street,  where  he  wai  exhibiting  the  rapid  effects 
of  his  rat  poascnr,  by  plsdng  some  of  it  in  the 
mouth  of  a  living  animal.  He  had  a  cart  then 
with  juts  painted  on  the  panels,  and  at  the 
tailboard,  where  he  stood  lecturing,  he  had  a 
kind  of  stage  rigged  up,  on  which  were  cages 
filled  with  rats,  ud  pills,  and  poison  packages. 

Here  I  saw  him  dip  his  hand  into  this  cage 
of  rats  and  take  out  as  many  as  he  could  hold, 
a  feat  which  generally  caused  on  "oh!"  of 
wonder  to  escape  firom  the  crowd,  especially 
when  they  observed  that  his  hands  were  un- 
bitten.  Women  more  particulariy  shuddered 
whoa  they  beheld  him  place  some  half-dozen 
of  the  dosty-looking  brutes  within  his  shirt  next 
Uialdn;  and  men  swore  the  animals  had  been 
tamed,  as  be  let  them  run  up  his  aims  like 
•qnirels,  and  the  people  gathered  round 
beheld  them  sitting  on  his  shoulders  cleaning 
their  iSaces  with  thor  fhmt-paws,  or  rising  up 
en  their  bind  legs  like  little  kangaroos,  and 
Hoffioy  about  bis  ean  and  cheeks. 

But  those  who  knew  Ifr.  Black  better,  were 
vali  aware  that  the  animals  he  took  up  in  his 
hmd  were  ns  wild  as  any  of  the  rats  in  the 
Kvers  of  Loodon,  and  that  the  only  mystery 
is  the  exhibition  was  that  of  a  man  having 
eoBrsge  enon^b  to  undertake  the  work. 

I  tflerwards  visited  Jaek  Black  at  his  house 
ii  Bsttenea.     I  had  some  diflleulty  in  dis- 


covering  his  country  residence,  and  was  indebted 
to  a  group  of  children  gathered  round  and 
staring  at  the  bird-cage  in  the  window  of  his 
cottage  for  his  address.  Their  exclamations 
of  delight  at  a  grey  parrot  climbing  with  his 
beak  and  claws  about  the  zinc  wires  of  his  cage, 
and  the  hopping  of  the  little  linnets  there,  in 
the  square  lx>xes  scarcely  bigger  than  a  brick, 
made  me  glance  up  at  the  door  to  discover  who 
the  bird-fancier  was ;  when  painted  on  a  bit  of 
zinc^ust  large  enough  to  fit  the  shaft  of  a 
tax  cart — I  saw  the  words,  **  J.  Black,  Rat  De- 
stroyer to  Her  Miyesty,"  surmounted  by  the 
roy^  initials,  V.B.,  together  with  the  painting 
of  a  white  rat 

Mr.  Black  was  out  "  sparrer  ketching,**  as 
his  wife  informed  me,  for  he  had  an  order  for 
three  dozen,  '*  which  was  to  be  shot  in  a  match  " 
at  some  tea-gardens  close  by. 

>Vhen  I  called  again  Mr.  Black  had  re- 
turned, and  I  found  him  kneeling  before  a  big, 
rusty  iron- wire  cage,  as  large  as  a  soa- chest, 
and  transferring  the  sparrows  fh>m  his  bird- 
catching  apparatus  to  the  more  roomy  prison. 

He  transacted  a  little  business  before  I  spoke 
to  him,  for  the  boys  about  the  door  were  ask- 
ing, **  Can  I  have  one  for  a  penny,  master?" 

There  is  evidently  a  great  art  in  handling 
birds;  for  when  Mr.  Black  held  one,  he  took 
hold  of  it  by  the  T^ing^  ond  tail,  so  that  the 
little  creature  seemed  to  be  sitting  ujjright 
and  had  not  a  feather  rumpled,  while  it 
stretched  out  its  neck  and  looked  around  it ; 
the  boys,  on  the  contrary,  first  made  them 
flutter  their  feathers  as  rough  as  a  hair  brill, 
and  then  half  smothered  them  between  tlieir 
two  hands,  by  holding  them  as  if  tliey  wished 
to  keep  tliem  hot. 

I  was  soon  at  home  with  Mr.  Black.  He 
was  a  Tciy  different  man  from  what  1  had  ex. 
pected  to  meet,  for  there  was  an  exprosbion  of 
kindhness  in  his  countenance,  a  quality  which 
does  not  exactly  ngrcc  with  one's  preconcoived 
notions  of  ratcatchers.  His  face  had  a  strange 
appearance,  firom  his  rough,  uncombed  liair,  be- 
ing nearly  grey,  and  his  eyebrows  and  whiskers 
black,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  he  wore  powder. 

Mr.  Black  informed  me  that  the  big  iron- 
wire  cage,  in  wbich  the  sparrows  were  flutter- 
ing about,  had  been  constructed  by  him  for  rats, 
and  that  it  held  over  a  thousand  when  full — 
for  rats  are  packed  like  cups,  he  said,  one  over 
the  other.  **  But,"  he  added, "  business  is  bad 
for  rats,  and  it  makes  a  splendid  haver}' ;  be- 
sides, sparrers  is  tho  rats  of  birds,  sir,  for  if 
you  look  at  'em  in  a  cage  they  always  huddles 
up  in  a  comer  Uke  rats  in  a  pit,  and  they  ore 
a'most  vermin  in  colour  and  habits,  and  eats 
anything." 

The  ratcatchei^  pariour  was  more  like  a 
shop  than  a  family  apartment  In  a  box,  with 
iron  bars  before  it,  like  a  rabbit-hutch,  was  a 
white  ferret,  twistmg  its  long  thin  body  with  a 
sniLke-like  motion  up  and  down  the  length  of 
its  prison,  as  restlessly  as  if  it  were  arainiaturs 
polar  bear. 


12 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


When  Mr.  Black  called  **PoUy  "  to  Uie  ferret, 
it  came  to  the  bars  and  fixed  its  pink  eyes  on 
him.  A  child  lying  on  the  floor  poked  its 
fingers  into  the  cage,  hut  Polly  only  smelt  at 
them,  and,  finding  them  not  good  to  cat,  went 
away. 

Mr.  Black  stufiti  animals  and  birds,  and 
also  catches  fish  for  viTaria.  Against  the  walls 
were  tlic  furred  and  feathered  remains  of  de- 
parted favourites,  each  in  its  glazed  box  and 
appropriate  altitude.  There  was  a  famous 
polecat — "a  first-rater  at  rats"  we  were  in- 
formed. Here  a  ferret  "  that  never  was 
eqiudled."  This  canary  '*  had  earned  pounds." 
That  linnet  "  was  the  wonder  of  its  day."  The 
enormous  pot-bellied  carp,  with  the  miniature 
ruslics  painted  at  the  back  of  its  case,  was 
caught  in  the  Kegenfs  Park  waters. 

**  In  another  port  of  the  room  hang  fishing- 
lines,  and  u  badger's  skin,  and  lead-bobs  and 
curious  eel-hooks — the  latter  as  big  as  the 
curls  on  the  temples  of  a  Spanish  dancer,  and 
from  hero  Mr.  Black  took  down  a  transparent, 
looking  fish,  like  a  shp  of  parchment,  and  told 
me  that  it  was  a  frcsh-water  smelt,  and  that 
he  caught  it  in  the  Thames — "the  first  he 
ever  heard  of."  Then  he  showed  me  a  beetle 
suspended  to  a  piece  of  thread,  like  a  big 
npider  to  its  web,  and  this  he  informed  me 
^vas  the  Thames  beetle,  **  which  either  live  by 
land  or  water." 

"You  ketcli  'em,"  continued  Mr.  Black, 
*'  when  they  are  swimming  on  their  backs, 
wliich  is  their  nature,  and  wlien  they  turns 
over  you  finds  'em  beautifully  crossed  and 
marked." 

liound  the  room  were  himg  paper  bags,  like 
tliose  in  which  housewives  keep  their  sweet 
lierbs.  "  All  of  them  there,  sir,  contain  cured 
fish  for  eating,"  Mr.  Black  explained  to  me. 

*'  I'm  called  down  here  the  Battersea  otter," 
he  went  on,  *'  fur  I  can  go  out  at  four  in  the 
morning,  and  come  home  by  eight  with  a 
barrowful  of  freshwater  fish.  Nobody  knows 
liow  I  do  it,  because  I  never  takes  no  nets  or 
lines  with  me.  I  assure  them  I  ketcli  'em 
with  my  hands,  which  I  do,  but  they  only 
laughs  incredorlous  like.  I  knows  the  fishes' 
hamts,  and  watches  the  tides.  I  sells  fresh 
fish — perch,  roach,  dace,  gudgeon,  and  such- 
like,  and  oven  small  jack,  at  threepence  a 
pound,  or  what  they'll  fetch ;  and  I've  caught 
near  the  Wandsworth  *  Black  Sea,'  as  we 
calls  it,  half  a  hundred  weight  sometimes, 
and  I  never  took  less  than  my  handkerchoy 
full." 

I  was  inclined  —  like  the  inhabitants  of 
Battersea — to  be  incredulous  of  the  rat- 
catcher's hand-fishing,  until,  under  a  promise 
of  secrecy,  he  confided  his  process  to  me,  and 
then  not  only  was  I  perfectly  con>-inced  of  its 
truth,  but  startled  that  so  simple  a  method 
had  never  before  been  taken  advantage  of. 

Later  in  the  day  Mr.  Black  became  very 
oommunicative.  We  sat  chatting  together  in 
his  sanded  bird  shop,  and  he  told  me  all  his 


misfortunes,  and  how  bad  luck  had  pressed 
upon  him,  and  driven  him  out  of  London. 

"  I  was  fool  enough  to  take  a  pnblic-house 
in  Begent-street,  sir,"  he  said.  *'  My  daughter 
used  to  dress  as  the  '  Ratketcher's  Daughter,* 
and  serve  behind  the  bar,  and  tliat  did  pretty 
well  for  a  time ;  but  it  was  a  brewei-'s  house^ 
and  they  ruined  me." 

The  costume  of  the  "  ratketcher's  daughter" 
was  shown  to  me  by  her  mother.  It  was  a 
red  velvet  bodice,  embroidered  with  silver 
lace. 

"With  a  muslin  skirt,  and  her  hair  down 
her  back,  she  looked  wery  genteel,"  added  the 
parent 

Mr.  Black's  chief  complaint  was  that  he 
could  not  "  make  an  appearance,"  for  his 
"uniform" — a  beautiful  green  coat  and  red 
waistcoat —  wore  pledged." 

^Vlulst  giving  me  his  statement,  Mr.  Black, 
in  proof  of  his  assertions  of  the  biting  powers 
of  rats,  drew  my  attention  to  the  leathern 
breeches  he  wore,  "  as  were  given  him  twelve 
years  ago  by  Captain  B ." 

These  were  pierced  in  some  places  with  the 
teeth  of  the  animals,  and  in  others  were 
scratched  and  fringed  like  the  washleather  of 
a  street  knife -seller. 

His  hands,  too,  and  even  his  face,  had  scars 
upon  them  from  bites. 

Mr.  Black  informed  me  that  ho  had  given 
up  tobacco  "since  a  haccident  he  met  with  from 
a  pipe.  I  was  smoking  a  pipe,"  he  said, "  and 
a  friend  of  mine  by  chance  jobbed  it  into  my 
mouth,  and  it  went  right  through  to  the  back 
of  ray  palate,  and  I  nearly  died." 

Here  his  wife  added,  "  There's  a  hole  there 
to  this  day  you  could  put  your  thimib  into; 
you  never  saw  such  a  mouth." 

^Ir.  Black  informed  me  in  secret  that  he 
had  often,  "unbeknown  to  his  wife,"  tasted 
what  cooked  rats  were  like,  and  he  asserted 
that  they  were  as  moist  as  rabbits,  and  quite  as 
nice. 

"If  they  are  shewer-rats,"  he  continued, 
"  just  chase  them  for  two  or  three  days  before 
you  kill  them,  and  they  are  as  good  as  barn- 
rats,  I  give  you  my  word,  sir." 

Mr.  Black's  statement  was  as  follows : — 

"  I  should  think  I've  been  at  ratting  a'most 
for  five-and-thirty  year;  indeed,  I  may  say 
from  my  childhood,  for  I've  kept  at  it  a'most 
all  my  life.  Pve  been  dead  near  three  times 
from  bites — as  near  as  a  toucher.  I  once  had 
the  teeth  of  a  rat  brei^  in  my  finger,  which 
was  dreadful  bad,  and  swole,  and  putrifled,  bo 
that  I  had  to  have  the  broken  bits  pulled  out 
with  tweezers.  When  the  bite  is  a  bad  one, 
it  festers  and  forms  a  hard  core  in  the  ulcer, 
which  is  very  painftil,  and  throbs  very  much 
indeed ;  and  after  that  core  comes  away,  un- 
less  you  cleans  'em  out  well,  the  sores,  even 
after  they  seemed  to  be  healed,  break  out  over 
and  over  again,  and  never  cure  perfectly. 
This  core  is  as  big  as  a  boiled  fish's  eye,  and 
as  hard  as  a  Btooe.    I  generally  cuts  the  bite 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


10 


at  dean  witb  a  lancet,  and  squcege  the  liu- 
lour  well  from  it,  and  that's  the  only  way  to 
ire  it  thorough — as  you  see  my  hands  is  all 
>\'ei«d  with  scars  from  bites. 
"The  worst  bite  I  eyer  had  was  at  the 
lanor  House.  Homsey,  kept  by  Mr.  Bumell. 
rne  day  when  I  was  there,  he  had  some  rats 
et  looso,  and  he  asked  me  to  ketch  'em  for 
lim.  as  they  was  wanted  for  a  match  tliat  was 
uming  on  that  afternoon.  I  had  picked  up 
.  lot — indeed,  I  had  one  in  each  hand,  and 
nother  again  my  knee,  when  I  happened  to 
nme  to  a  sheaf  of  straw,  which  I  turned  over, 
jid  there  was  a  rat  there.  I  couldn't  lay  hold 
in  him  'cause  my  hands  was  full,  and  as  I 
looped  down  he  ran  up  the  sleeve  of  my  coat, 
iDd  bit  me  on  the  muscle  of  the  arm.  I  shall 
lever  forget  it.  It  turned  me  all  of  a  sudden, 
md  made  me  feel  numb.  In  less  than  half- 
in-hour  I  was  took  so  bad  I  was  obleeged  tb 
be  sent  home,  and  I  had  to  get  some  one  to 
Jrive  my  cart  for  me.  It>  was  terrible  to  see 
the  blood  that  came  from  me — I  bled  awfuL 
Bomell  seeing  me  go  so  queer,  says, '  Here, 
Jack,  take  some  brandy,  you  look  so  awful 
bad.'  The  arm  swole,  and  went  as  heavy  as  a 
ton  weight  pretty  well,  so  that  I  couldn't  even 
lift  it,  and  so  painful  I  couldn't  bear  my  wife 
to  fennent  it.  I  was  kept  in  bed  for  two 
months  through  that  bite  at  Bumell's.  I  was 
BO  weak  I  couldn't  stand,  and  I  was  dreadful 
feverisb— all  warmth  like.  I  knew  I  was  going 
to  die,  'cause  I  remember  the  doctor  coming 
md  opemng  my  eyes,  to  see  if  I  was  still 
alive. 

*•  I've  been  bitten  nearly  everywhere,  even 
vhere  I  can't  name  to  you,  sir,  and  right 
through  mj  thumb  naiJ  too,  which,  as  you  see, 
always  has  a  split  in  it,  though  it's  years  since 
[  waa  wounded.  I  suffered  as  much  from  that 
bite  on  my  thumb  as  anything.  It  went  right 
ap  to  my  ear.  I  felt  the  pain  in  both  places 
St  once —  a  regular  twinge,  like  touching  the 
nerve  of  a  tooth.  The  thumb  went  black,  and 
I  was  told  I  ought  to  have  it  off;  but  I  knew 
a  young  chap  at  the  Middlesex  Hospital  who 
VMnt  out  of  his  time,  and  he  said,  '  No,  I 
vooldn't.  Jack;'  and  no  more  I  did ;  and  he 
used  to  strap  it  up  for  me.  But  the  worst  of 
it  was,  I  had  a  job  at  Camden  Town  one  afber- 
Qoon  after  he  had  dressed  the  wound,  and  I 
^t  another  bite  lower  down  on  the  same 
Lhnmb,  and  that  flung  me  down  on  my  bed, 
md  there  I  stopped,  I  should  think,  six 
M'-eeks. 

"  I  was  bit  bad,  too,  in  Edwards-street, 
Hampst^ad-road ;  and  that  time  I  was  sick 
lear  three  months,  and  close  upon  dying. 
Rrhether  it  was  the  poison  of  the  bite,  or  the 
medicine  the  doctor  give  me,  I  can't  say ;  but 
ha  flesh  seemed  to  swell  up  like  a  bladder — 
negular  blowed  like.  After  idl,  I  think  I  cured 
nyaelf  by  cheating  the  doctor,  as  they  calls  it ; 
br  instead  of  tjUdng  the  medicine,  I  used  to  go 

o  Hr. 's  house  in  Albany-street  (the  pub- 

ican),  and  he'd  say,  'What'llyer  have,  Jack?' 


and  I  used  to  take  a  glass  of  stout,  and  that 
seemed  to  give  me  strength  to  overcome  the 
pison  of  the  bite,  for  I  began  to  pick  up  as 
soon  as  I  left  off  doctor's  stutH 

"  When  a  rat's  bite  touches  the  bone,  it 
mokes  you  faint  in  a  minute,  and  it  bleeds 
dreadful  —  ah,  most  terrible — just  as  if  you 
had  been  stuck  with  a  penknife.  You  couldn't 
believe  the  quantity  of  blood  that  come  away, 
sir. 

**  The  fii-st  rats  I  caught  was  when  I  was 
about  nine  years  of  age.  I  ketched  them  at 
Mr.  Strickland's,  a  large  cow-keeper,  in  Little 
Albany-street,  Kogent's-park.  At  that  time  it 
was  all  Aelds  and  meaders  in  them  parts,  and 
I  recollect  there  was  a  big  orchard  on  one 
side  of  the  sheds.  1  was  only  doing  it  fur  a 
game,  and  tliere  was  lots  of  ladies  and  gents 
looking  on,  and  wondering  at  seeing  mo 
taking  the  rats  out  from  under  a  heap  of  old 
bricks  and  wood,  where  they  had  collecte«l 
theirselves.  I  had  a  little  dog  —  a  little  red 
'un  it  was,  who  was  well  known  through  the 
fancy  —  and  I  wanted  the  rats  for  to  test  my 
dog  with,  I  being  a  lad  what  was  fond  of  the 
spoi-t. 

*•  I  wasn't  afraid  to  handle  rats  even  then ; 
it  seemed  to  come  nat'ral  to  me.  I  verj'  soon 
had  some  in  my  pocket,  and  some  in  my 
hands,  carrring  them  away  us  fast  as  I  could, 
and  putting  them  into  my  wire  cage.  You  see, 
the  rats  began  to  run  as  soon  as  we  shifted 
them  bricks,  and  I  had  to  scramble  for  them. 
Many  of  them  bit  me,  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  didn't  know  the  bites  were  so  many, 
or  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  ven- 
turesome OS  I  was. 

•*  After  that  I  bought  some  foiTuts — four  of 
them  —  of  a  man  of  the  name  of  Butler,  what 
was  in  the  rat-ketching  hne,  and  afterwards 
went  out  to  Jomaicer,  to  kill  rats  there.  I  was 
getting  on  to  ten  years  of  age  then,  and  I  was, 
I  think,  the  first  that  regularly  began  hunting 
rats  to  storminate  them ;  for  all  those  before 
me  used  to  do  it  with  drugs,  and  perhaps 
never  handled  rats  in  tlieir  lives. 

"  With  my  ferruts  I  at  first  used  to  go  out 
hunting  rats  round  by  the  ponds  in  Begent's- 
park,  and  the  ditches,  and  in  the  cow-sheds 
roundabout.  People  never  paid  me  for  ketch- 
ing,  though,  maybe,  if  they  was  very  much 
infested,  they  might  give  me  a  trifle;  but  I 
used  to  make  my  money  by  selling  the  rats  to 
gents  as  was  fond  of  sport,  and  wanted  them 
for  their  little  dogs. 

"  I  kept  to  this  till  I  was  thirteen  or  four- 
teen year  of  age,  always  using  the  ferruts; 
and  I  bred  from  them,  too, — indeed,  I've  still 
got  the  *  strain'  (breed)  of  them  same  ferruts 
by  me  now.  I've  sold  them  ferruts  about 
everywhere;  to  Jim  Buni  I've  sold  some  of 
the  strain;  and  to  Mr.  Anderson,  the  pro- 
vision-merchant ;  and  to  a  man  that  went  to 
Irelind.  Indeed,  that  strain  of  ferruts  has 
gone  nearly  all  over  the  world. 

"  I  never  lost  a  ferrut  out  ratting.    I  al- 


14 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


M 


ways  let  them  loose,  and  put  a  bell  on  mine- 
arranged  in  a  peculiar  manner,  which  is  a 
Kecret — ond  I  then  puts  him  into  the  main 
run  of  the  rata,  and  lets  him  go  to  work. 
]iut  tlipj-  must  be  femits  tliafs  well  trained 
fur  working  dwellings,  or  you'll  lose  tliem  as 
Hafe  as  death.  Pve  had  'em  go  away  two 
houses  olT,  and  oome  back  to  mc.  My  femits 
is  very  tame,  and  so  well  trained,  that  I'd  put 
them  into  a  house  and  guarantee  that  they'd 
come  hack  to  me.  In  Grosvenor-strect  I  was 
clearing  once,  and  the  femits  went  next  door, 
niid  nearly  cleared  the  house — which  is  the 

lionourable  Mrs.  F 's — before  they  came 

hack  to  me. 

"  1- omits  are  very  dangerous  to  handle  if  not 
well  trained.  They  are  very  savage,  and  will 
attack  a  man  or  a  child  as  well  as  a  rat.  It 
was  well  known  at  Mr.  Hamilton's  at  Ilamp- 
stead  —  it's  years  ago  this  is  —  there  was  a 
ferrut  that  got  loose  what  killed  a  child,  and 
was  found  sucking  it  The  bite  of  'em  is  ver}- 
dangerous — not  so  pisonous  as  a  rat's — but 
very  painful;  and  when  the  little  tilings  is 
hungry  they'll  attack  anythink.  I've  seen  two 
of  them  kill  a  cat,  and  then  they'll  suck  the 
blood  till  tliey  fills  theirsclvcs,  after  which 
they'll  fall  oflf  like  leeches. 

"The  weasel  and  the  stoat  arc,  I  think, 
more  dangerous  than  the  ferrut  in  their  bite. 
I  had  a  stoat  once,  which  I  caught  when  out 
ratting  at  Ilampstoad  for  Mr.  Cunningham, 
tho  butcher,  and  it  hit  one  of  my  dogs — 
Black  Bess  by  name,  the  truest  bitch  in  the 
world,  sir — in  tho  mouth,  and  she  died  three 
days  arterwards  at  the  Boll  at  Kilbiun.      I 

was  along  with  Coptain  K ,  who'd  come 

(•ut  to  see  the  sport,  and  whilst  we  were  al 
dinner,  and  the  poor  bitch  Ijing  under  my 
chair,  my  boy  says,  f?ays  he,  *  Father,  Black 
Bess  is  d^-ing;'  and  had  scarce  spoke  the 
speech  when  she  wns  dead.  It  was  all 
through  the  bite  of  that  stoat,  for  I  opened 
the  wound  in  the  lip,  and  it  was  all  swolo,  and 
dreadful  ulcerated,  and  all  down  the  thnat  it 
was  inflamed  most  shocking,  and  so  was  the 
lunys  quite  red  and  liory.  She  was  h<jt  with 
work  when  she  got  the  bite,  and  perhaps  tliat 
made  her  take  the  pison  quicker. 

"  To  give  you  a  proof,  sir,  of  the  savage 
nature  of  tho  femits,  I  was  one  night  at 
Jimmy  Show's,  where  there  was  a  match  to 
come  off  with  rats,  which  the  feiTut  was  to 
kill;  and  young  Bob  Shaw  (Jun's  son)  was 
holding  the  t'errut  up  to  his  mouth  and  giving 
it  spittle,  whon  the  animal  seized  him  by  the 
lip,  and  bit  it  right  through,  and  hung  on  as 
tight  8s  a  vice,  "which  shows  the  spitefuluess 
<if  the  ferrut,  and  how  it  will  ottack  the 
liuman  frame.  Young  Shaw  still  hold  the 
ferrut  in  his  hand  whilst  it  was  fastened  to  his 
lip.  and  he  was  saying,  •  Oh,  oh  ! '  in  pain.  You 
see,  I  think  Jim  kept  it  very  hard  to  make  it 
kill  the  rats  better.  There  was  some  noble- 
men there,  and  also  Mr.  George,  of  Kensal 
New-town,  was  there,  wluch  is  one  of  the 


largest  dog-fanciers  wc  have.  To  make  tlie 
ferrut  leave  go  of  young  Shaw,  they  bit  its 
feet  and  tail,  and  it  wouldn't,  'cos  —  as  I  could 
have  told  'em — it  only  made  it  bite  all  the 
more.  At  last  Mr.  George,  says  he  to  me, 
'  For  God's  sake.  Jack,  take  the  ferrut  oflL' 
I  didn't  like  to  intrude  myself  upi^n  the  com- 
pany before,  not  being  in  my  own  ]>lace,  and 
I  didn't  know  how  Jimmy  would  take  it.  Every- 
body in  the  .room  was  at  a  standstill,  quite 
horrerfied,  and  Jimmy  himself  was  in  a  driead- 
ful  way  for  his  boy.  I  went  up,  and  quietly 
forced  my  thumb  into  Ids  mouth  and  loosed 
him,  and  he  killed  a  dozen  rats  aftcT  that. 
They  all  said,  *  Bravo,  JacJs,  you  are  a  plucked 
one ; '  and  the  little  chap  said,  *  Well,  Jock, 
I  didn't  like  to  holla,  but  it  was  dreadful 
painful.'  His  lip  swf>le  up  directly  as  big  as  a 
nigger's,  and  the  company  made  a  collectixm 
for  the  lad  of  some  dozen  sliillings.  This 
shows  that,  although  a  fciTut  will  kill  a  rat, 
yet,  hke  the  rat,  it  is  always  wicious,  and  will 
attack  the  human  fnune. 

"  When  I  was  abont  fifteen,  sir,  I  turned  to 
bird-fancying.  I  was  verj-  fond  of  the  sombre 
linnet.  I  was  very  succi^ssful  in  raising  them, 
and  sold  them  for  a  deal  of  money.  I've  got 
the  strain  of  them  by  me  now.  I've  ris  tliem 
from  some  I  purchased  from  a  person  in  the 
Coal-yard,  Drury-lane.  I  give  him  2/.  for  one 
of  the  periwinkle  strain,  hut  afterwards  I 
heard  of  a  person  with,  as  I  thought,  a  better 
strain — Lawson  of  Holloway  —  and  I  went 
and  give  him  SOs.  for  a  bird.  I  then  ris 
them.  I  used  to  go  nnd  ketch  the  nestlings 
off  the  common,  and  ris  Hiem  under  the  old 
trained  birds. 

i.. "  Originally  linnets  was  taught  to  sing  by  a 
bird-organ — ^principally  among  the  weavers, 
years  ago,— but  I  used  to  make  the  old  birds 
teach  tlie  young  ones.  I  used  to  molt  them 
off  in  the  dark,  by  kivering  the  cages  up,  and 
then  they'd  learn  from  hearing  the  old  ones 
singing,  and  would  take  the  song.  If  any 
did  not  sing  perfectly  I  used  to  sell  'em  as 
cast-offs. 

**  Tho  linnet's  is  a  beautiful  song.  There 
are  four-and-twenty  changes  in  a  linnet's  song. 
It's  one  of  the  beau ti fullest  song-bu'ds  we've 
got.  It  sings  *  toys,'  as  we  call  them  ;  that  is, 
it  makes  sounds  which  we  distinguish  in  the 
fancy  as  the  *  toUork  eeke  coke  quake  le 
wheet;  single  eke  eke  quake  wheels,  or  eek  cck 
quake  chowls ;  eege  pipe  chowl :  laugh;  eege 
poy  chowls ;  rattle ;  pipe ;  fenv ;  pugh  and  poy.' 

"  This  seems  like  Greek  t<.)  you,  sir,  but  it's 
the  tunes  we  use  in  the  fanty.  What  we  terms 
*fear'  is  a  sound  like  fear,  as  if  they  wa< 
frightened ;  *  laugh '  is  a  kind  of  shake,  nearly 
the  same  as  tlie  *  rattle.' 

"  I  know  the  sounds  of  all  the  English 
birds,  and  what  tliey  say.  I  could  tell  you 
about  the  nightingale,  the  blac-k  cap,  heJp:c 
warbler,  garden  wai-bler,  petty  chat,  red  start 
—  a  beautifhl  song-bird — the  willow  wren  — 
little  warblers  they  are — linnets,  or  any  of 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


15 


for  X  liaT6  got  their  sonnds  in  my  ear 
ind  my  mouth.'* 

As  if  to  prove  Uiis,  he  drew  from  a  slde- 
poekei  a  coaple  of  tin  bird-whisUes,  which 
were  attached  by  a  string  to  a  button-hole. 
He  instantly  began  to  imitate  the  different 
birds,  commencing  with  their  call,  and  then 
expbuning  how,  when  answered  to  in  snch  a 
way,  they  gave  another  note,  and  how,  if  still 
imonded  to,  they  uttered  a  diiferent  sound. 

ID.  fact,  he  gave  me  the  whole  of  the  con- 
Tieiiation  he  usually  cairied  on  with  the 
diildrent  idnds  of  birds,  each  one  being  as  it 
wer«  in  a  different  language.  He  also  showed 
me  how  he  aUnred  them  to  him,  when  they 
were  in  the  air  singing  in  the  distance,  and 
he  did  this  by  giving  their  entire  song.  His 
cheeks  and  throat  seemed  to  be  in  constant 
motion  as  he  filled  the  room  with  his  loud 
imitations  of  the  lark,  and  so  closely  did  he 
resemble  the  notes  of  the  bird,  that  it  was  no 
longer  any  wonder  how  the  Uttle  things  could 
be  deceived. 

In  the  same  manner  he  illustrated  the  songs 
of  the  nightingale,  and  so  many  birds,  that  I 
did  not  recognise  the  names  of  some  of  them. 
He  knew  ^  their  habits  as  well  as  notes,  and 
rested  to  me  the  peculiar  chirp  they  make  on 
rising  from  the  ground,  as  well  as  the  sound 
by  which  he  distinguishes  that  it  is  **  uneasy 
with  curiosity,"  or  ihafc  it  has  settled  on  a  tree. 
Indeed,  he  appeared  to  be  acquainted  with  all 
the  chirps  which  distinguished ,  any  action  in 
the  bird  up  to  the  point  when,  as  he  told  me, 
it  **  circles  about,  and  then  faJls  like  a  stone 
to  the  ground  with  its  pitch." 

*'  The  nightingale,*^  he  continued,  *<  is  a 
beautiful  song-bird.  Th^re  plucky  birds,  too, 
and  they  hear  a  call  and  answer  to  anybody ; 
and  when  taken  in  April  they're  plucked  enough 
to  sing  as  soon  as  put  in  a  cage.  I  can  ketch 
a  nightingale  in  less  than  five  minutes;  as 
soon  as  he  calls,I  cells  to  him  with  my  mouth, 
snd  hell  answer  me  (both  by  night  or  day), 
either  from  a  spinny  (a  little  copse),  a  dell, 
or  a  wood,  wherever  he  may  be.  I  make  my 
scrapes,  (that  is,  dear  away  the  dirt),  set  my 
traps,  and  catch  'em  almost  before  r.ve  tried 
my  lock.  Tve  ketched  sometimes  thirty  in  a 
d^,  for  although  people  have  got  a  notion 
that  nightingales  is  scarce,  still  those  who  can 
distinguish  their  song  in  the  daytime  know 
that  Uiey  are  plentiful  enough — almost  like 
the  lark.  You  see  persons  fancy  that  them 
nightingales  as  sings  at  night  is  the  only  ones 
linng.  but  itTs  wrong,  for  many  on  them  only 
■iogH  in  the  day. 

**  Yon  see  it  was  when  I  was  about 
fighteen,  I  was  beginning  to  get  such  a  judge 
i^nt  birds,  sir.  I  sold  to  a  butcher,  of  the 
same  of  Jackson,  the  first  young  un  that  I 
iD»ie  money  out  of — for  two  pounds  it  was — 
and  I've  sold  loads  of  'em  since  for  thirty 
thillings  or  two  pounds  each,  and  I've  got 
tbe  strain  by  me  now.  I've  aUo  got  by  me 
BOW  the  bird  that  won  the  match  at  Mr.  Lock- 


wood's  in  Drury-lane,  and  won  the  return 
match  at  my  own  place  in  High -street,  Mara- 
bun.  It  was  in  the  presence  of  all  tlie  fancy. 
He's  moulted  pied  (pie-bald)  since,  and  gone 
a  little  white  on  the  head  and  the  back.  We 
only  sang  for  two  pounds  a  side  —  it  wasn't  a 
great  deal  of  money.  In  our  matches  we  sing 
by  both  gas  and  daylight  He  was  a  master- 
baker  I  sang  against,  but  I  forget  his  name. 
They  do  call  him  *  Holy  Face,"  but  that's  a 
nick-name,  because  he's  very  much  pock- 
marked. I  wouldn't  sell  that  bird  at  all  for 
anythink ;  I've  been  offered  ten  pounds  for  it. 

Captain  E put  ten  sovereigns  down  on 

tlie  counter  for  him,  and  I  wouldn't  pick  'em 
up,  for  I've  sold  lots  of  his  strain  for  a  pound 
each. 

'•  \Vhon  I  foimd  I  was  a  master  of  the 
birds,  then  I  turned  to  my  rat  business  again. 
I  had  a  little  rat  dog  —  a  black  tan  terrier  of 
the  name  of  Billy — which  was  the  greatest 
stock  dog  in  London  of  that  day.  He  is  the 
father  of  the  greatest  portion  of  the  small 
block  tan  dogs  in  London  now,  which  Mr. 
Isaac,  the  bird-fancier  in  Princes-street,  pur- 
chased one  of  the  strain  for  six  or  seven 
pounds;  which  Jimmy  Massey  afterwards 
purchased  another  of  the  strain,  for  a  monkey, 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  throe  pounds.  That  was 
the  rummest  bargain  I  over  marie. 

"  I've  ris  and  trained  monkoys  by  shoals. 
Some  of  mine  is  about  now  in  shows  ex- 
hibiting ;  one  in  particular  —  Jimmy. 

"  One  of  the  strain  of  this  little  black  tan 
dog  would  draw  a  badger  twelve  or  fourteen 
lbs.  to  his  six  lbs.,  which  was  done  for  a 
wager,  'cos  it  was  thought  the  badger  had  his 
teeth  drawn,  but  ho  hadn't,  as  was  proved  by 

his  biting  Mr.  P from  Birmingham,  for  he 

took  a  piece  clean  out  of  his  trousers,  which 
was  pretty  good  proof,  and  astonished  them 
all  in  the  room. 

'*  I've  been  offered  a  sovereign  a-pound  for 
some  of  my  little  terriers,  but  it  wouldn't  pay 
me  at  that  price,  for  they  weren't  heavier  than 
two  or  three  pounds.  1  once  sold  one  of  the 
dogs,  of  this  same  strain,  for  fourteen  pounds, 

to   the   Austrian   Ambassador.    Mrs.  H 

tlie  banker's  lady,  wished  to  get  my  strain  of 
terriers,  and  she  give  me  five  pounds  for  the 
use  of  him  ;  in  fact,  my  terrier  dog  was  kno^^-n 
to  aU  the  London  fancy.  *  As  rat-killing  <logs, 
there's  no  eqiuil  to  that  strain  of  black  tan 
terriers. 

"  It's  fifteen  year  ago  since  I  first  worked 
for  Goverment.  I  found  that  the  parks  was 
much  infested  with  rats,  which  had  undor- 
minded  the  bridges  and  gnawed  the  drains, 
and  I  marie  application  to  Mr.  Westlcy,  who 
was  superintendent  of  the  park,  and  ho  spoke 
of  it,  and  then  it  was  wrote  to  me  that  I  was 
to  fulfil  the  siterwation,  and  I  was  to  have 
six  pounds  a-year.  But  after  that  it  was 
altered,  and  I  was  to  have  so  much  ahead, 
which  is  tlireepence.  After  that,  Newton, 
what  was  a  wamdnt  destroyer  to  her  Majesty, 


Xo.  I  VI. 


IQ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


dj-ing,  I  wrote  in  to  the  Board  of  Hordnance, 
when  they  appointed  me  to  each  statioii  in 
London— that  was,  to  RegenLsey-park- bar- 
racks, to  the  Knightjsbridge  and  Portland- 
han-acks,  and  to  all  tlie  oOicr  barracks  in  the 
metropolis.  I've  got  tlie  letter  now  by  me,  in 
which  they  says  *  Uiey  is  proud  to  appint  me.' 

'*  I've  taken  thirty-two  rats  out  of  one  hole 
in  the  islands  in  Regentsey-park,  and  found  in 
it  fish,  birds,  and  loads  of  eggs  —  duck-eggs, 
and  every  kind. 

•*  It  must  be  fourteen  year  since  I  first  went 
about  the  streets  exhibiting  with  rats.  I  be- 
gan with  a  cart  and  a'most  a  donkey;  for 
it  was  a  pony  scarce  bigger;  but  I've  had 
three  or  four  big  horses  since  that,  and  ask 
anybody,  and  they'll  tell  you  I'm  noted  for  my 
cattle.  I  thought  that  by  having  a  kind  of 
costume,  and  the  rats  painted  on  tlie  cart,  and 
going  round  the  country,  I  should  gei  my 
name  about,  and  get  myself  knowed ;  and  so 
I  did,  for  folks  'ud  come  to  me,  so  that  some- 
times I've  had  four  jobs  of  a-day,  from  people 
seeing  my  cart.  I  found  I  was  quite  the 
master  of  the  rat,  and  could  do  pretty  well 
what  I  liked  with  him ;  so  I  used  to  go  round 
Finchley,  Highgate,  and  all  the  sububs,  and 
show  myself,  and  how  I  handled  the  warmiut. 

**  I  used  to  wear  a  costume  of  white  leather 
breeches,  and  a  green  coat  and  scarlet  waist- 
kit,  and  a  goold  band  round  my  hat,  and  a 
belt  across  my  shoulder.  I  used  to  make  a 
first-rate  appearance,  such  as  was  becoming 
the  imiform  of  the  Queen's  rat-ketcher. 

"  Lor'  bless  you !  I've  travell'd  all  over 
London,  and  I'll  kill  rats  again  anybody. 
I'm  open  to  all  the  world  for  any  sum,  from 
one  pound  to  fifty.  I  used  to  have  my  belts 
painted  at  first  by  Mr.  Bailey,  the  animal 
painter  —  with  four  white  rats;  but  the  idea 
come  into  my  head  that  I'd  cast  the  rats 
i.i  metal,  just  to  make  more  appearance  for 
the  belt,  to  come  out  in  the  world.  I  was 
nights  and  days  at  it,  and  it  give  me  a  deal  of 
bother.  I  ceuld  manage  it  no  how ;  but  by  my 
own  ingenuity  and  persewerance  I  succeeded. 
A  man  axed  me  a  pound  a-piece  for  casting  the 
rats — that  would  ha*  been  four  pound.  I  was 
very  certain  that  my  belt,  being  a  handsome 
one,  would  help  my  business  treraonjous  in 
the  sale  of  my  composition.  So  I  took  a 
mould  from  a  dead  rat  in  plaster,  and  then 
I  got  some  of  my  wife's  sarsepans,  and,  by 
G — ,  I  casted  'em  with  some  of  my  own 
pewter-pots." 

The  wife,  who  was  standing  by,  here  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Oh,  my  poor  sarsepans !  I  remember  'em. 
There  was  scarce  one  left  to  cook  our  wittels 
with." 

'•  Thoussmds  of  moulders,"  continued  Jack 
Black,  *•  used  to  come  to  see  mo  do  tho  casting 
of  the  rats,  and  they  kept  sajing,  *  You'll  never 
do  it,  Jack.'  The  great  tUfiiculty,  you  sec,  was 
casting  the  heye — which  is  a  black  bead — into 
tho  metal. 


"When  tho  belt  was  done,  I  had  a  groat 
success;  for,  bless  you,  I  couldn't  go  a  yard 
without  a  crowd  after  me. 

'*  When  I  was  out  with  the  cart  selling  my 
composition,  my  usual  method  was  this.  I 
used  to  put  a  board  across  the  top,  and  form  a 
kind  of  counter.  I  always  took  with  me  a  iron- 
wire  cage — so  big  a  one,  that  Mr.  Barnet,  a 
Jew,  laid  a  wager  that  he  could  get  into  it,  and 
ho  did.  I  used  to  form  this  cage  at  one  end  of 
the  cart,  and  sell  my  composition  at  the  other. 
There  were  rats  painted  round  the  cart — that 
was  the  only  show  I  had  about  the  wehicle.  I 
used  to  take  out  the  rats,  and  put  them  outside 
the  cage ;  and  used  to  begin  tho  show  by  putting 
rats  inside  my  shirt  next  my  buzzum,  or  in  my 
coat  and  breeches  pockets,  or  on  my  shoulder 
— in  fact,  all  about  mo,  anywhere.  The  i)eople 
would  stand  to  see  me  take  up  rats  witliout 
being  bit.  I  never  said  much,  but  I  used  to 
handle  the  rats  in  every  possible  manner, 
letting  'em  run  up  my  arm,  and  stroking  tlieir 
backs  and  playing  witli  'em.  Most  of  the 
people  used  to  fancy  they  had  been  tamed  on 
purpose,  until  they'd  see  me  take  fresh  ones 
from  the  cage,  and  play  with  them  in  the  same 
manner.  I  all  this  time  kept  on  selling  my 
composition,  which  my  man  Joe  used  to  offer 
about;  and  whenever  a  packet  was  sold,  I 
always  tested  its  wirtues  by  killing  a  rat  with 
it  afore  the  people's  own  eyes. 

'•  I  once  went  to  Tottenham  to  sell  my  com- 
position, and  to  exhibit  with  my  rats  afore  the 
country  people.  Some  countrymen,  which 
said  they  were  rat-ketchers,  came  up  to  me 
whilst  I  was  playing  with  some  rats,  and  said 
— *  Ugh,  you're  not  a  rat-ketcher ;  that's  not 
the  way  to  do  it.'  They  were  startled  at  seeing 
me  selling  tho  pison  at  such  a  rate,  for  the 
shilling  packets  was  going  xmcommon  well,  sir. 
I  said,  •  No,  I  ain't  a  rat-ketcher,  and  don't  know 
nothink  about  it.  You  come  up  and  show  me 
how  to  do  it,'  One  of  them  come  up  on  the 
cart,  and  put  his  hand  in  the  cage,  and  curous 
enough  he  got  three  bites  directly,  and  afore 
he  could  take  his  hands  out  they  was  nearly 
bit  to  ribands.  My  man  Joe,  says  he,  *  I  tell 
you,  if  we  ain't  rat-ketchers,  who  is  ?  We  are 
the  regular  rat  ketchers ;  my  master  kills  'em, 
and  then  I  eats  'em' — and  he  takes  up  a  live 
one  and  puts  its  head  into  his  mouth,  and  I 
puts  my  hand  in  the  cage  and  pulls  out  six  or 
seven  in  a  cluster,  and  holds  'em  up  in  the  sdr7 
witliout  even  a  bite.  The  countrymen  bust  out 
laughing ;  and  they  said, '  Well,  you're  the  best 
we  ever  see.'  I  sold  near  4/.  worth  of  compo- 
sition that  day. 

"Another  day,  when  I'd  been  out  flying 
pigeons  as  well— carriers,  which  I  fancies  to — 
I  drove  tho  cart,  after  selling  the  composition, 
to  the  King's  Arms,  Hanwell,  and  there  was  a 
feller  there — a  tailor  by  trade — what  had 
turned  rat-ketcher.  He  had  got  witli  him  some 
fifty  or  sixty  rats — the  miserablest  mangey 
brutes  you  ever  seed  in  a  tub — taking  'e:n  up 
to  London  to  sell.    I,  hearing  of  it,  was  deter- 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


17 


imned  to  have  a  lark,  so  I  goes  up  and  takes 
oQt  ten  of  them  rats,  and  puts  them  inside  my 
shirt,  next  my  buzzum,  and  then  I  iraUcs  into 
the  parlour  and  sits  down,  and  begins  drinking 
my  ale  as  right  as  if  nothink  had  happened. 
I  scarce  had  seated  myself,  when  the  landlord 
— ^wbo  was  in  the  lay — says,  '  I  know  a  man 
who'll  ketch  rats  quicker  than  anybody  in  the 
world.'  This  put  the  tailor  chap  up,  so  he 
olfers  to  bet  half-a-gallon  of  ale  he  would,  and 
I  takes  him.  He  goes  to  the  tub  and  brings 
oat  a  very  laige  rat,  and  walks  with  it  into  the 
Toom  to  show  to  the  company.  *  Well,*  says  I 
to  the  man,  •  why  I,  who  ain't  a  rat-ketcher,  I've 
got  a  bigger  one  here,'  and  I  pulls  one  out 
from  my  buzzum.  *  And  here's  another,  and 
another,  and  another,'  says  I,  till  I  had  placed 
the  whole  ten  on  the  table.  *  That's  the  way 
I  ketch  'em,'  says  I, — *they  comes  of  their 
own  accord  to  me.'  He  tried  to  handle  the 
warmints,  but  the  poor  fellow  was  bit,  and  his 
hands  was  soon  bleeding  fur'ously,  and  I  with- 
out a  mark.  A  gentleman  as  knowed  me  said, 
■-This  must  be  the  Queen's  rat-ketcher,  and  that 
sp  ilt  the  fun.  The  poor  fellow  seemed  regular 
done  up,  and  said, '  I  shall  give  up  rat-ketching, 
you've  beat  me !  Here  I've  been  travelling 
with  rats  all  my  life,  and  I  never  see  such  a 
thing  afore.* 

"  When.  I've  been  in  a  mind  for  travelling 
I've  never  sold  less  than  ten  shillings'  worth 
of  my  composition,  and  I've  many  a  time  sold 
five  pounds'  worth.  Ten  shillings'  worth  was 
the  least  I  ever  sold.  During  my  younger 
career,  if  I'd  had  a  backer,  I  might,  one  week 
with  another, have  made  my  clear  three  pounds 
a.  week,  after  paying  all  my  expenses  and 
feeding  my  horse  and  alL 

'*  I  challenge  my  composition,  and  sell  the 
art  of  rat-destroying,  against  any  chemical  rat- 
destmyer  in  the  world,  for  any  sum — ^I  don't 
care  what  it  is.  Let  anybody,  either  a  medical 
or  druggist  manufacturer  of  composition,  come 
and  test  with  rats  again  me,  and  they'll  pretty 
soon  find  it  out.  People  pay  for  composition 
instead  of  employing  the  Queen's  rat-ketcher, 
what  kills  the  warmint  and  lays  down  his  com- 
position for  nothink  into  the  bargain  likewise. 
**  I  also  destroy  black  beedles  with  a  com- 
position which  I  ilways  keep  with  me  again  it's 
wanted.  I  often  have  to  destroy  thd  beedles  in 
wine-cellars,  which  gnaw  the  paper  off  the 
bottles,  snch  as  is  round  the  champagne  and 
French  wine  bottles.  Pve  killed  lots  of 
beedles  too  for  bakers.  I've  also  sterminated 
some  thousands  of  beedles  for  linen-drapers 
and  pork-sassage  shops.  There's  two  kinds  of 
beedles,  the  hard-shell  and  the  soft-shell 
beedle.  The  hard-shell  one  is  the  worst,  and 
Uua  will  gnaw  cork,  paper,  and  anythink 
vodlen.  The  soft-shell'd  one  will  gnaw  bread 
<v  food,  and  it  also  lays  its  eggs  in  the  food, 
vbiefa  is  dreadful  nasty. 

"  There's  the  house  ant  too,  which  there  is 
tome  thousands  of  people  as  never  saw — I 
itenninate  them  as  well.    There's  a  Mrs.  B. 


at  the  William  the  Fourth  pnblic-house, 
Hampstead;  she  couldn't  lay  her  cliild's  clothes 
down  without  getting  'em  full  of  ants.  They've 
got  a  stingp  something  in  feel  like  a  horse-fly's, 
and  is  more  annoying  than  dangerous.  It's 
cockroaches  that  are  found  in  houses.  They're 
dreadful  nasty  things,  and  will  bite,  and  they 
are  equal  to  the  Spanish  flies  for  blistering. 
I've  tried  all  insects  on  my  flesh  to  see  how 
they  bite  me.  Cockroaches  will  undermine 
similar  to  the  ant,  and  loosen  the  bricks  the 
same  as  the  cricket.  It's  astonishing  how  so 
small  an  insect  as  them  will  scrape  away  such 
a  quantity  of  mortar  as  they  do — which  thing 
infests  grates,  floorings,  and  such-like. 

"  The  beedle  is  a  most  'strordinnry  thing, 
which  will  puzzle  most  people  to  sterminate, 
for  they  lays  sitch  a  lot  of  eggs  as  I  would 
never  guarantee  to  do  away  with  beedles — only 
to  keep  them  clear ;  for  if  you  kills  the  old 
ones  the  eggs  will  rewive,  and  young  ones  come 
out  of  the  wainskitting  and  sitch-like,  and  then 
your  employers  will  say,  '  Wliy  you  were  paid 
for  sterminating,  and  yet  here  they  are.' 

"  One  night  in  August — the  niglit  of  a  very 
heavy  storm,  which,  maybe,  you  may  remem- 
ber, sir — I  was  sent  for  by  a  medical  gent  as 
lived  opposite  the  Load  of  Hay,  Hampstead, 
whose  two  children  had  been  att^icked  by  rats 
while  they  was  sleeping  in  their  little  cots.  I 
traced  the  blood,  which  had  left  lines  from 
their  tails,  through  the  openings  in  the  lath 
and  plaster,  wliich  I  follered  to  where  my 
ferruts  come  out  of,  and  they  must  have  come 
up  from  the  bottom  of  the  house  to  the  attics. 
The  rats  gnawed  the  hands  and  feet  of  the 
little  children.  The  lady  heard  them  crying, 
and  got  out  of  her  bed  and  called  to  the  servant 
to  know  what  the  child  was  making  such  a 
noise  for,  when  they  struck  a  light,  and  then 
they  see  the  rats  running  away  to  the  holes ; 
their  little  night-gownds  was  kivered  with 
blood,  as  if  their  throats  had  been  cut.  I  asked 
the  lady  to  give  me  one  of  the  night-gownds  to 
keep  as  a  cur'osity,  for  I  considered  it  a  phee- 
nomenon,  and  she  give  it  to  me,  but  I  never 
was  so  vexed  in  all  my  life  as  when  I  was  told 
the  next  day  that  a  maid  had  washed  it.  I  went 
down  the  next  morning  and  stenfdnated  them 
rats.  I  found  they  was  of  the  specie  of  rat 
which  we  term  the  blood-rat,  which  is  a  dread- 
ful spiteful  feller — a  snake-headed  rat,  and 
infests  the  dwellings.  There  may  have  been 
some  dozens  of  'em  altogether,  but  it's  so  long 
ago  I  a'most  forget  how  many  I  took  in  that 
house.  The  gent  behaved  uncommon  hand- 
some, and  said,  *  Mr.  Black,  I  can  never  pay 
you  for  this;'  and  ever  arterwards,  when  I 
used  to  pass  by  that  there  house,  the  little 
dears  when  they  see  me  used  to  call  out  to 
their  mamma,  '0,  here's  Mr.  Ratty,  ma!' 
They  wei-e  very  pretty  little  fine  children — 
uncommon  handsome,  to  be  sure. 

"  I  once  went  to  Mr.  Hollins's,  in  Edward- 
street  Begent's-park — a  cow- keeper  he  was — 
where  he  was  so  infested  that  the  cows  could 


18 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


not  la\  down  or  eat  their  food,  for  the  rats  used 
to  go  into  the  mauger,  and  light  at  'em.  Air. 
lloUins  snid  to  me,  *  Black,  what  shall  I  give 
yon  to  get  rid  of  tUem  rats?'  and  I  said  to  him, 
Bays  I.  •  >Vell.  Mr.  llollins,  you're  a  poor  man, 
and  I  leave  it  to  you.'  (He's  got  awful  ricli 
since  thon. )  I  went  to  work,  and  I  actually 
took  out  :3(X)  rats  from  one  hole  in  Uie  wall, 
which  I  had  to  can*}'  them  in  my  mouth  and 
hands,  and  under  my  arms,  and  in  my  huzzum 
and  pockets,  to  take  them  to  the  cage.  I  was 
hit  dreadful  by  tliem,  and  suiTerod  greatly  hy 
the  bites;  but  nothink  to  lay  up  for,  though 
very  painful  to  the  hands.  Toperveut  the  ruts 
from  getting  out  of  the  hole,  1  had  to  stop  it 
up  by  putting  my  breast  again  it>  and  thon  they 
was  jumping  up  again  me  and  gnawing  at  my 
waistkit.  I  should  think  I  stenninated  000 
from  thorn  premises.  Ah!  I  did  wonders 
round  there,  and  everybody  was  talking  of  my 
feats. 

••  I'll  tell  you  about  another  cow-keeper's, 
which  Mr.  HoUins  was  so  gratified  with  my 
skill  what  I  had  done,  that  he  pays  me  hand- 
some and  generous,  and  gives  me  a  rooom- 
moudation  to  Mrs.  Brown's,  of  Camdt* n-town, 
and  there  I  sterminated  above  7CX)  rats ;  and  I 
was  a-near  being  killed,  for  I  was  stooping 
down  under  the  manger,  when  a  cow  heerd  the 
rats  squeak,  and  she  butts  at  me  and  scuds  me 
up  again  the  b\dl.  The  bull  was  voiy  savage, 
and  I  fainted ;  but  I  was  picked  up  and  washed, 
and  then  I  come  to. 

**  Whilst  doing  tliat  job  at  Mrs.  Brown's  I 
had  to  lie  down  on  the  ground,  and  push  my 
naked  arm  into  the  hole  till  I  could  reach  thf 
rats  as  I'd  driven  up  in  the  comer,  and  ihv.n 
pull  them  out  with  my  hand.  I  was  dreadful 
hit,  for  I  was  obleeged  to  haniUe  them  any- 
how ;  uiy  liesh  was  cut  to  ribands  and  dreadful 
laccruted. 

"  There  was  a  mnn  Mrs.  Brown  lind  got  of  the 
name  of  John,  and  he  wouldn't  believe  about 
the  rats,  and  half  thought  I  brought  'em  \^ith 
me.    So  I  showecl  him  how  to  ketch  rats. 

"  You  sei>  rats  have  always  got  a  main  run, 
and  from  it  go  the  branch  runs  on  each  side 
like  on  a  herring-bone,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
branch  runs  is  the  bolt-holes,  for  coming  in 
and  out  at.  I  instantly  stopped  up  all  the 
bolt-holes  and  worked  Uie  rats  down  to  tlie 
end  of  the  main  run,  then  I  broke  up  the 
branch  runs  and  stopped  the  rats  getting  back, 
and  thon,  when  I'd  got  'em  all  together  at  tlie 
end  of  the  main  run,  I  put  my  arm  down  and 
lifted  them  up.  I  have  had  at  times  to  put 
half  my  body  into  a  hole  and  thrust  down  my 
arm  just  like  getting  rabbits  out  of  their  bur- 
rers. 

'*  Sometimes  I  have  to  go  myself  into  the 
holes,  for  the  rats  make  such  big  ones,  there's 
plent>'  of  room.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Perry  in 
Albany-street  that  kept  an  oil  and  coke  shop 
—she  were  infested  with  rats  dreadful.  Three 
of  her  shop- boys  had  been  sent  away  on  sus- 
picion of  stealing  fat,  instead  of  which  it  was 


the  rats,  for  l>etween  the  walls  and  the  vault 
1  found  a  hundred  and  a  half  of  fat  stowed 
away.  The  rats  was  very  savage,  and  I  should 
think  there  was  200  of  them.  I  made  a  good 
bit  of  money  by  that  job,  lor  Mrs.  Perry  give 
the  fat  to  me. 

*^  I  have  had  some  good  finds  at  times,  rat- 
hunting.  I  found  under  one  Hoor  in  a  gent's 
house  a  great  quantity  of  table  napkins  and 
>iilver  spoons  and  forks,  which  tlie  rats  had 
carried  away  for  the  grease  on  'em  —  shoes 
and  boots  gnawed  to  pieces,  sliifts,  aprons, 
gowuds,  pieces  of  silk,  and  I  don't  know  what 
not.  Sarvants  had  been  discharged  accused  of 
stealing  them  there  things.  Of  course  I  had 
to  give  them  up ;  but  there  they  was. 

*•  I  was  once  induced  to  go  to  a  mews  in 
Tavistook-place,  near  Russell-square,  which 
was  reg'lar  infested  by  rat<.  'I'hoy  had  sent  to 
a  man  before,  and  he  couldn't  do  nothink  with 
'em,  but  I  soon  sterminatcil  them.  The  rats 
there  had  worried  a  pair  of  bcwitiful  chestnut 
horses,  by  gnawing  away  their  hoofs  and 
nearly  driving  them  mad,  which  I  saw  myself, 
and  there  was  all  their  teeth -marks,  for  I 
I  could  scarcely  believe  it  myself  till  I  see  it.  I 
found  them  near  a  cart-loail  of  ronimou 
bricks,  under  the  floor,  and  near  the  i>;irtition 
of  the  stable,  which,  when  the  men  pulled 
the  wood- work  down,  the  coaclimmi,  snys  he, 
*  Well,  rat-ketcher,  if  you'd  been  emi>l«iyoil  years 
ago  a  deal  more  com  would  have  gone  into 
the  horses.* 

"  This  coachman  give  mo  a  rocoramonda- 
to  a  muffin-maker  in  Hanway-yard,  and  I  went 
there  and  killed  tlic  rats.  But  a  most  sing'Iar 
tiling  took  place  there;  my  ft?rr«t  got  iiwny 
and  run  through  into  a  house  in  Oxford-street 
kept  by  a  linen-draper,  for  the  young  men 
come  to  say  that  the  rat-ketchcr's  f.-rret  was 
in  their  shop,  and  had  bit  one  of  their  lady 
customers.  I  worked  the  ferrut  through  three 
times  to  make  sure  of  this ;  and  each  time  mj 
little  dog  told  mo  it  was  true.  You  see  a  well- 
trained  dog  will  watch  and  staud  and  point  to 
the  ferrut  working  under  ground  just  as  a 
pinter  does  to  game ;  and  although  he's  above 
ground,  yet  he'll  track  the  fennit  through  the 
runs  undemeatli  by  the  smell.  If  the  ferrut 
is  lost — which  I  tell  by  the  dog  being  uneasy 
— I  say  to  the  dog,  *  Hi,  lost ; '  and  tlien  he  in- 
Btantly  goes  on  scent,  and  smells  about  in 
every  direction,  and  I  follers  him,  till  he 
stands  exactly  over  the  spot  where  it  may  be, 
and  then  I  have  either  to  rise  a  stone  or  lift  a 
board  to  get  liim  out. 

"  I've  ratted  for  years  for  Mr.  Hodges,  of 
Hodges  and  Lowman's,  in  Regent-street;  and 
he  once  said  to  me,  that  he  was  infested 
dreadAU  with  rats  at  the  house,  which  he  took 
for  the  children,  at  Hampstead;  so  I  went 
there,  and  witnessed,  certainly,  the  most  cuT- 
ous  circumstance,  which  puzzles  me  to  this 
day.  I  had  to  lay  on  my  belly  half  in  the  hole 
and  pull  out  the  rats;  and,  on  looking  at 
them,  as  I  brings  them  up,  I  un  aalouished 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


19 


to  find  that  nearly  ereiy  one  of  them  is  blind, 
and  has  a  speck  in  the  eye.  I  was  never  so 
nrach  astoniidied  in  my  life,  for  tho}  was  as  a 
wall-cyed  dog  nught  be.  I  supposed  it  to  be 
froia.  Ughtning  (1  couldn't  account  for  it  no 
other  ways),  for  at  that  time  there  was  very 
heavy  lightning  and  floods  up  there,  which 
maybe  you  might  remember,  sir.  They  was 
chiefly  of  the  blood-rat  specie  —  small  snake- 
head^  rats,  with  a  big,  flne  taiL  They  was 
Teiy  savage  with  me,  and  I  had  them  run  all 
orer  me  before  I  keiohed  th^m. 

**•  Bats  are  everywhere  about  London,  both 
in  rid^  and  poor  places.  I've  ketohed  rats  in 
44  Portland -place,  at  a  clergyman's  house 
there.  There  was  200  and  odd.  They  had  un- 
derminded  the  oven  so,  that  th^  could  nei- 
ther bile  nor  bake ;  they  had  under-pinioned 
the  stables,  and  let  every  stone  down  through- 
out the  premises,  pretty  well.  I  had  to  crawl 
under  a  big  leaden  dstem  which  the  rats  had 
under-pinioned,  and  I  expected  it  would  come 
down  upon  me  every  minute.  I  had  one  little 
feimt  lull  thiity-two  rats  under  one  stone,  and 
I  lifted  the  dead  ones  up  in  the  presence  of 
the  cook  and  the  butler.  He  didn't  behave 
well  to  me  —  the  gent  didn't — for  I  had  to  go 
to  my  lawyer's  afore  I  could  get  paid,  and 
titer  the  use  of  my  skill ;  and  I  had  to  tell  the 
lawyer  Td  pawn  my  bed  to  stick  to  him  and 
get  my  eamingn ;  but,  after  all,  I  had  to  take 
one-tluld  less  than  my  bilL  This,  thinks  I, 
isn't  the  nght  thing  ibr  Portland-place. 

**  Bats  will  eat  each  other  like  rabbits, 
which  I've  watched  them,  and  seen  them  turn 
the  dead  one's  skins  out  like  pusses,  and  cat 
the  flesh  oflf  beautiful  dean.  I've  got  cages  of 
iron-wire,  which  I  made  myself,  which  will 
hold  1000  rats  at  a  time,  and  I've  had  these 
cages  piled  up  with  rata,  solid  like.  No  one 
would  ever  bdieve  it;  to  look  at  a  quantity  of 
rats,  and  see  how  they  will  fight  and  tear  one 
another  about, — it's  astonishing,  so  it  is  I  I 
never  found  any  rats  smothered,  by  putting 
them  in  a  cage  so  full ;  but  if  you  don't  feed 
them  every  day,  they'll  fight  and  eat  one  ano- 
ther— they  will,  like  cannibals. 

'*  I  genml  contzaots  with  my  customers,  by 
the  year,  or  month,  or  job.  There's  some 
genta  I've  woriced  for  these  fifteen  years — 
aiteh  as  Mr.  Bobson,  the  coach  -  builder, 
Mivart's  Hotel,  Shoulbreds',  Mr.  Lloyds,  the 
large  tobacconist,  the  Commercial  Life  Assu- 
laiice.  Lord  Dunoannon^s,  and  I  can't  recollect 
how  many  more.  My  terms  is  from  one 
guinta  to  five  pounds  per  annum,  according 
to  the  premises.  Besides  this,  I  have  all  the 
tats  that  I  ketch,  and  they  sell  for  threepence 
aoeh.  But  Tva  done  my  work  too  well,  and 
irtwrevmr  I  went  I've  cleared  the  rats  right 
oat,  and  so  my  customers  have  fell  off.  I  have 
■ot  the  beat  teadmonials  of  any  man  in  Lon- 
don, and  I  eonld  get  a  hatful  more  to-morrer. 
Ask  anybody  Tve  worked  for,  and  they'll  tell 
you  about  Jack  Blaek. 

»  Ono  night  I  had  two  hundred  rats  in  a 


cage,  placed  in  my  sitting-room,  and  a  gent's 
dog  happened  to  get  at  the  cage,  and  undid 
the  door,  snufiin|f  about,  and  let  'em  all  loose. 
Directly  I  come  in  I  knew  they  was  loose  by 
the  8mel>.  I  had  to  go  on  my  knees  and  sto- 
mach under  the  beds  and  scKfas,  and  all  over 
the  house,  and  before  twelve  o'clock  that  night 
I  had  got  'em  all  back  again  into  the  cage,  and 
sold  them  after  for  a  match.  I  was  so  fearful 
they'd  get  gnawing  the  children,  having  ster- 
minated  them  in  a  house  where  children  had 
been  gnawed. 

**  I've  turned  my  attention  to  evexything 
connected  with  animals.  I've  got  the  best 
composition  for  curing  the  mange  in  a  horse 
or  a  dog.  which  has  reglor  astonished  medical 
gents.  I've  also  been  bit  by  a  mad  dog — a 
black  retriever  dog,  that  died  racing  mad  in  a 
cellar  afterwards.  The  only  thing  I  did  was, 
I  washed  the  wound  with  salt  and  water,  and 
used  a  turpentine  poultice." 

Mrs.  Black  here  interposed,  exclaiming, — 

*^  0  dear  me !  the  salt  and  water  he's  had  to 
his  flesh,  it  ought  to  be  as  hard  as  iron.  I'vo 
seen  him  put  lumps  of  salt  into  his  wounds." 

Mr.  Black  then  continued : — 

"  I  never  had  any  uneasiness  from  that  bite 
of  a  mad  dog ;  indeed,  I  never  troubled  myself 
about  it,  or  even  thought  of  it. 

^  I've  caught  some  other  things  besides  rats 
in  my  time.  One  night,  I  saw  a  little  South 
African  cat  going  along  the  New -road.  I 
thought  it  was  a  cur'ous  specie  of  rat,  and 
chased  it,  and  brought  it  home  with  me ;  but 
it  proved  to  belong  to  Mr.  Herring's  mena- 
gerie in  the  New-road,  so  I  let  him  have  it 
back  again. 

"  Another  time  I  met  with  two  racoons,  which 
I  found  could  handle  mc  just  as  well  as  I  could 
handle  a  rat,  for  they  did  bite  and  scratch 
awful.  I  put  'em  in  the  cart,  and  brought 
thorn  home  in  a  basket.  I  never  found  out  to 
whom  they  belonged.  I  got  them  in  KatcUfle- 
highway,  and  no  doubt  some  sailors  had 
brought  them  over,  and  got  drunk,  and  let 
'em  loose.  I  tried  them  at  killing  rats,  but 
they  weren't  no  good  at  that. 

*'  I've  leomt  a  monkey  to  kill  rats,  but  he 
wouldn't  do  much,  and  only  give  them  a  good 
shaking  when  they  bit  him.  After  I  found  the 
racoons  no  good,  I  trained  a  badger  to  kill 
rats,  and  he  was  superior  to  any  dog,  but  very 
difficult  in  training  to  get  him  to  loll,  though 
they'll  kill  rabbits  fast  enough,  or  any  other 
kind  of  game,  for  they're  rare  poachers  are 
badgers.  I  used  to  call  her  Polly.  She  killed 
in  my  own  pit,  for  I  used  to  obleege  my 
friends  that  wouldn't  believe  it  possible  with 
the  sight.  She  won  several  matches — the 
largest  was  in  a  hundred  match. 

'*  I  also  sterminate  moles  for  her  Majesty, 
and  the  Woods  and  Forests,  and  I've  stermi- 
nated  some  hundreds  for  different  farmers  in 
the  country.  It's  a  cur'ous  thing,  but  a  mole 
will  kiU  a  rat  and  eat  it  afterwards,  and  two 
nudes  will  fight  wonderful.    They've  got  a 


20 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


mouth  exactly  like  a  shark,  and  teeth  like 
saws ;  ah,  a  wonderftil  saw  mouth.  They're  a 
very  sharp-biting  little  animal,  and  very  pain- 
ful. A  rat  is  frightened  of  one,  and  don't  like 
fighting  them  at  all. 

"  Fve  bred  the  finest  collection  of  pied  rats 
which  has  ever  been  knowed  in  the  world.  I 
had  above  eleven  hundred  of  them — all  wane- 
gated  rats,  and  of  a  dififerent  specie  and 
colour,  and  all  of  them  in  the  first  instance 
bred  from  the  Norwegian  and  the  white  rat, 
and  afterwards  crossed  with  other  specie. 

"  I  have  ris  some  of  the  largest  tailed  rats 
ever  seen.  I've  sent  them  to  all  parts  of  the 
globe,  and  near  every  town  in  England.  When 
I  sold  'em  ott',  three  hundred  of  them  went  to 
France.  I  ketched  the  first  white  rat  I  had 
at  Hampstendj  and  the  black  ones  at  Messrs. 
Hodges  and  Lowman's,  in  Regent-street,  and 
them  I  bred  in.  I  have  'em  fawn  and  white, 
black  and  white,  brown  and  white,  red  and 
white,  blue-black  and  white,  black-white  and 
red. 

"  People  come  from  all  parts  of  London  to 
sec  them  rat«,  and  I  supplied  near  all  the 
*  happy  families '  with  them.  Burke,  who 
had  the  '  happy  family '  showing  about  Lon- 
don, has  had  hundreds  from  me.  They  got 
very  tame,  and  you  could  do  anythink  with 
them.  I've  sold  many  to  ladies  for  keeping 
in  squirrel  cages.  Years  ago  I  sold  'em  for 
five  and  t«*n  shillings  a-pieco,  but  towards  the 
end  of  my  breeding  them,  I  let  'cm  go  for 
two-and-six.  At  a  shop  in  Leicester-square, 
where  Cantello's  liatching-eggs  machine  was, 
I  sold  a  sow  and  six  young  ones  for  ten  shil- 
lings, which  formerly  I  have  had  five  pounds 
for,  being  so  docile,  like  a  sow  sucking  her 
pigs." 

The  Sewerman. 

He  is  a  broad-shouldered,  strongly-built  man, 
with  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a  rather 
dull  cast  of  features ;  from  living  so  much  in 
the  "  shores  "  (sewers),  his  eyes  have  a-^sumcd 
a  peering  kind  of  look,  that  is  quite  rat-like  in 
its  fdrtivencss. 

He  answered  our  questions  with  great  good 
Immour,  but  in  short  monosyllabic  terms,  pe- 
culiar to  men  who  have  little  commimion  with 
their  fellows. 

The  "  parlour  "  in  which  the  man  lives  was 
literally  swarming  with  children  when  we  paid 
him  a  visit  (they  were  not  all  "belonging  "  to 
him).  Nor  was  it  quite  pleasant  to  find  that 
the  smell  of  the  tea,  which  had  just  been  made, 
was  overpowered  by  the  odour  of  the  rats 
which  he  keeps  in  the  same  room. 

The  week's  wash  was  hanging  across  the 
apartment,  and  gave  rather  a  slovenly  aspect 
to  the  room,  not  otherwise  peculiar  for  its  un- 
tidyness ;  against  the  wall  were  pasted  some 
children's  "  characters,"  which  his  second  son, 
who  is  at  the  coal-shed,  has  a  taste  for,  and 
which,  as  the  *'  shoreman "  observed,  *'  is 
better  than  sweet-stufiT  for  him,  at  all  events." 


A  little  terrier  was  jumping  playfully  about 
the  room,  a  much  more  acceptable  companion 
than  the  bull-dog  whose  acquaintance  we  had 
been  invited  to  make  (in  the  same  court )  by  the 
"  rat-killer." 

The  fiuTiituTB  and  appointments  of  the 
"parlour"  were  extremely  humble — not  to 
say  meagre  in  their  character.  After  some 
trouble  in  getting  sufficiently  lucid  answers, 
the  following  was  the  result : — 

"  There  ore  not  so  many  rats  about  as  there 
used  to  be  —  not  a  five-hundredth  part  so 
many.  I've  seen  long  ago  twenty  or  thirty  in 
a  row  near  where  the  slaughter-houses  are, 
and  that  like.  I  ketch  them  all  down  the 
shores.  I  run  after  them  and  pick  them  up 
with  my  hand,  and  I  take  my  lantern  with 
me, 

"I  have  caught  rats  these  six  or  seven 
yoars.  When  the  money  got  to  bo  lowered,  I 
took  to  kctching  on  them.  One  time  I  used 
to  take  a  dog  with  me,  when  I  worked  down 
St.  John's-wood  way. 

"  They  fetches  all  prices,  does  rats ;  some  I 
get  threepence  a-pieco  for,  some  twopence, 
some  twopence- halfpenny — 'cordiu'  who  has 
'cm. 

"  I  works  on  the  shores,  and  our  time  to 
leave  oif  is  four.  I  comes  homo  and  gets  my 
tea,  and  if  there's  sale  for  them,  wliy  I  goes 
out  and  ketches  a  few  rats.  When  I  goes  out 
I  can  ketch  a  dozen ;  but,  years  ago,  I  could 
ketch  two  or  three  dozen  without  going  so 
far,  and  that  shows  there's  not  so  many  now 
about 

"I  finds  some  difficulty  in  ketching  on 
them.  If  they  gct«  into  the  drain  you  can't 
get  'cm.  Where  the  drains  lay  low  to  the 
shore  it's  most  difficult,  but  where  the  drain 
is  about  two  feet  and  a-half  from  the  shore 
you  gets  a  better  chance. 

"  Three  or  four  dozen  I  used  to  ketch,  but 
I  haven't  ketched  any  this  last  two  or  three 
weeks.  In  this  hot  weather  people  don't  like 
to  be  in  a  room  where  *  killing  '  is  going  on  ; 
but  in  the  winter  time  a  man  will  have  his 
pint  of  beer  and  see  a  little  sport  that  way. 
Three  or  four  year  ago  I  did  ketch  a  pood 
many ;  there  was  a  ssde  for  'em.  I  could  go 
and  ketch  two  dozen  in  three  hours,  and  that 
sooner  than  I  can  do  a  dozen  now.  It's  vai'- 
mint  as  wants  to  be  destroyed. 

"  Rats'U  turn  round  when  they  finds  their- 
selves  beat,  and  sometimes  fiy  at  your  hand. 
Sometimes  Fve  got  bit — not  very  badly, 
though.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  like  it 
When  they  grip,  they  do  holt  so  tight  before 
they'll  let  go. 

•*  I've  been  a  shoreman  these  fifteen  or  six- 
teen year,  ever  since  this  flushing  com- 
menced. I  was  put  on  by  the  Commissioners 
in  Hatting  OanUng ;  but  the  Commissioners 
is  all  done  away  with  since  Government  took 
to  it  Tm  employed  by  the  parish  now. 
Every  parish  has  to  do  its  own  flushing. 

**  We  cleanses  away  all  the  soil  what's  down 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


21 


bcloir,  and  keeps  the  shore  as  sweet  as  what 
mpofisihly  can. 

''Before  I  took  to  this  life  I  was  what  they 
cdl  a  nsTTy ;  I  used  to  help  to  make  the 
Bfaores,  and  before  that,  I  was  in  the  country 
•t  funaersr  work. 

^  Ketching  them  rats  ain't  all  profit,  'cause 
you  ha^e  to  keep  'em  and  feed  'em.  I've 
some  here,  if  I  was  to  get  sixpence  a-piece 
for,  why  it  wouldn't  pay  me  for  their  feed.  I 
give  them  barley  generally,  and  hits  of  bread. 
**  There's  a  many  about  now  ketchin'  who 
does  nothink  else,  and  who  goes  down  in  the 
shores  when  they  have  no  busineA  there  at 
tIL  They  does  well  by  rats  when  they've 
good  call  for  'em.  They  can  go  down  two  or 
three  times  a-day,  and  ketch  a  dozen  and  a 
half  a  time ;  but  they  can't  do  much  now, 
there's  no  killing  going  on.  They  takes  'em 
to  beer-shops,  and  sells  'em  to  the  landlords, 
who  gets  their  own  price  for  ^m  if  there's  a 
piL 

"  Time  ago  yon  couldn't  get  a  rat  under 
iizpence.  But  the  tax  on  dogs  has  done 
svay  wonderful  with  rat-killing.  London 
would  swarm  with  rats  if  they  hadn't  been 
ketched  as  they  has  been.  I  can  go  along 
shores  and  only  see  one  or  two  now,  some- 
tuues  see  none.  Times  ago  I've  drove 
away  twenty  or  thirty  afore  me.  Bound 
Newport-market  I've  seen  a  hundred  together, 
and  now  I  go  round  there  and  perhaps  won't 
ketch  one. 

^As  for  pcisonin*  'em  under  buildings, 
that's  wrong;  they're  sure  to  lay  there  and 
rot,  and  then  they  smells  so.  No,  pisoning 
a'n't  no  good,  specially  where  there's  many  on 
'em. 

^'  I've  sold  Jack  Black  a  good  many.  He 
dont  ketch  so  many  as  he  gets  lolled.  He's 
what  they  call  rat-ketoher  to  her  Majesty. 

''When  I  goes  rat- ketching,  I  generally 
takes  a  bag  with  me ;  a  trap  is  too  much  to 
log  about. 

**  Some  parts  of  the  shores  I  can  find  my 
way  about  better  than  I  can  up  above.  I 
could  get  in  nigh  here  and  come  out  at  High 
Park;  only  the  worst  of  it  is,  you're  always  on 
the  stoop.  I  never  heeid  talk  of  anybody 
losing  theirselves  in  the  shores,  but  a  stranger 
might. 

**  There's  some  what  we  calls  '  gully-hun- 
ters'  as  goes  about  with  a  sieve,  and  near  the 
J   gratings  find  perhaps  a  few  ha'pence.     Years 
{   igo  we  used  to  find  a  little  now  and  then,  but 
j   Te  may  go  about  now  and  not  find  twopence  in 
I   s  vcek  I  dont  think  any  shoreman  ever  finds 
Bnidb.    But  years  ago,  in  the  city,  perhaps  a 
<   lobboy  might  be  committed,  and  then  Uiey 
I  ttffkt  be  afhud  of  being  found  out,  and  chuck 
tht  things  down  the  drains. 

"I  eome  from.  Oxfordshire,  about  four  miles 

to  HeoIey-'pon-Thames.  I  haven't  got  now 

fiDte  so  manj  clods  to  tramp  over,  nor  so 

&IBT  hills  to  <dixnb. 

I     "f  gets  two  shUlings  a-dozen  if  I  sells  the 

I 


rats  to  a  dealer,  but  if  I  takes  'em  to  the  pit 
myself  I  gets  three  shillings.  Bats  has  come 
down  lately.  There's  more  pits,  and  they 
kills  'em  cheaper ;  they  used  to  kill  'em  at  six 
shillings  a-dozen. 

"  I've  got  five  children.  These  here  are 
not  all  belonging  to  me.  Their  mother's 
gone  out  a-nussing,  and  my  wife's  got  to  mind 
'em. 

"  My  oldest  son  is  sixteen.  He's  off  for  a 
sailor.  I  had  him  on  me  for  two  years  doin' 
nothink.  He  couldn't  get  a  place,  and  to- 
wards the  last  he  didn't  care  about  it.  He 
tpould  go  to  sea ;  so  he  went  to  the  Marine 
School,  and  now  he's  in  the  East  Ingy  Sarv-ice. 
My  second  is  at  a  coal-shed.  He  gets  three 
shillings  a-week;  but.  Lord,  what's  that?  He 
eats  more  than  that,  let  alone  clothes,  and  he 
wears  out  such  a  lot  of  shoe-leather.  There's 
a  good  deal  of  wear  and  tear,  I  can  tell  yer,  in 
carrying  out  coals  and  such-like." 

The  Penny  Mouse-tbap  Makeb. 

This  man  lived  in  a  small  cottage  at  the 
back  of  Bethnal  Green-road,  and  the  little 
ndled  space  in  front  of  the  humble  dwelling 
was  Uttered  with  sundxy  evidences  of  the  in- 
mate's ingenuity.  Here  was  a  mechanical 
carriage  the  crippled  father  had  made  to  drivo 
himself  along,  and  a  large  thaumatrope,  or 
disc  of  painted  figures,  that  seemed  to  move 
while  revolving  rapidly  before  the  eye;  and 
this,  I  afterwards  learnt,  the  ingenious  cripple 
had  made,  as  a  street  exhibition,  for  a  poor 
man,  whom  he  was  anxious  to  put  in  the  way 
of  doing  something  for  himself. 

The  principal  apartment  in  the  little  two- 
roomed  house  was  blocked  up  with  carpenters' 
benches,  and  long  planks  were  resting  against 
the  wall,  while  the  walls  themselves  were  partly 
covered  with  tools  and  patterns  of  the  craft 
pursued ;  and  in  one  corner  there  were  heaps  of 
the  penny  mouse-traps  and  penny  iponey-boxes, 
that  formed  the  main  articles  of  manufacture. 

In  a  little  room  adjoining  this,  and  about  the 
size  of  a  hen-house,  I  found  the  cripple  him- 
self in  bed,  but  still  sitting  up  with  a  small 
desk-like  bench  before  him,  and  engaged  in  the 
act  of  cutting  and  arranging  the  wires  for  the 
little  wooden  traps  in  which  he  dealt.  And  as 
I  sat  by  his  bedside  he  told  me  the  following 
story : — 

*'  I  am,"  he  said,  **  a  white-wood  toy-maker, 
in  a  small  way ;  that  is,  I  make  a  variety  of 
cheap  articles, — nothing  beyond  a  penny, — in 
sawed  and  planed  pine- wood.  I  manufac- 
ture penny  and  halfpenny  money-boxes, 
penny  and  nal^enny  toy  bellows,  penny  carts, 
penny  garden-rollers,  penny  ana  halfpenny 
dolls'  tables  and  washhand-stands,  chiefly 
for  baby-houses ;  penny  dressers,  with  drawers, 
for  the  some  purpose;  penny  wheelbarrows 
and  bedsteads;  penny  crossbows;  and  the 
mouse-trap  that  I  am  about  now.  I  make  all 
the  things  I  have  named  for  warehouses — for 


23 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


what  are  called  the  cheap  Birmingham  and 
Sheffield  houses.  I  am  paid  the  same  price 
for  whatever  I  make,  with  the  exception  of 
the  moose-trap.  For  the  principal  part  of 
tlic  penny  articles  that  I  make  I  get  7s. 
for  twelve  dozen,  that  is  Id.  a -dozen; 
and  for  the  halfpenny  articles  I  get  d«.  Qd,^ 
at  the  rate  of  ^\d,  a-dozen.  For  the  penny 
mouse-traps,  however,  I  am  paid  only  1/.  for 
thirty-six  dozen,  and  tiiat's  a  shilling  less  than 
I  get  for  the  same  quantity  of  the  other 
shming  articles ;  whilst  for  tie  penny  boxes 
I'm  paid  only  at  the  rate  of  a  halfpenny  each. 
'*  You  will  please  to  look  at  that,  sir,"  he  said, 
hon<ling  me  his  account-book  wiUi  one  of  his 
employers  for  the  last  year ;  "  you  will  see 
there  that  what  I  am  saying  is  perfectly  cor- 
rect, for  there  is  the  price  put  to  every  article ; 
and  it  is  but  right  that  you  should  have  proof 
that  what  I'm  a-telling  you  is  the  truth.  I 
took  of  one  master,  for  penny  mouse-traps 
alone,  you  perceive,  36/.  10».  from  January  to 
December,  1B49;  but  that  is  not  all  gain, 
you'll  understand.  Out  of  that  I  have  to  pay 
above  one  half  for  material.  I  think,  altoge- 
ther, my  receipts  of  the  different  masters  I 
worked  for  last  year  came  to  about  120/. — I 
can't  lay  my  hands  on  the  bills  just  now. — 
Yes,  it's  about  120/.  I  know,  for  our  income, — 
that  is,  my  clear  gains  is  about  1/.  to  1/.  5«. 
every  week.  So,  calculating  more  than  one 
half  what  I  take  to  go  for  the  expense  for  ma. 
terial,  that  will  bring  it  to  just  about  to  what 
I  state.  To  cam  the  25s.  a- week,  you'll  under- 
Htimd,  there  are  four  of  us  engaged, — myself, 
my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  son.  My  daugh- 
ter is  eighteen,  and  my  son  eleven  :  that  is  my 
boy,  sir ;  he's  reading  the  Family  Friend  just 
now.  It's  a  little  work  I  take  in  for  my  girl, 
for  her  fdture  benefit  My  girl  is  as  fond  of 
reading  as  I  am,  and  always  was.  My  boy 
goes  to  school  every  evening,  and  twice  on  a 
Sunday.  I  am  willing  that  they  should  find 
as  much  pleasure  fVom  reading  as  I  have  in  my 
ilhiess.  I  found  books  often  luH  my  pain. 
Yes,  I  have,  indeed,  for  many  hours.  For 
nine  months  I  couldn't  handle  a  tool ;  and  my 
only  comfort  was  the  love  of  my  family,  and 
my  books.  I  can't  affbrd  them  now,  for  I  have 
no  wish  to  incur  any  extraneous  expense, 
while  the  weight  of  the  labour  lies  on  my 
family  more  than  it  does  on  myself.  Over 
and  over  again,  when  I  have  been  in  acute 
pain  with  my  thigh,  a  scientific  book,  or  a 
work  on  history,  or  a  volume  of  travels,  would 
carry  m^  thoughts  fhr  away,  and  I  should  be 
happy  in  all  my  miseiy — hardly  conscious 
that  I  had  a  trouble,  a  care,  or  a  pang  to  vex 
mo.  I  always  had  love  of  solid  woi^.  For 
an  hour's  light  reading,  I  have  often  turned  to 
a  work  of  imagination,  such  as  Milton's  Para- 
dise  Lostt  and  Shakspeare's  Plays ;  but  I  pre- 
fer science  to  poetry.  I  think  every  working 
man  ought  to  be  acquainted  with  genend 
science.  If  he  is  a  mechanic — let  his  station 
be  over  so  simple^ — he  will  be  sure  to  find  the  I 


benefit  of  it  It  gives  a  man  a  greater  insight 
into  the  world  and  creation,  and  it  makes  his 
labour  a  pleasure  and  a  pride  to  him,  when  he 
can  work  with  his  head  as  well  as  his  hands. 
I  think  I  have  made,  altogether,  about  one 
hundred  and  six  gross  of  mouse-traps  for  the 
master  whose  account  I  have  given  you,  and 
as  many  more  for  other  employers,  in  the 
course  of  the  last  year.  I  calculate  that  I  made 
more  than  thirty  thousand  mouse-traps  from 
January  to  December,  1849.  There  are  three 
or  four  other  people  i&  London  making  penny 
mouse-traps,  besides  myself.  I  reckon  they  may 
make  omonff  them  near  upon  half  as  many  oe 
I  do ;  and  tnat  would  give  about  forty- five  or 
fifty  thousand  penny  mouse-traps  made  in 
London  in  the  course  of  the  year.  I  myself 
brought  out  the  penny  mouse-trap  in  its  im- 
proved  shape,  and  with  the  improved  lever 
spring.  I  have  no  calculations  as  to  the  num- 
ber of  mice  in  the  country,  or  how  soon  we 
should  have  caught  them  if  we  go  on  at  this 
rate ;  but  I  think  my  traps  have  to  do  with  that 
They  are  bought  more  for  toys  than  for  use, 
though  they  are  good  for  mice  as  well  as  chil- 
dren ;  and  though  we  have  so  many  dozen  mouse* 
traps  about  the  house,  I  can  assure  you  we  are 
more  troubled  with  mice  here  than  most  people. 
The  four  of  us  here  can  make  twenty-four 
dozen  traps  in  the  day,  but  that  is  all  we  can 
get  through  comfortable.  For  eighteen  dozen 
we  got  about  10«.  at  the  warehouse,  and  out  of 
that  I  reckon  our  clear  gains  are  near  upon 
4«.,  or  a  little  less  than  Is.  a  head.  Take  one 
¥ath  the  other,  we  con  earn  about  a  penny  an 
hour;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  me  having  been  a 
tailor  originally,  and  applying  some  of  my  old 
tools  to  the  business,  we  shouldn't  get  on 
so  quick  as  we  do.  With  my  shears  I  can 
cut  twenty-four  wires  at  a  time,  and  with  my 
thimble  I  thread  the  wires  through  the  holes 
in  the  sides.  I  make  the  springs,  out  the 
wires,  and  put  them  in  the  traps.  My  daughter 
planes  the  wood  and  gauges  out  the  sides  and 
bottom,  bores  the  wire-holes  and  makes  the 
door  as  well.  My  wife  nails  the  frames  ready 
for  wiring,  and  my  son  fixes  the  wires  in  their 
places  when  I  have  entered  them ;  then  the 
wife  springs  them,  after  which  the  daughter 
puts  in  the  doors  and  so  completes  them. 
I  can't  form  an  idea  as  to  how  many  penny 
and  halfpenny  money-boxes  I  made  last  year. 
I  might  have  made,  altogether,  eight  thousand, 
or  five  thousand  hal4>enny  and  three  thousand 
I>enny  ones.  I  was  originally  brought  up  to 
the  tailoring  business,  but  my  master  failed, 
and  my  sight  kept  growing  weaker  every  year ; 
so,  OS  I  found  a  good  deal  of  trouble  in  getting 
employment  at  my  own  trade,  I  thought  1  would 
take  to  the  bird-cage  making — I  had  been  doing 
a  little  at  it  before,  as  a  pastime.  I  was  fond  of 
birds,  and  fonder  still  of  mechanics,  so  I  was 
always  practising  my  hands  at  some  croft  or 
other  in  my  over-time.  I  used  to  make 
dissected  maps  and  puzzles,  and  so,  when 
standing  for  employment,  I  managed  to  get 


LONDON  LABQUM  AND  THE  LONJXON  POOR. 


23 


thioiic^  the  slaek  of  the  year.  I  think  it  is 
Kdely  due  to  my  taste  for  meehanics  and  my 
kne  of  roMiiDg  scientific  books  that  I  am  able 
to  li^pe  so  eonkfortably  as  I  do  in  ny  affliction. 
After  I  took  to  bird-cage  makiag,  I  fbund  the 
empkysMBBt  et  it  so  csstud  that  I  could  not 
iiijpfml»  »x  fiamily  at  it.  This  kd  my  mind  to 
toy  maka^.  Ux  I  found  that  cheap  toys  were 
arttdea  of  move  general  sale.  Then  I  got 
my  childieB  and  toj  wiJfe  to  help  me,  and 
ira  BMBa^^  to  get  along  somehow,  for  you 
see  th^  Here  leaiaing  the  bnsiness,  and  I 
myself  was  not  m  ma6bi  of  a  condition  to 
teach  them,  being  jalmost  as  inezpenenced  at 
the  trade  as  they  were;  and,  besides  that,  we 
were  cooUnoally  changing  the  description  of 
toy  that  we  manofiKtured,  so  we  had  no  time 
to  perfect  oorselTes.  One  day  we  were  all  at 
work  at  garden-rollers ;  the  next,  perhaps,  we 
sbould  be  apon  little  carts ;  then,  may-be,  we 
shoold  hare  to  go  to  dolls'  tables  or  wheel- 
barrows :  so  that,  with  the  continiial  changing 
the  deteription  of  toy  that  we  manufactured 
fiom  one  thing  to  another,  we  had  a  great 
diffien^y  in  getting  {practised  in  anything. 
While  we  were  all  leaning  you  may  imagine 
that,  not  being  so  qnick  then  as  we  are  now, 
we  finmd  a  great  diffioolty  in  making  a  living 
at  the  penny-toy  hoaineas :  often  we  had  merely 
diy  bread  for  breakftat,  tea,  and  sapper,  but  we 
ate  it  with  a  light  hearty  fbr  I  knew  repining 
wouldn't  mend  it,  and  I  always  taught  myself 
and  thoaa  aboot  me  to  hear  our  trials  with 
fortitude.  At  last  I  got  to  work  regularly  at 
the  mouse-traps,  and  having  less  changing  we 
learnt  to  turn  them  out  of  hand  quicker,  and 
to  make  more  money  at  the  buainesa :  that 
waa  about  four  yean  ago^  and  then  I  was  laid 
up  with  a  strumous  abscess  in  the  thigh. 
This  caused  necrosis,  or  decay  of  the  thigh- 
bone, to  take  place,  and  it  was  necessary  that 
I  should  be  coaJftned  to  my  bed  until  such 
time  as  a  new  thigh-bone  was  formed,  and  the 
old  decayed  one  had  sloughed  away.  Before 
I  lay  up  I  stood  at  the  bench  until  I  was  ready 
to  ^x)p,  for  I  had  no  one  who  could  plane  the 
boards  for  me;  and  whatcould  I  do?  If  I  didn't 
keep  up.  I  thought  we  should  all  starve.    The 

rin  was  dreadful,  and  the  anxiety  of  mind 
■nffifred  for  my  wife  and  children  made  it 
a  thousand  times  worse.  I  couldn't  bear  the 
idea  of  going  to  the  workhouse,  and  I  kept  on 
my  feet  until  I  couldn't  stand  no  longer.  My 
dnighter  was  only  sixteen  then,  and  I  saw  no 
means  of  escape.  It  was  at  that  time  my  office 
to  prepare  the  boards  for  my  &niily,  and  with- 
OBt  that  they  could  do  nothing.  Well,  sir, 
I  saw  utter  ruin  and  starvation  before  us. 
The  doctor  told  me  it  would  take  four  years 
bc&te  a  new  bone  would  be  formed,  and  that 
I  must  lay  up  all  the  while.  What  was  to 
beeome  of  us  all  in  the  mean  time  I  could  not 
tdL  Then  it  was  that  my  daughter,  seeing 
the  pain  •!  saflered  both  in  body  and  mind, 
finaa  to  me*  ^aid  told  me  not  to  grieve,  for  that 
ibs  vvMiki  do  all  the  heavy  work  for  me,  and 


plane  up  the  boards  and  cut  out  the  work  as 
I  had  done ;  but  I  thought  it  impossible  for 
her  to  get  through  such  hard  work,  even  for 
my  sakck.  I  knew  she  could  do  almost  any- 
thing that  she.  set  her  mind  to,  but  I  little 
dreamt  that  she  would  be  able  to  compass  that. 
However,  with  the  instinct  of  her  affection — 
I  can't  call  it  anything  else  (for  she  loamt  at 
once  what  it  had  taken  me  months  to  acquire), 
she  planed  and  shaped  the  boards  as  well  as 
I  myself  could  have  done  after  years  of  practice. 
The  furst  board  she  did  was  as  cleanly  done  as 
she  can  do  it  now,  and  when  you  t^^ink  of  the 
difficulties  she  had  to  overcome,  what  a  mere 
child  she  was,  and  that  she  hod  ne\or  handled 
a  plane  before,  how  she  had  the  grain  of  the 
wood  to  find  out,  to  learn  the  right  handling 
of  her  tools,  and  a  many  little  niceties  of  touch 
that  workmen  only  can  understand,  it  does 
seem  to  me  as  if  some  superior  Power  had 
inspired  her  to  aid  me.  I  have  often  heard  of 
birds  building  their  nests  of  the  most  beautiful 
structure,  wimout  ever  having  seen  one  built 
before,  and  my  daughter's  handiwork  seemed 
to  me  exactly  like  that  It  was  a  thing  not 
learnt  by  practice,  but  done  in  an  instant, 
without  teaching  or  experience  of  any  kind. 
She  is  the  best  creature  I  ever  knew  or  ever 
heard  tell  of  on  earth — at  least,  so  she  has 
been  to  me  all  her  life ;  aye,  without  a  single 
exception.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  devotion 
I  must  have  gone  to  the  workhouse,  and 
perhaps  never  been  able  to  have  got  away 
nrom  it,  and  had  my  children  brought  up  as 
paux>ers.  Where  she  got  the  strength  to  do  it 
is  as  much  a  mystery  to  me  as  how  she  did 
it.  Though  she  was  but  a  mere  child,  so  to 
speak,  she  did  the  work  of  a  grown  man,  and 
I  ossiure  you  the  labour  of  working  at  the 
bench  all  day  is  heavy,  even  for  the  strongest 
workman,  and  my  girl  is  not  over-strong  now ; 
indeed  she  was  always  delicate  from  a  baby: 
nevertheless  she  went  through  the  labour,  and 
would  stand  to  the  bench  the  whole  of  the  day, 
and  with  such  cheerful  good  humour  too  that 
I  cannot  but  see  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  in 
it  all.  I  never  knew  her  to  complain  of  fatigue, 
or  ever  go  to  her  work  without  a  smile  on  her 
face.  Her  only  anxiety  was  to  get  done,  and 
to  afford  me  every  comfort  in  my  affliction  that 
she  could.  For  three  years  and  two  months 
now  have  I  been  confined  to  my  bed,  and  for 
two  years  and  a  half  of  that  time  I  have  not 
left  it,  even  to .  breathe  the  fresh  open  air. 
/Umost  all  that  period  I  have  been  suffering 
intense  and  continued  pain  from  the  formation 
of  abscesses  in  my  thigh  previous  to  the  sloilgh- 
ing  away  of  the  decayed  bones.  1  have  taken 
out  of  the  sores  at  least  two  hundred  pieces, 
some  OS  small  as  needles  and  somo  not  less 
than  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  which  required 
to  be  pulled  out  with  tweezers  from  the  wound. 
Often,  when  1  was  getting  a  bit  better  and  able 
to  go  about  in  the  cart  you  see  Uiere  outside, 
with  tlie  gravel  in  it —  (I  made  that  on  this  bed 
here,  so  as  to  be  able  to  move  about  on  it  {  the 


24 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


two  front  wheels  I  made  myself,  and  the  two 
back  were  old  ones  that  I  repaired  here.  I  made 
the  whole  of  tlio  body,  and  my  daughter  planed 
up  the  boards  for  me) — well,  often  when  I  could 
juHt  get  along  in  that,  have  I  gone  about  with 
a  large  piece  of  decayed  bone  projecting  through 
my  thigh,  in  hopes  that  tliejolting  would  force 
it  through  the  wound.  The  pain  before  the 
bone  came  away  was  often  intense,  especially 
when  it  had  to  work  its  way  tlirough  the  thick 
of  the  muscle.  Night  after  night  have  I  laid 
awake  here.  I  didn't  wish,  of  course,  to  distress 
the  minds  of  my  family  any  more  than  I  could 
help.  It  would  not  have  been  fair ;  so  I  bore 
all  with  patience,  and  since  I  have  been  here 
I  have  got  through  a  great  deal  of  work  in  my 
little  way.  Tn  bed,  as  I  sit  with  my  little 
bench,  I  do  my  sliaro  of  eight  dozen  of  these 
penny  traps  a-day.  Lost  August  I  made  a 
'  thaumatropu '  for  a  young  man  that  I  had 
known  since  a  lad  of  twelve  years  of  age ;  he 
got  off  work  and  couldn't  find  anything  to  turn 
his  hand  to,  so  I  advised  him  to  get  up  an 
exliibition :  anything  was  better  than  starving, 
lie  had  a  wife  and  two  children,  and  I  can't 
bear  to  see  any  one  wont,  let  alone  the  yoimg 
ones ;  and  so,  cripple  as  I  was,  I  set  to  work 
hero  in  my  bed  and  made  him  a  large  set  of 
magic  circles.  I  painted  all  the  figures  myself 
in  this  place,  though  I  had  never  handled  a 
brush  before,  and  that  has  kept  him  in  bread 
up  to  tliis  time.  I  did  it  to  cause  him  to 
exert  himself,  but  now  he  has  got  a  situation, 
and  is  doing  middling  to  what  he  has  been  : 
there's  one  thing  though,  a  little  money,  with 
care,  will  go  farther  than  a  great  deal  with- 
out it.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  about  as 
I  used,  for  you  see  the  knee  is  set  stifi*  and  the 
thigh-bone  is  arched  with  the  hip,  so  that  the 
one  leg  is  tlireo  inches  shorter  than  the  other. 
The  bone  broke  spontaneously,  like  a  bit  of 
rotten  wood,  the  other  day,  while  I  was  rubbing 
my  hand  down  my  thigh,  and  in  growing  to- 
gether again  it  got  out  of  straight.  I  am  just 
able  to  stir  about  now  with  a  crutch  and  stick. 
I  can  sometimes  treat  myself  to  a  walk  about 
the  house  and  yard,  but  that  is  not  often,  and 
last  Saturday  niglit  I  did  make  a  struggle  to 
get  out  in  the  Bcthnal  Green-road,  and  there, 
as  I  was  coming  along,  my  stick  tripped  against 
a  stone  and  I  fell.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
crutch  throwing  me  forward,  I  might  have 
fallen  on  my  new  bone  and  broken  it  again. 
But  as  it  was,  the  crutch  threw  me  forward  and 
saved  me.  My  doctor  tells  me  my  new  bone 
would  bear  a  blow,  but  I  shouldn't  like  to  try 
after  all  I  have  gone  tlirougli.  I  shall  not  be 
about  again  till  I  get  my  carriage  done,  and 
that  I  intend  to  construct  so  as  to  drive  it 
with  one  hand,  by  means  of  a  new  ratchet 
lever  motion." 

The  daughter  of  the  toy-maker,  with  whom 
I  spoke  afterwards,  and  who  was  rather  •*  good- 
looking,"  in  the  hteral  sense  of  the  word,  than 
beautiful,  said  that  she  could  not  describe  how  I 
it  was  that  she  had  learnt  to  plane  and  gauge  I 


the  boards.  It  seemed  to  come  to  her  all  of 
a  sudden  >- quite  natural-like,  she  told  me  ; 
though,  she  added,  it  was  most  likely  her 
afiiection  for  her  poor  father  that  made  her 
take  to  it  so  quick.  *'  I  felt  it  deeply"  she  said, 
**  to  see  him  take  to  his  bed,  and  knew  that 
I  alone  could  save  him  from  the  workhouM. 
No !  I  never  felt  tired  over  the  work,"  she  con- 
tinued, in  answer  to  my  questions,  "  because 
I  know  that  it  is  to  make  him  comfortable." 

I  should  add,  that  I  was  first  taken  to  tliis 
man  by  the  surgeon  who  attended  him  during 
his  long  sufitering,  and  that  gentleman  not  only 
ftilly  corroborated  all  I  heard  from  his  in- 
genious and  heroic  patient,  but  spoke  in  the 
highest  possible  terms  of  Jt>oth  father  and 
daughter. 

Flies. 

These  winged  tormentors  are  not,  like  most  of 
our  apterous  enemies,  calculated  to  excite  dis- 
gust and  nausea  when  we  see  or  speak  of 
them;  nor  do  they  usually  steal  upon  us 
during  the  silent  hours  of  repose  (though  the 
gnat  or  mosquito  must  be  here  excepted),  but 
are  many  of  them  very  beautiful,  and  boldly 
make  their  attack  upon  us  in  open  day,  when 
we  are  best  able  to  defend  ourselves. 

The  active  fly,  so  frequently  an  unbidden 
guest  at  your  table  (Slouflet,  50),  wliosc 
delicate  palate  selects  your  choicest  viands,  at 
one  time  extending  his  proboscis  to  the  margin 
of  a  drop  of  wine,  and  then  gaily  flying  to  take 
a  more  solid  repast  from  a  pear  or  a  peach— 
now  gambolling  with  his  comrades  in  the  air, 
now  gracefully  carrying  his  furled  wings  "with 
his  taper  feet — ^was  but  the  other  dny  a  ilis- 
gusting  grub,  without  wmgs,  without  legs, 
without  eyes,  wallowing,  well  pleased,  in  the 
midst  of  a  mass  of  excrement. 

"The  common  house-fly,"  says  Kirby,  "is 
with  us  sufficiently  annoying  at  the  close  of 
simimer,  so  as  to  have  led  the  celebrated  Italian 
Ugo  Foscolo,  when  residing  here,  to  call  it  one 
of  the  *  three  miseries  of  bfe.' "  But  we  know 
nothing  of  it  as  a  tormentor,  compared  with 
the  inhabitants  of  southern  Eiurope,  "  I  met," 
says  Arthur  Young,  in  his  interesting  Travels 
through  F/awce,  between  Pradelles  and  Thurjtz, 
"  mulberries  and  flies  at  the  same  time.  By 
the  term/i>«,  I  mean  tliose  myriads  of  them 
which  form  the  most  disagreeable  circum- 
stances of  the  southern  climates.  They  are 
the  first  torments  in  Spain,  Italy,  and  the  olive 
district  of  France;  it  is  not  that  they  bite, 
sting,  or  hurt,  but  they  buzz,  teaze,  and  worrj' ; 
your  mouth,  eyes,  ears,  and  nose  are  full  of 
them:  they  swarm  on  every  eatable — fruit, 
sugar,  everything  is  attacked  by  them  in  such 
myriads,  that  if  they  are  not  incessantly  driven 
away  by  a  person  who  has  nothing  else  to  do, 
to  eat  a  meal  is  impossible.  They  are,  ho^v- 
ever,  caught  on  prepared  pai>er,  and  other 
contrivances,  with  so  much  ease  and  in  such 
quantities,  that  were  it  not  for  negligence  thoy 


JACK  BLACK,  HER  MAJESTY'S  RATCATCHER. 


?M!»^V.  ^ 


LOKDOlf  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


25 


ooiild  not  abonnd  in  iiieli  mcredible  quantities. 
If  I  farmed  in  these  countnes,  I  should  manure 
four  or  ftre  acres  eyefyjear  with  dead  flies.  I 
have  been  much  surprised  that  the  learned 
Mr.  Harmer  should  think  it  odd  to  find,  by 
writers  who  treated  of  southern  climates,  that 
driving  awaj  flies  was  of  importance.  Had  he 
been  with  me  in  Spain  and  in  Languedoc  in  July 
and  August,  he  would  have  been  very  far  from 
thinking  there  was  anything  odd  in  it." — 
i^Yomnfi  TrmeU  im  France,  L  208.) 

It  is  a  remarkable,  and,  as  yet,  unexplained 
fact,  that  if  nets  of  thread  or  string,  with 
meshes  a  full  inch  square,  be  stretehnl  orer 
the  open  windows  of  a  room  in  summer  or 
autumn,  when  flies  are  the  greatest  nuisance, 
not  a  single  one  will  venture  to  enter  from 
without ;  so  that  by  this  simple  plan,  a  house 
may  be  kept  free  from  these  pests,  while  the 
aJjoining  ones  which  have  not  had  nets  applied 
to  their  windows  will  swarm  with  them.  In 
order,  however,  that  the  protection  should  be 
eflident,  it  is  neoessarv  that  the  rooms  to 
which  it  is  applied  should  have  the  hght  enter 
by  one  side  only;  for  in  those  which  have  a 
thorough  light,  the  flies,  strange  to  say,  pass 
tliroagh  the  meshes  without  scruple. 

For  a  Ailler  account  of  these  singular  facts, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  a  paper  by  W.  Spence, 
in  Trans,  Bnt.  Soe,  vol.  i.  p.  J,  and  also  to  one 
in  the  same  work  by  the  Bev.  £.  Stanley,  late 
Lord  Bishop  of  Norwieh,  who,  having  made 
some  of  the  experiments  suggested  by  Mr. 
Spence,  found  that  by  extending  over  the  out. 
side  of  his  windows  nets  of  a  very  fine  pack- 
thread, with  meshes  one  inch  and  a  quarter  to 
the  square,  so  fine  and  comparatively  invisible 
that  there  was  no  apparent  diminution  either 
of  Ught  or  the  distant  view,  he  waa  enabled 
for  the  remainder  of  the  summer  and  autumn 
to  enjoy  the  fresh  air  with  open  windows, 
without  the  annoyance  he  had  previously  ex- 
perienced from  the  intrusion  of  flies— often  so 
troublesome  that  he  was  obliged  on  the  hottest 
days  to  forego  the  luxury  of  admitting  the  air 
by  even  partially  raising  the  sashes. 

"  But  no  sooner,"  he  observes,  "  had  I  set 
my  nets  than  I  was  relieved  frt)m  my  disagree- 
able  visitors.  I  could  perceive  and  hear  them 
hovering  on  the  other  side  of  my  barriers ;  but 
though  they  now  and  then  settled  on  the 
meshes,  I  do  not  recollect  a  single  instance  of 
one  venturing  to  cross  the  boundary." 

'*Thenumberof  house.flies,''he  adds, ''might 
be  gTMtly  lessened  in  large  towns,  if  the  stable- 
dung  in  which  their  larvn  are  chiefly  supposed 
to  feed  were  kept  in  pits  closed  by  trap-doors, 
so  that  the  females  could  not  deposit  their 
eggs  in  it.  At  Venice,  where  no  horses  axe 
kept,  it  is  said  there  are  no  house-flies;  a 
statement  which  I  regret  not  having  heard 
before  being  there,  that  I  mig^t  have  inquired 
as  to  ite  truth.- — {Kirby  and  SpeneeTi  EnUm, 
L  102,  8.) 

This  short  account  of  flies  would  be  ineom-, 
plete  without  a  desoxiption  of  their  mode  of 


proeeeding  when  they  regale  themselves  upon 
a  piece  of  loaf-sugar,  and  an  account  of  the 
apparatus  with  which  the  Creator  haa  furnished 
them  in  order  to  enable  them  to  walk  on 
bodies  possenung  smooth  surfaces,  and  in  any 
position. 

"  It  is  aremark*  which  will  be  found  to  hold 
good,  both  in  animals  and  vegetables,  that  no 
impcnrtant  motion  or  feeling  can  take  place 
without  the  presence  of  moisture.  In  man, 
the  part  of  the  eye  which  is  the  seat  of  vision 
is  always  bedewed  with  moisture ;  the  skin  is 
softened  with  a  delicate  oil ;  the  sensitive  port 
of  the  ear  is  filled  with  a  liquid;  but  moisture 
is  still  more  abundant  in  our  organs  of  taste 
and  smell  than  in  any  of  the  other  senses.  In 
the  case  of  taste,  moisture  is  supplied  to  oiur 
mouth  and  tongue  from  sevend  reservoirs 
(glands)  in  their  neighbourhood,  whence  pipes 
are  laid  aod  run  to  the  mouth.  The  whole 
surface,  indeed,  of  the  mouth  and  tongue,  as 
well  as  the  other  internal  parts  of  our  body, 
give  out  more  or  less  moisture;  but  besides 
this,  the  month,  aa  we  have  just  mentioned, 
has  a  number  of  fountains  expressly  for  its  own 
use.  The  largest  of  these  fountains  lies  as 
fSur  o£f  aa  the  ear  on  each  side,  and  is  formed 
of  a  great  number  of  round,  soft  bodies,  abottt 
the  size  of  garden-peas,  from  each  of  which  a 
pipe  goes  out,  and  all  ofthese  uniting  together, 
form  a  common  channel  on  each  side.  This 
runs  across  the  cheek,  nearly  in  a  line  with  the 
lap  of  the  ear  and  the  comer  of  the  mouth,  and 
enters  the  mouth  opposite  to  the  second  or 
third  of  the  double  teeth  {molares)  by  a  hole, 
into  which  a  hog's  bristle  can  be  introduced. 
There  are,  besides,  several  other  pairs  of  foun- 
tains,  in  different  parts  adj  scent,  for  a  similar 
purpose. 

*'  We  have  been  thus  particular  in  our  de- 
scription, in  order  to  Illustrate  an  analogous 
structure  in  insects,  for  they  also  seem  to  be 
famished  with  solivsry  fountains  for  moisten- 
ing their  organs  of  taste.  One  of  the  circum- 
stances that  first  awakened  our  curiosity  with 
regard  to  insects,  was  the  manner  in  which  a 
fly  contrives  to  suck  up  through  its  narrow 
sucker  {hauMtellum)  a  bit  of  dry  lump-sugor ; 
for  the  small  ciystals  are  not  only  unfitted  to 
pass,  from  their  angularity,  but  adhere  too 
firmly  together  to  be  separated  by  any  force 
the  insect  can  exert.  Eager  to  solve  tlie  diffi- 
culty, for  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  fly's 
sucking  the  dry  sugar,  we  watched  its  proceed- 
ings with  no  httle  attention ;  but  it  was  not 
till  we  fell  upon  the  device  of  placing  some 
sugar  on  the  outside  of  a  window,  while  we 
looked  through  a  magnifying-glass  on  the  in- 
side, that  we  had  the  satisfaction  of  repeatedly 
witnessing  a  fly  let  fall  a  drop  of  fluid  upon 
the  sugar,  in  order  to  melt  it,  and  thereby 
render  it  fit  to  be  sucked  up ;  on  precisely  the 
same  principle  that  we  moisten  with  saliva,  in 
the  process  of  mastication,  a  mouthful  of  dry 

•  ''Insoct  UlKMlUntet,"  p.  U. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


bread,  to  fit  it  for  bein^  swallowed— tlie  action 
of  the  jaws,  by  a  beautiftd  eontrivance  of  Pro- 
vidence, preparing  the  moistore  along  the 
channds  at  the  time  it  is  most  wanted. 
Readers  who  may  be  disposed  to  think  the 
circumstance  of  the  fly  thus  moistening  a  bit 
of  sngar  fandM,  may  readily  verify  the  fact 
themselves  in  the  wi^  we  have  described.  At 
the  time  when  we  made  this  little  experiment, 
we  were  not  aware  that  several  natmralists  of 
high  authority  had  actaally  discovered  by  dis- 
section the  vessels  which  supply  the  saliva  in 
more  than  one  species  of  insect." 

"In  the  case  of  their  drinking  fluids,  like 
water,  saliva  is  not  wanted;  and  it  may  be 
remarked,  when  we  drink  cold  water  it  ac- 
tuaUy  astringes  and  shuts  up  the  openings  of 
the  salivary  pipes.  Hence  it  is  that  drinking 
does  not  quench  thirst  when  the  saliva  is 
rendered  viscid  and  scanty  by  heat,  by  fatigue, 
or  by  tlie  use  of  stimulant  food  and  liquor ; 
and  sometimes  a  draught  of  cold  water,  by 
carrying  off  all  the  saliva  from  the  mouth,  and 
at  the  same  time  astringing  the  orifices  of  the 
ducts,  may  actually  produce  thirst.  Ices  pro- 
duce  this  effect  on  many  persons.  It  is,  no 
doubt,  in  consequence  of  their  laborious  ex- 
ertions, as  well  as  of  the  hot  nature  of  their 
add  fluids  producing  similar  effects,  that  ants 
are  so  fond  of  water.  We  have  seen  one  quaff* 
a  drop  of  dew  almost  as  large  as  its  whole 
body ;  and  when  we  present  those  in  our  glass 
formicaries  with  water,  they  seem  quite  in- 
satiable in  drinking  it."* 

Bennie,  in  his  Imect  AfisceUanie»,  after  de- 
scribing the  pedestrian  contrivances  with  which 
various  insects  are  furnished,  says,f — "The 
most  pericct  contrivance  of  tliis  land,  however, 
occurs  in  the  domestic  fly  (Mutca  domettica), 
and  its  congeners,  as  well  as  in  several  other 
insects.  Few  can  have  failed  to  remark  that 
flies  walk  with  the  utmost  ease  along  the 
ceiling  of  a  room,  and  no  less  so  upon  a  per- 
pendicular looking-glass ;  and  though  this 
were  turned  downwards,  the  flies  would  not 
fall  ofi^  but  could  maintain  their  position 
undisturbed  wtth  their  backs  hanging  down- 
wards. The  coxvjectures  devised  by  naturalists 
to  account  for  this  singular  circumstance, 
previous  to  the  ascertaining  of  the  actual 
facts,  are  not  a  little  amusing.  *  Some  sup- 
pose,' says  the  Abb4  de  la  Pluche,  *  that  when 
the  fly  marches  over  any  polished  body,  on 
which  neither  its  daws  nor  its  points  can 
fasten,  it  sometimes  compresses  her  sponge 
and  causes  it  to  evacuate  a  fluid,  which  fixes 
it  in  such  a  manner  as  prevents  its  falling 
without  diminishing  the  facility  of  its  pro- 
gress ;  but  it  is  much  more  probable  that  the 
sponges  correspond  with  the  fleshy  balls  which 
accompany  the  daws  of  dogs  and  cats,  and 
that  they  enable  the  fly  to  proceed  with  a 
softer  pace,  and  contribute  to  tne  presen-ation 
of  the  claws,  whose  pointed  extremities  would 

•  "  Inacct  Miscellanies, "  p.  38.        t  Ibid.  p.  868. 


soon  be  impaired  without  this  prevention.* 
{Sped,  de  la  Nat.  vol.  i.  p.  116.)  *  lu  ability 
to  walk  on  glass,'  says  S.  Shaw,  *  proceeds 
paftly  from  some  little  ruggedness  thereon, 
but  chiefly  from  a  tarnish,  or  dirty,  smoky 
substance,  adhering  to  the  surface;  so  that, 
though  the  shaip  points  on  the  sponges  can- 
not penetrate  the  surface  of  the  glass,  it  may 
easily  catch  hold  of  the  tarnish.'  {Nature 
DispL  vol.  iiL  p.  98,  Lond.  1823.)  But,"  adds 
Bennie,  *'it  is  singular  tbat  none  of  these 
fanders  ever  took  the  trouble  to  ascertain  the 
existence  of  either  a  gluten  squeezed  out  by 
the  fly,  or  of  the  smoky  tarnish  on  glass.  Kveu 
the  shrewd  lUaumur  could  not  give  a  satis- 
factory explanation  of  the  circumstance.*' 

**  The  eariiest  correct  notion  on  this  curious 
subject  was  entertained  by  Derham,  who,  in 
mentioning  the  provision  made  for  insects  that 
hang  on  smooth  surfaces,  says,  *  I  might  here 
name  divers  flies  and  other  insects  who,  besides 
their  sharp-hooked  nails,  have  also  skinny 
palms  to  their  feet,  to  enable  them  to  stick  to 
glass  and  other  smooth  bodies  by  means  of 
the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere — after  tlie 
manner  as  I  have  seen  boys  carry  heavy  stones 
with  only  a  wet  piece  of  leather  clapped  on 
the  top  of  the  stone.'  {Phy*ico.Thcology^  vol. 
ii.  p.  194,  note  ft,  11th  edit.)  The  justly- 
celebrated  Mr.  White,  of  Selbornc,  apparently 
without  the  aid  of  microscopical  investigation, 
adopted  Derham's  opinion,  adding  the  in- 
teresting illustration,  that  in  the  decline  of 
the  year,  when  the  flies  crowd  to  windows  and 
become  sluggish  and  torpid,  they  are  scarcely 
able  to  lift  their  legs,  which  seem  glued  to  the 
glass,  where  many  actually  stick  till  they  die ; 
whereas  they  are,  during  warm  weather,  so 
brisk  and  alert,  that  they  easily  overcome  the 
pressure  of  the  atmosphere.'* — {Nat,  Hi$t.  of 
Selbamef  vol.  ii.  p.  274. ) 

"  This  singular  mechanism,  however,"  con- 
tinues Bennie,  "is  not  peculiar  to  flies,  for 
some  animals  a  hundred  times  as  large  can 
walk  upon  glass  by  the  same  means."  St. 
Pierre  mentions  <*  a  very  small  lizard,  about  a 
finger's  length,  which  cUmbs  along  the  walls, 
and  even  along  glass,  in  pursuit  of  flies  and 
other  insects  "  ( Voyage  to  the  Isle  of  France, 
p.  73) ;  and  Sir  Joseph  Banks  noticed  another 
lizard,  named  the  Gecko  {Lacerta  Oecha,'Lniv.\ 
which  could  walk  against  gravity,  and  which 
made  him  desirous  of  having  the  subject 
thoroughly  investigated.  On  mentioning  it 
to  Sir  Everard  Home,  he  and  Mr.  Bauer 
commenced  a  series  of  researches,  by  which 
they  proved  incontrovertibly,  that  in  climbing 
upon  glass,  and  walking  idong  the  ceilings 
with  the  back  downwards,  a  vacuum  is  pro- 
duced by  a  particular  apparatus  in  the  feet, 
sufficient  to  cause  atmospheric  pressure  upon 
their  exterior  surface. 

"  The  apparatus  in  the  feet  of  the  fly  con- 
sists of  two  or  three  membranous  suckers, 
connected  with  the  last  joint  dt  the  foot  by  a 
narrow  neck,  of  a  funnel-shai>e,  immediately 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


27 


under  the  base  of  each  jaw,  and  moyable  in 
all  directions.  These  suckers  are  convex 
aboTe  and  hollow  below,  the  edges  being 
margined  with  minute  serratures,  and  the 
hollow  portion  covered  with  down.  In  order 
to  produce  the  vacuum  and  the  pressure,  these 
membranes  are  separated  and  expanded,  andi 
when  the  fly  is  about  to  lift  its  foot,  it  brings 
them  together,  and  folds  them  up,  as  it  were, 
between  the  two  claws.  By  means  of  a  com- 
mon microscope,  these  interesting  movements 
may  be  observed  when  a  fly  is  confined  in  a 
wine-glass."     {Phil,  Tram,  for  1816,  p.  825.) 

"It  must  have  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
most  incurious  to  see,  during  the  summer, 
swarms  of  flies  crowding  about  the  droppings  of 
cattle,  so  as  almost  to  conceal  the  nuisance, 
and  presenting  instead  a  display  of  their 
shining  corslets  and  twinkling  wings.  The 
object  of  all  this  busy  bustle  is  to  deposit  their 
eggs  where  their  prt^eny  may  find  abundant 
food ;  and  the  final  cause  is  obviously  both  to 
remove  the  nuisance,  and  to  provide  abundant 
food  for  birds  and  other  animals  which  prey 
upon  flies  or  their  larvs. 

*'The  same  remarks  apply  with  no  less  force 
to  the  *  blow-flies,'  which  deposit  their  eggs,  and 
in  some  cases  their  young,  upon  carcases.  The 
common  house  fly  (the  female  of  which  gene- 
rally lays  144  eggs)  belongs  to  the  first  division, 
the  natural  food  of  its  larvss  being  horse-dung ; 
consequently,  it  is  always  most  abundant  in 
houses  in  the  vicinity  of  stables,  cucumber- 
beds,  &c,  to  which,  when  its  numbers  become 
annoying,  attention  should  be  primarily  di- 
rected, rather  than  having  recourse  to  fly- 
waters." — (Bekvis's  Insect  Miscellany,  p.  205.) 
Besides  the  common  house-fly,  and  the  other 
genera  of  the  dipterous  order  of  insects,  there 
is  another  not  unfrequent  intruding  visitor  of 
the  fly  kind  which  we  must  not  omit  to  men- 
tion, commonly  known  as  the  blue-bottle 
{Musca  vomitoria,  Linn.).  The  disgust  with 
which  these  insects  are  generally  viewed  will 
perhaps  be  diminished  when  our  readers  are 
informed  that  they  are  destined  to  perform  a 
very  important  part  in  the  economy  of  nature. 
Amongst  a  number  of  the  insect  tribe  whose 
office  it  is  to  remove  nuisances  the  most  dis- 
gusting to  the  eye,  and  the  most  offensive  to 
the  smell,  the  varieties  of  the  blue-bottle  fly 
belong  to  the  most  useful. 

"  When  the  dead  carcases  of  animals  begin 
to  grow  putrid,  every  one  knows  what  dreadful 
miasmata  exhale  from  them,  and  taint  the  air 
we  breathe.  But  no  sooner  does  life  depart 
from  the  body  of  any  creature — at  least  from 
any  which,  from  its  size,  is  likely  to  become  a 
nuisance — than  myriads  of  different  sorts  of 
insects  attack  it,  and  in  various  ways.  First 
come  the  histert,  and  pierce  the  skin.  Next 
follow  Che  Jtesh'jUies,  covering  it  with  millions 
of  eggs,  whence  in  a  day  or  two  proceed  in- 
numerable  devourers.  An  idea  of  the  despatch 
made  by  these  gourmands  may  be  gained  from 
the  oomhined  consideration  of  their  numbers, 


voracity,  and  rapid  development.  The  larvaa 
of  many  flesh-£Qes,  as  Bedi  ascertained,  will  in 
twenty-four  hours  devour  so  much  food,  and 
gnaw  so  quickly,  as  to  increase  their  weight 
two  hundred-fold  I  In  five  days  after  bemg 
hatched  they  arrive  at  their  full  growth  and 
size,  which  is  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  care 
of  Providence  in  fitting  them  for  the  part  they 
are  destined  to  act ;  for  if  a  longer  time  was 
required  for  their  growth,  their  food  would  not 
be  a  fit  aliment  for  them,  or  they  would  be 
too  long  in  removing  the  nuisance  it  is  given 
them  to  dissipate.  Thus  we  see  there  was 
some  ground  for  linnseus's  assertion,  under 
Musca  vomitoria,  that  three  of  these  flies  will 
devour  a  dead  horse  as  quickly  as  would  a 
lion." — (KmBY  and  Spence,  i.) 

The  following  extraordinary  fact,  given  by 
Kirby  and  Spence,  concerning  the  voracity  of 
the  larvae  of  Uie  blow-fly,  or  blue-bottle  {Musca 
vomitoria)y  is  worth  wMe  appending : — 

"  On  Thursday,  June  25th,  died  at  As- 
bomby,  Lincolnshire,  John  Page,  a  pauper 
belonging  to  Silk-Willoughby,  under  circum- 
stances truly  singular.  He  being  of  a  rest- 
less disposition,  and  not  choosing  to  stay  in 
the  parish  workhouse,  was  in  the  habit  of 
strolling  about  the  neighbouring  rillages,  sub- 
sisting on  the  pittsmce  obtained  from  door  to 
door.  The  support  he  usually  received  from 
the  benevolent  was  bread  and  meat ;  and  after 
satisfying  the  cravings  of  nature,  it  was  his 
custom  to  deposit  the  surplus  provision,  par- 
ticularly the  meat,  between  his  shirt  and  skin. 
Having  a  considerable  portion  of  this  provision 
in  store,  so  deposited,  he  was  taken  rather 
unweU,  and  laid  himself  down  in  a  field  in 
the  parish  of  Stredington;  when,  from  the 
heat  of  the  season  at  that  time,  the  meat 
speedily  became  putrid,  and  was  of  course 
struck  by  the  flies.  These  not  only  proceeded 
to  devour  the  inanimate  pieces  of  flesh,  but 
also  literally  to  prey  upon  the  living  substance; 
and  when  the  wretched  man  was  accidentally 
found  by  some  of  the  inhabitants,  he  was  so 
eaten  by  the  maggots,  that  his  death  seemed 
inevitable.  After  clearing  away,  ag  well  as 
they  were  able,  these  shocking  vermin,  those 
who  found  Page  conveyed  him  to  Asbomby, 
and  a  surgeon  was  immediately  procured,  who 
declared  that  his  body  was  in  such  a  state  that 
dressing  it  must  be  little  short  of  instantaneous 
death ;  and,  in  fact,  the  man  did  survive  the 
operation  but  for  a  few  hours.  When  first 
found,  and  again  when  examined  by  the  sur- 
geon, he  presented  a  sight  loathsome  in  the 
extreme.  White  maggots  of  enormous  size 
were  crawling  in  and  upon  his  body,  which 
they  had  most  shockingly  mangled,  and  the 
removal  of  the  external  ones  served  only  to 
render  the  sight  more  horrid."  Kirby  adds, 
"  In  passing  through  this  parish  last  spring,  I 
inquired  of  the  maU-coachman  whether  he  had 
heard  this  story ;  and  he  said  the  fact  was  well 
known." 
I      One    species    of   fly    infests    our   houses 


80 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


*'  When  it's  a  bad  time  for  silling  the  papers, 
such  OS  a  wet,  could  day,  then  most  of  the  fly- 
paper  boys  goes  out  with  brushes,  cleaning 
boots.  Most  of  the  boys  is  now  out  hopping. 
They  goes  reglar  every  year  after  the  sason  is 
give  over  for  tlies. 

**The  stuff  as  they  puts  on  the  paper  is 
made  out  of  boiled  oil  and  turpentine  and  resin. 
It's  seldom  as  a  fly  lives  more  tlian  five 
minutes  after  it  gets  on  the  paper,  and  tlien 
it's  as  dead  as  a  house.  The  blue-bottles  is 
tougher,  but  they  don't  last  long,  though  they 
keeps  on  fizzing  as  if  they  was  tiding  to  make 
a  hole  in  the  paper.  The  stuff  is  only  p'isonons 
for  flies,  though  I  never  heard  of  any  body  as 
ever  eat  a  fly-paper." 

The  second  lad  I  chose  ftrom  nmong  the 
group  of  applicants  was  of  a  middle  age,  and 
although  the  noisiest  when  among  his  com- 
panions, had  no  sooner  entered  the  room  with 
me,  than  his  whole  manner  changed.  He  sat 
himself  down,  bent  u^  like  a  monkey,  and 
flcarcely  ever  turned  his  eyes  Arom  me.  He 
seemed  as  nervous  as  if  in  a  witness-box,  and 
kept  playing  with  his  grubby  fingers  till  he 
had  almost  made  them  white. 

**  They  calls  me  *  Curley.'  I  come  from 
Ireland  too.  I'm  about  fourteen  year,  and  have 
been  in  this  line  now,  sir,  about  five  year.  I 
goes  about  the  borders  of  the  country.  We 
general  takes  up  the  line  about  the  beginning 
of  June,  that  is,  when  we  gets  a  good  summer. 
When  we  gets  a  good  close  dull  day  like  this, 
we  does  pretty  well,  but  when  we  has  first  one 
day  hot,  and  then  another  rainy  and  could,  a' 
coiurse  we  don't  get  on  so  well. 

•*  The  most  I  sould  was  one  day  when  I  went 
to  Uxbridge,  and  then  I  sould  a  gross  and  a  half. 
I  paid  half-a-crown  a  gross  for  them.  I  was 
living  with  mother  then,  and  she  give  me 
the  money  to  buy  'em,  but  I  had  to  bring  lier 
back  again  all  as  I  took.  I  al'us  give  her  all 
I  makes,  except  sixpence  as  I  wants  for  my 
dinner,  which  is  a  kipplo  of  pen'orth  of  bread 
and  cheese  and  a  pint  of  beer.  I  sould  that 
gross  and  a  Iialf  I  spoke  on  at  a  ha'penny  each, 
and  I  took  nine  shillings,  so  that  I  mside  five 
and  sixpence.  But  Uien  I'd  to  leave  London 
at  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  to 
stop  out  till  twelve  o'clock  at  night  I  used 
to  live  out  at  Hammersmith  then,  and  come 
up  to  St.  Giles's  every  morning  and  buy  the 
papers.  I  had  to  rise  by  half-past  two  in  the 
morning,  and  I'd  get  back  again  to  Hammer- 
smith by  about  six  o'clock.  I  couldn't  sill 
none  on  the  road,  'cos  the  shops  wasn't  open. 
"The  flies  is  getting  bad  everj'  summer. 
This  year  they  a'n't  half  so  good  as  they  was 
last  year  or  the  year  before.  I'm  sure  I  dont 
know  why  there  aint  so  many,  but  they  aintso 
plentiful  like.  The  best  year  was  three  year 
ago.  I  know  that  by  the  quantity  as  my  cus- 
tomers bought  of  me,  and  in  three  days  the 
papers  was  swarmed  with  flies. 

"  I've  got  regular  customers,  where  I  calls 
two  or  three  times  a  week  to  'em.    If  I  was  to 


walk  my  rounds  over  I  could  at  the  lowest  sell 
from  six  to  eight  dozen  at  ha'penny  each  at 
wonst  If  it  was  nice  wither,  like  to-day,  so  tliat 
it  wouldn't  come  wet  on  me,  I  sliould  make  ten 
shillings  a- week  regular,  but  it  depends  on  the 
wither.  If  I  was  to  put  my  profits  by,  I'm 
siure  I  should  find  I  make  more  than  six 
shillings  a- week,  and  nearer  eight.  But  the 
season  is  only  for  three  months  at  most,  and 
then  we  takes  to  boot-cleaning.  Near  all  the 
poor  boys  about  here  is  fly-paper  silling  in  the 
hot  weather,  and  boot-cleaners  at  other  times. 
"  Shops  buys  the  most  of  us  in  London.  In 
Bamet  I  sell  sometimes  as  much  as  six  or 
seven  dozen  to  some  of  the  grocers  as  buys  to 
sell  again,  but  I  don't  let  them  have  them  only 
when  I  can't  get  rid  of 'em  to  t'other  customers. 
Butchers  is  very  fond  of  the  papers,  to  catch 
the  blue-bottles  as  gets  in  their  moat,  though 
there  is  a  few  butchers  as  have  said  to  me, 
*  Oh,  go  away,  they  draws  the  flics  more  than 
they  ketches  'em.'  Clothes-shops,  again,  is 
very  fond  of 'em.  I  can't  tell  why  they  is  fond 
of  'em,  but  I  suppose  'cos  the  flies  spots  the 
goods. 

"  There's  lots  of  boys  going  silling  *  ketch 
'em  alive  oh's'  from  Golden-lane,  and  White- 
chapel,  and  the  Borough.  There's  lots,  too, 
comes  out  of  Gray's-iim-lane  and  St.  Giles's. 
Near  every  boy  who  has  nothing  to  do  goes 
out  with  fly-papers.  Perhaps  it  aint  that  the 
flies  is  failed  off  that  we  don't  sill  so  many 
papers  now,  but  because  there's  so  many  boys 
at  it." 

The  most  intelligent  and  the  most  gentle  in 
his  demeanour  was  a  little  boy,  who  was 
scarcely  tall  enough  to  look  on  the  table  at 
which  I  was  writing.  If  his  face  had  been 
washed,  he  would  have  been  a  pretty-looking 
lad ;  for,  despite  tlie  black  marks  made  by  his 
knuckles  during  his  last  fit  of  cr}-ing,  he  had 
large  expressive  eyes,  and  his  featiunes  were 
round  and  plump,  as  though  he  were  accus- 
tomed to  more  food  than  his  companions.         ^ 

Whilst  taking  his  statement  I  was  inter- 
rupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  woman,  whose 
fears  had  been  aroused  by  the  idea  that  I 
belonged  to  the  Ragged  School,  and  had  come 
to  look  after  the  scholars.  '*  It's  no  good 
you're  coming  here  for  him,  he's  off  hopping 
to-morrow  with  his  mother,  as  has  asked  me 
to  look  after  him,  and  it's  only  your  saxpence 
he's  wanting." 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  I  could  get 
rid  of  this  lady's  company;  and,  indeed,  so 
great  appeared  to  be  the  fear  in  the  court  that 
Uie  object  of  my  visit  was  to  prevent  the  young 
gentlemen  iroxn  making  their  harvest  trip  into 
^e  coimtry,-  that  a  murmuring  crowd  began 
to  assemble  round  the  house  where  I  was, 
determined  to  oppose  me  by  force,  should  I 
leave  the  premises  accompanied  by  any  of  the 
youths. 

*'  I've  been  longer  at  it  than  that  last  boy, 
though  I'm  only  getting  on  for  thirteeif,  and 
he's  older  than  I'm;  'oos  I'm  little  and  he'i 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


81 


big*  getting  a  man.  But  I  can  sell  them  quite 
as  w^  as  he  can,  and  sometimes  better,  for 
I  can  holler  out  just  as  loud,  and  I've  got 
reg'lar  places  to  go  to.  I  was  a  very  little 
fellow  when  I  first  went  out  with  them,  but  I 
could  sell  them  pretty  well  then,  sometimes 
three  or  four  dozen  a^daj.  I've  got  one  place, 
in  a  stable,  where  I  can  sell  a  dozen  at  a  time 
to  countrypeople. 

^  I  calls  out  in  the  streets,  and  I  goes  into 
the  shops,  too,  and  calls  out,  *  Ketch  'em  alive, 
ketch  'em  alive ;  ketch  all  the  nasty  black- 
beetles,  blue -bottles,  and  flies;  ketch  'em  from 
teazing  the  baby's  eyes.'  That's  what  most 
oi  us  boys  cries  out  Some  boys  who  is  stupid 
only  says,  *  Ketch  'em  alive,'  but  people  don't 
buy  so  well  from  them. 

"  Up  in  St  Giles's  there  is  a  lot  of  fly-boys, 
but  they're  a  bad  set,  and  wUl  fling  mud  at 
gentlemen,  and  some  prigs  the  gentlemen's 
pockets.  Sometimes,  if  I  sells  more  than  a 
big  boy,  hell  get  mad  and  hit  me.  He'll 
tell  me  to  give  him  a  halfpenny  and  he  won't 
touch  me,  and  that  if  I  don't  hell  kill  mo. 
Some  of  die  boys  takes  an  open  fly-paper,  and 
makes  me  look  another  way,  and  then  they 
sticks  the  ketch  'em  alive  on  my  face.  The 
stuff  won't  come  off  without  soap  and  hot 
water,  and  it  goes  black,  and  looks  like  mud. 
One  day  a  boy  had  a  broken  fly.paper,  and  I 
was  talung  a  drink  of  water,  and  he  come  be- 
hind me  and  slapped  it  up  in  my  face.  A 
gentleman  as  saw  him  give  him  a  crack  with 
a  stick  and  me  twopence.  It  takes  yoiur 
breath  away,  until  a  man  comes  and  takes  it 
off.  It  all  sticked  to  my  hair,  and  I  couldn't 
rack  (comb)  right  for  some  time. 

**  When  we  are  selling  papers  we  have  to 
walk  a  long  way.  Some  boys  go  as  for  as 
Croydon,  and  all  about  the  countr}';  but  I 
don't  go  mueh  further  than  Copenhagen-fields, 
and  straight  down  that  way.  I  don't  like 
going  along  with  other  boys,  they  take  yoiu* 
customers  away ;  for  perhaps  they'll  sell  'em 
at  three  a-pennj  to  'em,  and  spoil  the  cus- 
tomers for  you.  I  won't  go  with  the  )>ig  boy 
you  saw  'cos  he's  such  a  blackgeyard ;  when 
he's  in  the  country  hell  go  up  to  a  lady  and 
say,  *  Want  a  fly-paper,  marm  ? '  and  if  she 
says  '  No,'  hell  perhaps  job  his  head  in  her 
face— butt  at  her  like. 

**  When  there's  no  flies,  and  tlie  ketch  'em 
alive's  is  out  then  I  goes  tumbling.  I  can 
torn  a  cat'enwheel  over  on  one  hand.  I'm 
going  to-morrow  to  the  country,  harvesting 
and  hopping — for,  as  we  says,  '  Go  out  hop- 
ping, come  in  jumping.'  We  start  at  three 
o'cioek  to-morrow,  and  we  shall  get  about 
twdve  o'clock  at  night  at  Dead  Man's  Bam. 
It  was  left  for  poor  people  to  sleep  in,  and 
a  man  there  was  buried  in  a  comer.  The 
man  had  got  six  farms  of  hops ;  and  if  his 
son  hadn't  buried  him  there,  he  wouldn't  have 
bad  none  of  the  riches. 

**  The  greatest  number  of  fly-papers  I've 
•old  in  a  day  is  about  eight  dozen.    I  never 


sells  no  more  than  that;  I  wish  I  could. 
People  won't  buy  'em  now.  WTien  I'm  at  it 
I  makes,  taking  one  day  with  another,  about 
ten  shilling  a- week.  You  see,  if  I  sold  eight 
dozen,  Td  make  four  shillings.  I  sell  them 
at  a  penny  each,  at  two  for  three-ha'pence, 
and  Uiree  for  twopence.  When  they  get.s 
stale  I  sells  'em  at  three  a-penny.  I  always 
begin  by  asking  a  penny  each,  and  perhaps 
they'll  say,  *  Give  me  two  for  three-ha'pence.' 
m  say,  '  Can't,  ma'am,'  and  then  they  pulls 
out  a  purse  full  of  money  and  gives  a  penny. 

**  The  police  is  very  kind  to  us,  and  don't 
interfere  with  us.  If  they  sees  another  boy 
hitting  us  theyll  take  off  their  belts  and  hit 
*em.  Sometimes  I've  sold  a  ketch  'em  alive 
to  a  policeman ;  hell  fold  it  up  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket  to  take  home  with  him.  Perhaps 
he's  got  a  kid,  and  the  flies  teazes  its  eyes. 

"  Some  ladies  like  to  buy  fly-cages  better 
than  ketch  'em  alive's,  because  sometimes 
when  they're  putting  'em  up  they  falls  in  their 
faces,  and  then  they  screams." 


The  Fly-paper  Makep.. 

In  a  small  attic-room,  in  a  house  near  Drury- 
lane,  I  found  the  *'  catch  'em  alive  "  manufac- 
turer and  his  family  busy  at  their  trade. 

Directly  I  entered  the  house  where  I  Imd 
been  told  he  lodged,  I  knew  that  I  had  come 
to  the  right  address ;  for  the  staircase  smelt 
of  tui-pontine  as  if  it  had  been  newly  painted, 
the  odour  growing  more  and  more  powerful 
as  I  ascended. 

The  little  room  where  the  man  and  his 
family  worked  was  as  hot  as  an  oven;  for 
although  it  was  in  tlie  heat  of  summer,  still 
his  occupation  forced  him  to  have  a  tire 
burning  for  the  piUT^ose  of  melting  and 
keeping  fluid  the  different  ingredients  he 
spread  upon  his  papers. 

When  I  opened  the  door  of  his  room,  I  was 
at  first  puzzled  to  know  how  I  should  enter 
the  apartment ;  for  the  ceiling  was  completely 
hidden  by  the  papers  which  had  been  hung 
up  to  dry  from  the  many  strings  stretched 
across  the  place,  so  that  it  resembled  a  washer- 
woman's back-yard,  with  some  thousands  of  red 
pocket-handkerchiefs  suspended  in  the  air. 
I  could  see  the  legs  of  the  manufacturer 
walking  about  at  tlie  fuilher  end,  but  the 
other  part  of  his  body  was  hidden  from  me. 

On  his  cr3ing,  "Come  in !  "  I  had  to  duck 
my  head  down,  and  creep  under  the  forest  of 
paper  strips  rustling  above  us. 

The  most  curious  characteristic  of  the  apai-t- 
ment  was  the  red  colour  with  which  every- 
thing was  stained.  The  walls,  floor,  and 
tables  wero  all  smeared  with  ochre,  like  the 
pockets  of  a  drover.  The  papers  that  were 
drjing  were  as  red  as  the  pages  of  a  gold-leaf 
book.  This  curious  appearance  was  owing 
to  part  of  the  process  of  "catch 'em  ali%e" 
making  consisting  in  first  covering  tlie  paper 


i 


(» 


LOffDOiT  lABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


-with  coloured  sixe,  to  ^rent  the  sticky  solu- 
tion from  sosking  iato  it. 

The  room  was  so  poorly  fiiniished,  that  it 
was  evident  the  trade  was  not  a  lacrative  one. 
An  old  Dntch  clock,  with  a  pendninm  as  long 
as  a  walking-stickf  was  the  only  thing  in  the 
dwelling  which  was  not  indispensable  to  the 
calling.  The  chimneypiece  —  that  test  of 
**  well-to-do  •*  in  the  houses  of  the  poorer 
classes  — had  not  a  single  ornament  npon  it. 
'  The  long  board  on  which  the  family  worked 
serred  likewise  as  the  table  for  the  family 
meals,  and  the  food  they  ate  had  to  be  laid 
upon  the  red-smeared  surface.  There  was 
but  one  chair,  and  that  the  wife  occupied; 
and  when  the  father  or  son  wished  to  sit 
down,  a  tub  of  size  was  drawn  out  with  its 
trembling  contents  ftom  under  the  work- 
table,  and  on  this  they  rested  themselves. 

**We  are  called  in  the  trade,"  said  the 
father,  •*  fly-paper  makers.  They  used  to  put 
a  nice  name  to  the  things  once,  and  call  'em 
Egyptian  fly-papers,  but  now  they  use  merely 
the  word  *  fly-papers,'  or  *  fly-destroyers,'  or 
*  fly-catchers,'  or  *  catch  'em  alive,  oh.* 

"  I  never  made  any  calculation  about  flies, 
and  how  often  they  breeds.  You  see,  it 
depends  upon  so  many  things  how  they're 
produced:  for  instance,  if  I  was  to  put  my 
papers  on  a  dung-heap,  I  might  catch  some 
thousands ;  and  if  I  was  to  put  a  paper  in  an 
ice-well,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  catch  one. 

**  I  know  the  flies  produce  some  thousands 
each,  because  if  you  look  at  a  paper  well 
studded  over  with  flies,  you'll  see — that  is,  if 
you  look  very  carefully — where  each  fly  has 
blown,  as  we  call  it,  there'll  be  some  millions 
on  a  paper,  small  grubs  or  little  mites,  like ; 
for  whilst  struggling  the  fly  shoots  forth  the 
blows,  and  eventually  these  blows  would  turn 
to  flies. 

•*  I  have  been  at  fly-catcher  making  for  the 
last  nine  years.  It's  almost  impossible  to 
make  any  calculation  as  to  the  number  of 
papers  I  make  during  the  season,  and  this  is 
the  season.  If  it's  fine  weather,  then  flies 
are  plentiful,  cmd  the  lads  who  sell  the  papers 
in  the  streets  keep  me  busy  ;  but  if  it's  at  all 
bad  weather,  then  they  turn  their  attention 
to  blacking  boots. 

"It's  quite  a  speculation,  my  business  is, 
for  all  depends  upon  the  lads  coming  to  me  to 
huy,  and  there's  no  certainty  beyond.  I  every 
season  expect  that  these  lads  who  bought 
papers  of  me  the  last  year  will  come  back  and 
deal  with  me  again.  First  of  all,  these  lads 
will  come  for  a  dozen,  or  a  kipple  of  dozen,  of 
papers;  and  so  it  goes  on  till  perhaps  they 
are  able  to  sell  half  a  gross  aday,  and  then 
from  that  they  will,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  get 
up  to  ten  dozen,  or  perhaps  a  gross,  but 
seldom  or  never  over  that. 

"  In  tho  very  busiest  and  hottest  time  as  is, 
I  have,  for  about  two  or  three  weeks,  made  as  i 
many  as  thirty-six  gross  of  papers  in  a  week. 
Wo  generally  begins  about  the  end  of  June  or  I 


the  beginning  of  July,  and  then  for  five  or 
six  weeks  we  goes  on  very  busy ;  after  that  it 
dies  out,  and  people  gets  tired  of  laying  out 
their  money. 

"It's  almost  impossible  to  get  at  any  eal- 
culation  of  the  quantity  I  make.  You  see,  to- 
day I  haven't  sold  a  gross,  and  yesterday  I 
didn't  sell  more  than  a  gross;  and  the  last 
three  days  I  haven't  sold  a  single  paper,  it's 
been  so  wet.  But  last  week  I  sold  more  than 
five  gross  a-day, — it  varies  so.  Oh  yes,  I 
sell  more  than  a  hundred  gross  during  the 
season.  Yon  may  say,  that  for  a  month  I 
make  about  five  gross  a-day,  and  that — taking 
six  days  to  the  week,  and  thirty  days  to  the 
month — makes  a  hundred  and  thirty  gross: 
and  then  for  another  month  I  do  about  three 
gross  a-day,  and  that,  at  the  same  calculation, 
makes  seventy-eight  gross,  or  altogether  one 
hundred  and  ninety-eight  gross,  or  28,512 
single  papers,  and  that  is  as  near  as  I  can 
teU  you. 

"Sometimes  our  season  lasts  more  than 
two  months.  You  may  reckon  it  from  the 
latter  end  of  June  to  the  end  of  August,  or  if 
the  weather  is  very  hot,  then  wo  begins  early 
in  June,  and  runs  it  into  September.  The 
prime  time  is  when  the  flies  gets  heavy  and 
stings — that's  when  the  papers  sells  most. 

"There's  others  in  tlie  business  besides 
myself;  they  lives  up  in  St.  Giles's,  and  they 
sells  'em  rather  cheaper.  At  one  time  the 
shopkeepers  used  to  make  the  papers.  When 
they  first  commenced,  they  was  sold  at  two- 
pence and  threepence  and  fourpence  a-piece, 
but  now  they're  down  to  three  a-penny  in  the 
streets,  or  a  halfpenny  for  a  single  one.  The 
boys  when  they've  got  back  the  money  they 
paid  me  for  their  stock,  will  sell  what  papers 
they  have  left  at  onything  they'll  fetch,  be- 
cause the  papers  gets  dusty  and  spiles  with 
the  dust. 

"  I  use  the  ver>'  best  *  Times '  paper  for  my 
*  catch  'em  alives.'  I  gets  them  kept  for  me 
at  stationers'  shops  and  liberaries,  and  such- 
like. I  pays  threepence  a-pound,  or  twenty- 
eight  shillings  the  hundred  weight.  That's  a 
long  price,  but  you  must  have  good  paper  if 
you  want  to  make  a  good  article.  I  could  get 
paper  at  twopence  a-pound,  but  then  it's  only 
tho  cheap  Sunday  papers,  and  they're  too 
slight. 

"The  morning  papers  are  the  best,  and  will 
stand  the  pulling  in  opening  the  papers  ;  for 
we  always  fold  the  destroyers  with  the  sticky 
sides  together  when  finished.  The  composi- 
tion I  use  is  very  stiff;  if  the  paper  is  bad, 
they  tear  when  you  force  them  open  for  use. 
Some  in  the  trade  cut  up  their  newspapers 
into  twelve  for  the  full  sheet,  but  I  cut  mine 
up  into  only  eight. 

"  The  process  is  this.  First  of  all  the  paper 
is  sized  and  coloured.  We  colour  them  by 
putting  a  little  red  lead  into  the  size,  because 
if  the  sticky  side  is  not  made  apparent  the 
people  wont  buy  'em,  'cause  they  might  spile 


LONDON^  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOSDOlt  POOn. 


88 


the  fhmitnK  by  pntthig  the  composition  side 
dovntrards.  After  sizing  the  papers,  they  are 
hung  np  to  dry,  and  then  the  compo<^ition  is 
laid  on.  This  eomposiUon  is  a  secret,  and 
I*in  obligated  to  keep  it  so,  for  of  conrsc  all 
the  boys  who  come  here  would  be  tiyinj^  to 
make  em,  and  not  only  would  it  iigore  me, 
bm  I'd  warrant  they'd  izgure  theirseWes  as 
well,  by  setting  the  house  on  fire.  You  may 
say  that  my  c-omposition  is  made  from  a  mix- 
tion of  rcffinous  substances.  Everything  in 
making  it  depends  upon  using  the  proper  pro- 
portions. There's  some  men  who  deal  with 
tae  who  know  the  substances  to  make  the 
composition  firom,  but  because  they  haven't 
got  the  eiAct  proportions  of  the  quantities, 
they  can*t  make  it  right. 

'*The  great  difSeul^  in  making  them  is 
diying  the  papeis  after  they  are  sized.  Some 
di^s  irhen  it':9  fine  they'll  dry  as  fast  as  you 
can  hang  'em  up  almost,  and  other  days  they 
▼out  ilry  at  all — in  damp  weather  'specially. 
There  Is  some  makers  who  sizes  and  colours 
their  ]iflpers  in  the  winter,  and  then  puts  'em 
to  diy ;  and  when  the  summer  comes,  then 
they  has  only  to  put  on  the  composition. 

"  rm  a  veiy  quick  hand  in  the  trade  (if  you 
can  eon  it  one,  for  it  only  lasts  three  mimths 
at  most,  and  is  a  very  nncertain  one,  too ;  in- 
deed, I  don't  know  what  you  can  style  our 
lu«ines3 — it  ain't  a  purfeitsion  and  it  ain't  a 
trade,  I  supposo  it*s  a  calling) :  Pm  a  quick 
hand  I  say  at  roreading  the  composition,  and 
I  can,  talong  the  day  throngli,  do  about  two 
gross  an  hour —that  is,  if  the  papers  was  sized 
ready  for  me ;  but  as  it  Is,  ha\ing  to  size  'em 
first,  I  cant  do  more  than  three  gross  a-day 
myself,  but  with  my  wife  helping  me  we  can 
do  such  a  thin^  as  five  gross  a-day. 

**  It's  most  important  that  the  size  should 
diy.  Now  tho2>e  papers  (producing  some 
covered  with  a  dead  red  touting  of  the  size 
preparation)  have  been  done  four  days,  and 
yet  they're  not  dry,  although  to  you  they  ap- 
pear so'  but  I  can  tell  that  they  feel  tough, 
uid  not  crisp  as  they  ought  to.  "When  the 
jize  is  damp  it  mcdces  them  adhere  to  one 
an'.tlier  when  I  am  laying  the  stuft'on,  and  it 
^TTtiK  through  and  makes  them  hea\7,  and 
then  they  tears  when  I  opens  thom. 

**  When  Tm  working,  I  first  size  the  entire 
J^heet.  We  put  it  on  the  table,  and  then  we 
La^e  a  big  brush  and  plaster  it  over.  Then  I 
pives  it  to  my  wife,  and  she  hangs  it  up  on  a 
line.    We  can  hang  up  a  gross  at  a  timo  horo, 

i  and  then  the  room  is  pretty  fuD,  and  must 
seem  strange  to  anybody  coming  in,  thouglf  to 

I    as  it's  ordinary  enough." 

<  The  man  was  about  to  exhibit  to  us  his 
method  of  proceeding,  when  his  attention  was 
drawn  off  by  a  smell  which  the  mo\ing  of  the 

'  diflerent  pots  had  caused.  "  How  strong  this 
size  smells,  Charlotte  !"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

** lis  the  damp  and  heat  of  the  room  does 
ii,"  the  wife  replied;  and  then  the  narrative 
^ent  on. 


"Before  putting  on  the  Composition  I  cut 
up  the  papers  into  slips  as  fast  as  possiUe^ 
that  don't  take  long." 

"  We  can  out  'em  in  first  style,"  interrupted 
the  wife. 

"  I  can  eut  up  four  gross  an  hour,**  said  a 
boy,  who  was  present. 

"  I  don't  think  you  could,  Johnny,"  said  the 
man.  **  Two  gross  is  nearer  the  mark,  to  cut 
'em  evenly." 

"It's  only  seventy  sheets,''  remonstrated 
the  lad,  "  and  that's  only  a  little  more  than 
one  a  minute." 

A  pile  of  entire  newspapers  was  here 
brought  out,  and  all  of  them  coloured  r^d  on 
one  side,  like  the  leaves  of  the  books  in  which 
gold-leaf  is  kept. 

Judging  from  the  trial  at  cutting  which  fol* 
lowed,  we  should  conclude  that  the  lad  was 
correct  in  his  calculation. 

"  When  we  put  on  the  composition,"  conti- 
nued  the  catch-'em -alive  maker,  "  we  has  the 
cut  slips  piled  up  in  a  tall  mound  like,  and 
then  we  have  a  big  brush,  and  dips  it  in  the 
pot  of  stuff"  and  rubs  it  in;  we  folds  each 
catcher  up  as  we  does  it,  like  a  thin  slice  of 
bread  and  butter,  and  put  it  down.  As  I  said 
before,  at  merely  putting  on  tlie  composition 
I  could  do  about  two  gross  nn  hour. 

"  My  price  to  the  boys  is  twoi>ence-halfi)enny 
a  dozen,  or  two-and-sixpcnce  a  gross,  and  out 
of  that  I  don't  get  more  than  nrnepence 
profit,  for  the  paper,  the  resin,  and  the  firing 
for  melting  the  size  and  composition,  all  takes- 
oflf  the  profit. 

"  This  season  nearly  all  my  customers  have 
been  boys.  Last  season  I  had  a  few  men  who 
dealt  with  me.  The  principal  of  tliose  who 
buys  of  me  is  Irish.  A  boy  will  sometimes 
sell  his  papers  for  a  halfpenny  each,  but  the 
usual  pric^  is  tlu*eo  a-peuny.  Many  of  the 
blackiug-boys  deal  with  me.  If  it's  a  fine  day 
it  don't  suit  them  at  boot-cleaning,  and  tlieu 
they'll  run  out  with  my  papers  ;  and  so  they 
have  two  trades  to  Uieir  backs— one  for  fme, 
and  the  other  for  wet  weatlier. 

'*  Tlie  first  man  as  was  the  inventor  of  these 
fly-papers  kept  a  barber's  shop  in  St.  Andrew- 
street,  Seven  Dials,  of  tlie  name  of  Greenwood 
or  Greenfinch,  I  forget  which.  I  expect  he 
diskivered  it  by  accident,  using  vaniish  and 
stuff,  for  stale  varnish  has  nearly  the  same 
effect  as  our  composition.  Ho  mado  'em  and 
sold  'em  at  first  at  threepence  and  fourpence 
apiece.  Then  it  got  down  to  a  penny.  He 
sold  the  receipt  to  some  other  parties,  and 
then  it  got  out  through  then*  having  to  employ 
men  to  help  'em.  I  worked  for  a  party  as 
made  'em,  and  then  I  set  to  work  making 
•em  for  myself,  and  afterwards  liawking  them. 
They  was  a  greater  novelty  then  than  they  are 
now,  and  sold  pretty  well.  Then  men  in  the 
streets,  who  had  notliing  to  do,  used  to  ask  me 
where  I  bouglit  'em,  and  then  I  used  to  give 
•em  my  own  address,  and  they'd  come  and  find 
me," 


Xo.  l.VIl. 


\> 


34 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Of  Buo8  and  Fleas. 


A  NUXESOUB  family  of  a  large  order  of  insecto 
is  but  too  well  known,  botJh  in  gardens  and 
honseff,  tinder  the  general  name  of  Bugs 
{Cimieidm)  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  species 
being  distinguished  by  an  exceedingly  disa- 
greeable smell,  particularly  when  pressed  or 
braised. 

The  sacking  instrument  of  these  insects 
has  been  so  admirably  dissected  and  deli- 
neated by  M.  Savigny,  in  his  **  Theory  of  the 
Mouth  of  Six-legged  {hexapod)  Insects,*** 
that  we  cannot  do  better  than  follow  so  excel- 
lent a  g^de. 

The  sucker  is  contained  in  a  sheath,  and 
this  sheath  is  composed  of  four  pieces,  which, 
according  to  Savigny's  theory,  represent  an 
under-lip  much  prolonged.  The  edges  bend 
downwards,  and  form  a  canal  receiving  the 
four  bristles,  which  he  supposes  to  correspond 
with  the  two  mandibles  and  the  two  lower 
jaws.  It  is  probable  that  the  two  middle  of 
these  bristles  act  as  piercers,  while  the  other 
two,  being  curved  at  the  extremity  (though 
not  at  all  times  naturaUy  so),  assist  in  the 
process  of  suction. 

The  plant-bugs  are  all  ftimished  with 
wings  and  membranous  wing-cases,  many  of 
them  being  of  considerable  size,  and  decked 
in  showy  colours.  These  differ  in  all  those 
points  firom  their  congener,  the  bed-bug 
{Cimex  lectulariui),  which  is  small,  without 
wings,  and  of  a  dull  uniform  brown.  The 
name  is  of  Welsh  origin,  being  derived  firom 
the  same  root  as  6iiy-bear,  and  hence  the  pas- 
Bage  in  the  Psalms,  "thou  shalt  not  be  afraid 
for  tKe  terror  by  night,"  f  is  rendered  in  Mat- 
theVs  Bible,  **thoa  shalt  Dot  nede  to  be 
afraide  of  any  bugs  by  night.** 

In  earlier  times  this  insect  was  looked  upon 
with  no  little  fear,  no  doubt  because  it  was  not 
so  abundant  as  at  present  '^In  the  year 
1503,"  says  Mouffet,  **  Dr.  Penny  was  called 
in  great  haste  to  a  little  village  called  Mort- 
lake,  near  the  Thames,  to  visit  two  noblemen 
who  were  much  fiightened  by  the  appearance 
of  bug-bites,  and  were  in  fear  of  I  know  not 
what  contagion;  but  when  the  matter  was 
known,  and  the  insects  caujght,  he  laughed 
them  out  of  all  fear."{  This  fact,  of  course, 
disproves  the  statement  of  Southall,  that  bugs 
were  not  known  in  England  before  1670. 

Linnieus  was  of  opinion,  however,  that  the 
bug  was  not  originally  a  native  of  Europe,  but 
had  been  imported  from  America.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  it  seems  to  thrive  but  too  well  in  our 
climate,  though  it  multiplies  less  in  Britain 
than  in  the  warmer  regions  of  the  Continent, 
where  it  is  also  said  to  grow  to  a  larger  size, 
and  to  bite  more  keenly.  This  insect,  it  is 
said,  is  never  seen  in  Ireland.§ 

**  Commerce,"  says  a  learned  entomologist, 
« with  many  good  things,  has  also  introduced 


•  "UkA.  Anim.  nna  Vert€br»t"  i.  M. 
t  P«.  xcL  5.      X  '*  Theatr.  Intect."  270. 


I  J.B. 


amongst  us  many  great  evils,  of  which  noxious 
insects  form  no  small  part;  and  one  of  her 
worst  presents  was,  doubtless,  the  disgusting 
animals  called  bugs.  They  seem,  indeed,*' 
he  adds,  '*  to  have  been  productive  of  greater 
alarm  at  first  than  misdiief, —  at  least,  if  we 
may  judge  fh)m  the  change  of  name  which 
took  place  upon  their  becoming  common. 
Their  original  English  name  was  ChincKe,  or 
WaU-loM»e;  and  the  term  bug^  which  is  a 
Celtic  word,  signifying  a  ghost  or  goblin,  was 
applied  to  them  after  Ray's  time,  most  pro- 
bably because  they  were  considered  as  'terrors 
by  night  Hence  our  English  word  bug-bear. 
The  word  in  this  sense  often  occurs  in  Shak- 
speare.  Winter's  TaU,  act  iii.  so.  2, 3 ;  Henry  FT. 
act  V.  sc.  2 ;  Handet^  act  v.  sc.  2.  See  Douce'ff 
Illustrationt  of  Shakspeare,  i,  B29r 

Even  in  our  own  island  these  obtrusive  in- 
sects  often  banish  sleep.  "  The  night,"  says 
Goldsmith,  in  his  Animated  NaturCy  **  is  usually 
the  season  when  the  wretched  have  rest  firom 
their  labour ;  but  this  seems  the  only  season 
when  the  bug  issues  from  its  retreats  to  make 
its  depredations.  By  day  it  lurks,  like  a  rob- 
ber, in  the  most  secret  parts  of  the  bed,  takes 
the  advantage  of  evexy  chink  and  cranny  to 
make  a  secure  lodgment,  and  contrives  its 
habitation  with  so  much  art  that  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  discover  its  retreat.  It  seems  to 
avoid  the  light  with  great  cunning,  and  even  if 
candles  be  kept  burning,  this  formidable  in- 
sect will  not  issue  fi'om  its  hiding-place.  But 
when  darkness  promises  security,  it  then 
issues  from  every  comer  of  the  bed,  drops 
trom  the  tester,  crawls  from  behind  the  arras» 
and  travels  with  great  assiduity  to  the  un^ 
happy  patient,  who  vainly  wishes  for  rest.  It 
is  generally  vain  to  destroy  one  only,  as  thero: 
are  hundieds  more  to  revenge  their  compa- 
Qion*s  fate;  so  that  the  person  who  thus  ia 
subject  to  be  bitten  (some  individuals  are  ex- 
empt), remains  the  whole  night  like  a  sentinel 
upon  duty,  rather  watching  the  approach  of 
tesh  invaders  than  inviting  the  pleasing  ap- 
proaches of  sleep."  * 

Mouffet  assures  us,  that  against  these  ene- 
mies of  our  rest  in  the  night  our  mercifiil  God 
bath  furnished  us  with  remedies,  which  wa 
may  fetch  out  of  old  and  new  -writers,  either 
to  drive  them  away  or  kill  them.f  The  fol- 
lowing is  given  as  Uie  best  poison  for  bugs,  by 
Mr.  Brande,  of  the  Boyal  Institution: — Re- 
duce on  ounce  of  corrosive  sublimate  (p^- 
chloride  of  mercury)  and  one  ounce  of  white 
arsenic  to  a  fine  powder;  mix  with  it  one 
ouoee  of  muriate  of  ammonia  in  powder,  two 
oimces  each  of  oil  of  turpentine  and  yellow 
wax,  and  eight  ounces  of  olive  oil;  put  all 
these  into  a  pipkin,  placed  in  a  pan  of  boiling 
water,  and  when  the  wax  is  melted,  stir  the 
whole,  till  cold,  in  a  mortar .t  A  strong  solu- 
tion of  corrosive  sublimate,  indeed,  applied  as 
a  wash,  is  a  most  efficacious  bug-poison. 

*  Goldsmith's  "Animat  Natun 
t  "  Theatr.  InMot"     X       ' 


Nature,"  iv.  IM. 

« Materia  Uedioa,"  Index. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


35 


Though  most  people  dislike  this  insect, 
others  haye  been  known  to  regard  it  with 
protecting  care.  One  gentleman  would  never 
snfler  the  bugs  to  be  disturbed  in  his  house, 
or  his  bedsteads  removed,  till,  in  the  end,  they 
swarmed  to  an  incredible  degree,  crawling  up 
even  the  walls  of  his  drawing-room ;  and  after 
his  death  millions  were  found  in  his  bed  and 
chamber  furniture.* 

In  the  Banian  hospital,  at  Snrat,  the  over, 
seers  are  said  ftequently  to  hire  beggars  from 
the  streets,  at  a  stipulated  sum,  to  pass  the 
night  among  bugs  and  other  vermin,  on  the 
express  condition  of  suffering  them  to  ei^oy 
Iheir  feast  without  molestation.f 

The  bed-bug  is  not  the  only  one  of  its  con- 
geners which  preys  upon  man.  St  Pierre 
mentions  a  bug  foimd  in  the  Mauritius,  the 
bite  of  which  is  more  venomous  than  the  sting 
of  a  scorpion,  being  succeeded  by  a  swelling 
a3  big  as  the  egg  of  a  pigeon,  which  continues 
for  four  or  five  days.t  Bay  tells  us  that  his 
friend  Willonghby  had  suffered  severe  tempo- 
rary pain,  in  the  same  way,  from  a  water-bug. 
{Kotoneeia  glauca^  Linn.)  § 

The  winged  insects  of  the  order  to  which 
the  bed-bug  belongs  often  inflict  very  painful 
wounds,  and  it  is  even  stated,  upon  good  au- 
thority, that  an  insect  of  the  order,  commonly 
known  in  the  West  Indies  by  the  name  of  the 
wtuel-hwfy  can  communicate  an  electric  shock 
to  the  person  whose  flesh  it  touches.  The 
late  Major-General  Davies,  ILA..  (weU  known 
as  a  most  accurate  observer  of  nature  and 
an  indefatigable  collector  of  her  treasures,  as 
well  as  a  most  admirable  painter  of  them), 
hadng  taken  up  this  animal  and  placed  it  upon 
his  hand,  assures  us  that  it  gave  him,  with  its 
leg«t,  a  con.siderable  shock,  as  if  from  an  elec- 
trie  jar,  which  he  felt  as  high  as  his  shoulders ; 
and  then  dropping  the  creature,  he  observed 
six  marks  upon  his  hand  where  the  six  feet 
had  stood. 

Bugs  are  very  voracious,  and  seem  to  bite 
most  furiously  in  the  autumn,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  feast  themselves  before  they  retire  to 
their  winter  quarters. 

There  is  another  pernicious  bed  insect — 
the  flea  {Pulex  trntons,  Linn.),  which,  being 
without  wings,  some  of  our  readers  may  sup. 
^ose  to  be  nearly  allied  to  the  bed-bug,  though 
u  docs  not  belong  even  to  the  same  order,  but 
to  a  new  one  {Aphanipleray  Kibbt),  establish, 
ed  on  the  principle  that  the  wings  are  obsole- 
scent or  inoonspicnous. 

Fleas,  it  may  be  worth  remarking,  are  not 
an  of  one  species ;  those  which  infest  animals 
and  birds  differing  in  many  particulars  from  the 
eommon  bed-flea  {Pulex  irrilans).  As  many 
AS  twelve  distinct  sorts  of  fleas  have  been 
hand  in  Britain  alone.|]    The  most  annoying 

*  Nicholscm**  "  Joamal,"  zrli.  40. 
f  Forbea»  "Oriental  Mem."  L 
t  "Voyage  to  the  Ma  of  Franco." 
f  "Hirt.  Ineect.'*  68. 
I  •*  luaect  Tkanalionnatione,**  p.  893. 


species,  however,  is,  fortunately,  notindige- 
nous,  being  a  native  of  the  tropical  latitudes, 
and  variously  named  in  the  West  Indies,  chi- 
goe, jigger,  nigua,  tungua,  and  pique  {Pulex 
T^entiransy  Linn).  According  to  Stedman, "  this 
IS  a  kind  of  small  sand-flea,  which  gets  in  be- 
tween the  skin  and  the  flesh  without  being  felt, 
and  generally  under  the  ntdls  of  the  toes, 
where,  while  it  feeds,  it  keeps  growing  till  it  be- 
comes of  the  size  of  a  pea,  causing  no  further 
pain  thMi  a  disagreeable  itching.  In  process 
of  time  its  operation  appears  in  the  form  of  a 
small  bladder,  in  which  are  deposited  thou- 
sands of  eggs,  or  nits,  and  which,  if  it  breaks, 
produce  so  many  young  chigoes,  which  in 
course  of  time  create  running  ulcers,  often  of 
very  dangerous  consequence  to  the  patient.  So 
much  so,  indeed,  that  I  knew  a  soldier,  the 
soles  of  whose  feet  were  obliged  to  be  cut  a-' 
way  before  he  could  recover;  and  some  men 
have  lost  their  limbs  by  amputation,  nay,  even 
their  lives,  by  having  neglected,  in  time,  to 
root  out  these  abominable  vermin.  Walton 
mentions  that  a  Capuchin  friar,  in  order  to 
study  the  history  of  the  chigoe,  permitted  a 
colony  of  them  to  establish  themselves  in  his 
feet :  but  before  he  could  accomplish  his  ob- 
ject his  feet  mortified  and  had  to  be  amputa- 
ted.* No  wonder  that  Cardan  calls  the  insect 
"  a  very  shrewd  plague."+ 

Several  extraordinary  feats  of  strength  have 
been  recorded  of  fleas  by  various  authors,  J 
and  we  shall  here  give  our  own  testimony 
to  a  similar  fact.  At  the  fair  of  Cliarlton,  in 
Kent,  1830,  we  saw  a  man  exhibit  three* 
fleas  harnessed  to  a  carriage  in  the  form 
of  an  onmibus,  at  least  fifty  times  their 
own  bulk,  which  they  pulled  along  with 
great  ease ;  another  pair  drew  a  chariot.  The 
exhibitor  showed  the  whole  first  through  a 
magnifying  glass,  and  then  to  the  naked  eye, 
so  that  we  were  satisfied  there  was  no  decep- 
tion. From  the  fleas  being  of  large  size  they 
were  evidently  all  females.  § 

It  is  rarely,  however,  that  we  meet  with 
fleas  in  the  way  of  amusement,  unless  we  are 
of  the  singular  humour  of  the  old  lady  men* 
tioned  by  Kirby  and  Spence,  who  had  a  liking 
to  them ;  "  because,"  said  she,  "  I  think  they 
are  the  prettiest  little  merry  things  in  the 
world ;  I  never  saw  a  dull  flea  in  all  my  life." 

When  Ray  and  Willoughby  were  travelling, 
they  found  "  at  Venice  and  Augsburg  fleas  for 
sale,  and  at  a  small  price  too,  decorated  with 
steel  or  silver  collars  round  their  necks.  When 
fleas  are  kept  in  a  box  amongst  wool  or  cloth, 
in  a  warm  place,  and  fed  once  a-day,  they  wil) 
live  a  long  time.  When  these  insects  begin 
to  suck  they  erect  themselves  almost  perpen- 
dicularly, thrusting  their  sucker,  which  origi- 
nates in  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  into  the 
skin.    The  itching  is  not  felt  immediately, 

•  Walton'e  "Hiepaniola." 

t  ••8ubtnia.'*Ub.  ix. 

X  "  Insect  Transformationfl,'*  p.  180. 

f  Introduotion,  i.  102.— J.  B. 


ao 


LOXDON  LABOUR  AXD  THE  LONDON  JPOOB. 


l»ut  a  litilo  nften*'ards.  As  soon  as  they  are 
llill  of  blood,  they  begin  to  void  a  portion  of 
it ;  and  thus,  if  permitted,  they  will  continue 
for  many  hours  sucking  and  voiding.  Aitt  r 
the  first  ia'hing  no  uneasiness  is  subsequently 
felL  )Vil!oughby  had  a  flaa  that  lived  for 
three  months,  sucking  in  this  manner  the  blood 
of  his  hand;  it  was  at  Isngth  killed  by  the 
cold  of  i^inter."  ♦ 

According  to  Mouffist's  account  of  the  suck- 
er of  the  Ilea,  "  tlie  point  of  his  nib  is  some- 
what hai'd,  tliat  he  may  make  it  enter  the  bet- 
ter ;  and  it  must  necessarily  be  hollow,  that  he 
may  suck  out  the  blood  and  carry  it  in."  + 
Modem  authors,  particularly  Straus  and  Kir- 
by^  show  that  Hosel  was  mistaken  in  supposing 
this  sucker  to  consist  of  two  pieces,  as  it  is 
reall  V  made  up  of  seven.  First,  there  is  a  pair 
of  triangular  instruments,  somewhat  resem- 
bhng  the  beak  of  a  bird,  inserted  on  each  side 
of  the  mouth,  under  the  parts  which  are  gene- 
rally regarded  a&  tlie  antennie.  Next,  a  paii- 
of  long  slmrp  piercers  Ucaipell/t,  Kiuby), 
which  emerge  fVom  the  liead  below  the  preced- 
ing instnnnents;  whilst  a  pair  of  feelers 
{pafpi),  consisting  of  four  joints,  is  attached 
to  the^iA  near  their  base.  lu  fine,  there  is  a 
long,  slender  tongue,  like  a  bristle,  in  the 
middle  of  these  several  pieces. 

Mor.tfet  says,  "  the  lesser,  leaner,  and 
younger  the  llcas  are,  the  sharper  they  bite, — 
the  fut  ones  being  more  inclined  to  tickle  and 
play.  They  molest  men  that  are  sleeping,'*  he 
a<lds,  "  and  trouble  wounded  and  sick  persons, 
fix>ra  whom  they  escape  by  skipping ;  for  as 
soon  as  they  find  they  are  an-aigned  to  die, 
and  feel  the  finger  coming,  on  a  sudden  they 
are  gone,  and  leap  here  and  there,  and  s(»  es- 
cape the  danger ;  but  so  soon  as  day  breaks 
tliey  forsake  the  bed.  They  then  creep  into 
the  rough  blankets,  or  hide  themselves  in 
rushes  and  dust,  lying  in  ambush  for  pigeons, 
hens,  and  otlier  birds ;  also  for  men  and  dogs, 
moles  and  mice,  and  vex  such  as  pass  by. 
Our  himters  report  that  foxes  are  of  full 
them,  and  they  tell  a  pretty  story  how  they 
get  quit  of  them.  •*  The  fox,"  say  they,  "  ga- 
thers some  handfuls  of  wool  firom  thorns  and 
briers,  and  wrapping  it  up,  holds  it  fast  in  his 
naoutli,  then  he  goes  by  degrees  into  a  cold 
river,  and  dips  himself  down  by  httle  and 
httle;  when  he  finds  that  all  the  fleas  are 
crept  so  high  as  his  head  for  fear  of  drowning, 
and  ultimately  for  shelter  crept  into  the  wool, 
he  barks  and  spits  out  the  wool,  full  of  fleas, 
and  thus  vei;y  froliquely  being  delivered  from 
their  moLestations,  ne  swims  to  land."  J 

'  This  is  a  little  more  doubtfiU  even  than  the 
stoiy  told  of  Cliristina,  queen  of  Sweden, 
who  is  reported  to  have  fired  at  the  fleas  that 
troubled  her  witli  a  piece  of  artillery,  still  ex- 
hibited in  the  Boyal  ^Vrsenal  at  Stockholm. § 
Nor  are  fleas  confined  to  the  old  continent,  for 

•  J.  R.  t  "  Th«ttro  of  rnsocta,-  p.  1102. 

J  *•  J  ho^tro  of  Insects"  p.  1102. 

I  Liiu'juixa,  •'  Luchcsia  Lapau."  U.  32,  note. 


I  Lewis  and  Clarke  found  them  exceedingly  ha- 
I  rassing  on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri,  where 
it  is  said  the  native  Indians  are  sometimes 
compelled  to  shift  their  quarters,  to  escape 
their  annoyance.  They  are  not  acquainted,  it 
would  therefore  seem,  with  the  device  of  the 
shepherds  in  Hungar}',  who  grease  their  clothes 
with  hog's-Iard  to  deter  the  fleas  ;*  nor  with 
the  old  English  preventive : 

'*Whil«  wormwood  hath  s«od,  get  ahMidAiI  or  twaine. 
To  8aT«  acndnst  March,  to  iuiJcm  fleas  refraiu. 
Vhere  chamber  is  swopt.  aud  wormwooU  is  atrown, 
Ne'or  flva  for  his  lifo  axtro  abidu  to  be  kuowu."! 

LinnR?U8  was  in  error  in  stating  that  the  do- 
meslic  cat  (/V/i«  maNicMlatut,  Teemxikck)  is 
not  infested  with  fleas  ;  for  on  kittens  in  par- 
ticular they  abound  as  numerouslj  as  upon 
dogs.} 

Hr.a  Majesty's  Buo-DcsTnoYEr., 

The  vending  of  bug-ix)ison  in  the  London 
streets  is  seldom  followed  as  a  regular  source 
of  living.  We  have  met  with  persons  who 
remember  to  have  »een  men  selling  penny 
packets  of  vennin  poison,  but  to  find  out  the 
vendors  themselves  was  next  to  an  impos- 
sibility. The  men  seem  merely  to  take  to 
the  business  as  a  living  when  all  otlier  sources 
have  failed.  All,  however,  agree  in  acknow- 
ledging that  there  is  such  a  strcct  trade,  but 
that  the  living  it  aflbrds  is  so  precarious  that 
few  men  stop  at  it  longer  than  two  or  three 
weeks. 

l*erhaps  the  most  eminent  firm  of  tlie  bug- 
destroyers  in  London  is  that  of  Messrs.  Tiflin 
and  Son ;  but  they  have  pursued  tlicir  calling 
in  the  streets,  and  rejoice  in  the  title  of  "  I3ug- 
Desti'oyers  to  Her  Majesty  and  tlie  lioyal 
Family," 

Mr.  TiflBn,  the  senior  partner  in  this  house, 
most  kindly  obliged  mo  with  the  following 
statement.  It  may  be  as  well  to  say  that  Mr. 
Tiffin  appears  to  have  paid  much  attention  to 
the  subject  of  bugs,  and  has  studied  with  much 
earnestness  the  natural  history  of  this  vermin. 
*'  Via  can  trace  oin:  business  back,"  he  said, 
"  as  far  as  1693,  when  one  of  our  ancestors 
first  turned  his  attention  to  the  destruction  of 
bugs.  He  was  a  latly's  stay-maker — men 
used  to  make  them  in  those  days,  though,  as 
far  as  that  is  concerned,  it  was  a  man  that 
made  my  mother's  dresses.  This  ancestor 
fonnd  some  hugs  in  his  house  —  a  young 
colony  of  tbem,  that  had  introdneed  them- 
selves without  his  permbsion,  and  he  didn't 
like  their  company,  so  he  trieid  to  turn  them 
out  of  doors  again,  I  have  heard  it  snid,  in 
various  ways.  It  is  in  history,  and  it  has 
been  handed  down  in  my  own  family  a«  well, 
that  bugs  were  first  introduced  into  England 
after  the  fire  of  Loudon,  in  the  timber  Uiai 

*  *' Travels." 

f  Tusacr,  **  PoiuU  of  Goods  Huabandr;.* 

:  J.  u. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


87 


WAS  brought  fi)r  rebuilding  the  city,  tliirty 
jcars  sfler  the  fire,  and  it  was  about  that  time 
that  my  ancestor  firet  discovered  the  colony 
of  bugs  in  his  house,  I  oan't  say  whether  he 
gtadi^  the  snbjeet  of  bug-destroying,  or  whe- 
ther he  found  out  his  stuff  by  accident,  but  he 
ee^nly  did  invent  a  oompound  which  com- 
pletely destroyed  the  bugs,  and,  having  been 
10  successful  in  his  own  house,  he  named  it 
to  some  of  his  customers  who  were  similarly 
plagued,  and  that  was  the  commencement  of 
the  present  connexion,  which  has  continued 
up  to  this  time, 

"'  At  the  time  of  the  illumination  for  the 
Peace,  I  thought  I  must  have  something  over 
my  shop,  that  would  be  both  suitable  for  the 
event  and  to  nfy  business ;  so  I  had  a  trans- 
parency done,  and  stretched  on  a  big  frame, 
and  lit  up  by  gas,  on  which  was  written — 

MATTB2 

DESTROYERS  OF  PEACE 

BE  DESTROYED  BT  US. 

TIFFIN  k,  SON, 
BUG-DESTROYERS  TO  HER  MAJESTY. 

^  Our  business  was  formerly  carried  on  in 
the  Strand,  where  both  my  father  and  myself 
were  bom ;  in  fact,  I  may  say  I  was  born  to 
the  bug  business* 

"  I  remember  my  father  as  well  as  possible ; 
indeed,  I  worked  with  him  for  ten  or  eleven 
years.  He  used,  when  I  was  a  boy,  to  go  out 
to  his  work  killing  bugs  at  his  customers* 
houses  with  a  sword  by  Jus  side  and  a  cocked- 
hat  and  bag- wig  on  his  head —  in  fact,  dressed 
up  like  a  regular  dandy.  I  remember  my 
grandmother,  too,  when  she  was  in  the  busi- 
ness,  going  to  the  different  houses,  and  seat- 
ing herself  in  a  chair,  and  telling  the  men 
what  they  were  to  do,  to  clean  the  furniture 
and  wash  the  woodwork. 

**  I  have  customers  in  our  books  for  whom 
our  house  has  worked  these  100  years ;  that  is, 
my  fiither  «nd  self  have  worked  for  them  and 
their  fathers.  We  do  the  work  by  contract, 
examining  the  house  every  year.  It's  a  pre- 
caution to  keep  the  place  comfortable.  You 
see,  servants  are  apt  to  bring  bugs  in  their 
boxes ;  and,  though  there  may  be  only  two  or 
three  buj^  x>erhiip9  hidden  in  the  woodwork 
and  the  dothet,  yet  they  soon  breed  if  left 
alone* 

**  We  gmeraUy  go  hi  the  spring,  before  the 
bogs  lay  their  eggs }  or,  if  that  time  passes, 
it  ought  to  be  done  before  June,  before  their 
•ggB  are  hatched,  though  it's  never  too  late  to 
get  rid  of  »  nuisance. 

**  I  mostly  find  the  bugs  in  the  bedsteads. 
But,  if  they  are  left  unmolested,  they  get 
nmaeioua  and  elimb  to  the  tops  of  the^ooms, 
and  about  the  ooraoB  oi  the  ceilings.  They 
eolonixe  anywliera  they  can,  though  they're 
▼ery  higb-imiftded  and  prefer  lofty  places. 
Where  ircm  bedsteads  are  used  the  bugs  are 
iBora  im  thm  roomtf  «Bd  that's  why  sueh  things 


are  bad.  They  don't  keep  a  bug  away  from 
the  person  sleeping.  Bugs  '11  come,  if  they're 
thirty  yards  off, 

"  I  knew  a  case  of  a  bug  who  used  to  come 
evexy  night  about  thirty  or  forty  feet — it  was 
an  immense  large  room — from  a  comer  of 
the  room  to  visit  an  old  lady.  There  was  only 
one  bug,  and  he'd  been  there  for  a  long  time. 
I  was  sent  for  to  find  bim  out.  It  took  me  a 
long  timo  to  catch  him.  In  that  instance  I 
had  to  examine  every  part  of  the  room,  and 
when  I  got  him  I  gave  him  an  extra  nip  to 
serve  him  out.  The  reason  why  I  was  so 
bothered  was,  the  bug  had  hidden  itself  near 
the  ^"indow,  the  last  place  I  should  have 
thought  of  looking  for  him,  for  a  bug  never 
by  choice  faces  the  light;  but  when  I  came 
to  inquire  about  it,  I  found  that  this  old  lady 
never  rose  till  three  o'clock  in  the  day,  and 
the  window-curtains  were  always  drawn,  so 
that  there  was  no  light  like. 

*'  Lord  I  yes,  I  am  often  sent  for  to  catch 
a  single  bug.  I've  had  to  go  many,  many 
miles  —  even  100  or  200 — into  the  conntr}*, 
and  perhaps  catch  only  half-a-dozen  bugs 
after  all;  but  then  that's  all  that  are  there, 
so  it  answers  our  employer's  purpose  as  well 
as  if  they  were  swarming. 

"  I  work  for  the  upper  classes  only ;  that 
is,  for  carriage  company  and  such-like  ap- 
proaching it,  you  know.  I  have  noblemen's 
names,  the  first  in  England,  on  my  books. 

**  ;My  work  is  more-  method ;  and  I  may 
call  it  a  scientific  treating  of  the  bugs  rather 
than  wholesale  murder.  We  don't  care  about 
the  thousands,  it's  the  last  bug  we  look  for, 
whilst  your  carpenters  and  upholsterers  leave 
as  many  behind  them,  perhaps,  as  they  man- 
age to  catch. 

"  The  bite  of  the  bug  is  very  curious.  They 
bite  all  persons  the  same(?)  but  the  differ- 
ence of  effect  lays  in  the  constitution  of  the 
parties.  I've  never  noticed  Uiat  a  different 
kind  of  skin  makes  any  difference  in  being 
bitten.  Whether  the  skin  is  moist  or  dry, 
it  don't  matter.  Wherever  bugs  are,  the  per- 
son sleeping  in  the  bed  is  sure  to  be  fed  on, 
whether  they  are  marked  or  not;  and  as  a 
proof,  when  nobody  has  slept  in  the  bed  for 
8orae  time,  the  bugs  become  quite  fiat;  and, 
on  the  contrary,  when  the  bed  is  always  occu- 
pied, they  are  round  as  a  *  lady-bird.' 

^*  The  flat  bug  is  more  ravenous,  though 
even  he  wiU  allow  you  time  to  go  to  sleep  before 
he  begins  with  you ;  or  at  least  until  he  thinks 
you  ought  to  be  asleep.  When  they  find  all 
quiet,  not  even  a  light  in  the  room  yn\\  prevent 
their  biting ;  but  they  are  seldom  or  ever  found 
under  the  bed-clothes.  They  Uke  a  clear 
ground  to  get  off,  and  generally  bite  round  Uie 
edges  of  the  nightcap  or  the  nightdress.  When 
they  are  found  in  the  bed,  it's  because  the 
parties  have  been  tossing  about,  and  have  curled 
the  sheets  round  the  bugs. 

^  The  finest  and  the  fattest  bugs  I  ever  saw 
were  those  I  found  in  a  black  man's  bed^    He 


98 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


WAS  the  favourite  servant  of  an  Indian  general. 
He  didn't  want  his  bed  done  by  me ;  he  didn't 
want  it  touched.  His  bed  was  full  of  'em, 
no  beehive  was  ever  fuller.  The  walls  and  all 
were  the  same,  there  wasn't  a  patch  that  wasn't 
crammed  with  them.  He  must  have  taken 
them  all  over  the  house  wherever  he  went 

•*  I've  known  persons  to  be  laid  up  for 
months  through  bug-bites.  There  was  a  very 
handsome  fair  young  lady  I  knew  once,  and 
she  was  much  bitten  about  the  arms,  and  neck, 
and  face,  so  that  her  eyes  were  so  swelled  up 
she  couldn't  sec.  The  spots  rose  up  like  blis- 
ters, the  same  as  if  stung  with  a  nettle,  only 
on  a  very  large  scale.  The  bites  were  very 
much  inflamed,  and  after  a  time  they  had  the 
appearance  of  boiU. 

^^Somo  people  fancy,  and  it  is  historically 
recorded,  that  tlie  bug  smells  because  it  has 
no  vent ;  but  this  is  fabulous,  for  they  have  a 
veut  It  is  not  the  human  blood  neither  that 
makes  them  smell,  because  a  young  bug  who 
has  never  touched  a  drop  ifv-ill  smell.  They 
breathe,  I  believe,  through  tlieir  sides ;  but  I 
can't  answer  for  that,  though  it's  not  through 
the  head.  They  haven't  g<  )t  a  mouth,  but  they 
insert  into  the  skin  tlie  point  of  a  tube,  which 
is  quite  as  fine  as  a  hair,  through  which  they 
draw  up  the  blood.  I  have  many  a  time  put  a 
bug  on  the  back  of  my  hand,  to  see  how  they 
bite ;  though  I  never  felt  the  bite  but  once,  and 
then  I  suppose  the  bug  had  pitched  upon  a 
very  tender  part,  for  "it  was  a  sharp  prick, 
something  like  that  of  a  leech -bite. 

**  I  once  had  a  case  of  lice-killing,  for  my 
process  will  answer  as  well  for  them  as  for 
bugs,  though  it's  a  thing  I  should  never  follow 
by  choice.  Lice  seem  to  harbour  pretty  much 
the  same  as  bugs  do.  I  found  them  in  the  fur- 
niture. It  was  a  nurse  that  brought  them  into 
the  house,  though  she  was  as  nice  and  clean  a 
looking  woman  as  ever  I  saw.  I  should  almost 
imagine  the  lice  must  have  been  in  her,  for 
they  say  there  is  a  disease  of  that  kind ;  ond  if 
the  tics  breed  in  sheep,  why  should  not  lice 
breed  in  ub  ?  for  we're  but  live  matter,  too.  I 
didn't  like  myself  at  all  for  two  or  three  days 
after  that  lioe-ldlling  job,  I  can  assiure  you ;  it's 
the  only  case  of  the  lund  I  ever  had,  and  I  can 
promise  you  it  shall  be  the  last. 

"  I  was  once  at  work  on  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte's own  bedstead.  I  was  in  the  room,  and 
she  asked  me  if  I  had  found  anything,  and 
I  told  her  no ;  but  just  at  that  minute  I  did 
happen  to  catch  one,  and  upon  that  she  sprang 
up  on  the  bed,  and  put  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  to  look  at  it  She  had  been  tor- 
mented by  the  creature,  because  I  was.  ordered 
to  come  directly,  and  that  was  the  only  one  I 
found.  When  the  Princess  saw  it,  she  said, 
<  Oh,  the  nasty  thing  t  That's  what  tormented 
me  last  night;  don*t  let  him  escape.'  I  think 
he  looked  all  the  better  for  having  tasted  royal 
blood. 

"  I  also  profess  to  kill  beetles,  though  you 
can  never  destroy  them  so  effectually  as  you 


can  bugs ;  for,  you  see,  beetles  run  from  one 
house  to  another,  and  you  can  never  perfectly 
get  rid  of  them ;  you  can  only  keep  them 
under.  Beetles  will  scrape  their  way  and 
make  their  road  round  a  fireplace,  but  how 
they  manage  to  go  from  one  house  to  another 
I  can't  say,  but  they  do, 

**  I  never  had  patience  enough  to  try  and 
kill  fleas  by  my  process ;  it  would  be  too  much 
of  a  chivey  to  please  me. 

•*  I  never  heard  of  any  but  one  man  who 
seriously  went  to  work  selling  bug-  poison  in  the 
streets.  I  was  told  by  some  persons  that  he 
was  selling  a  first-rate  thing,  and  I  spent  several 
days  to  find  him  out.  But,  after  all,  his  secret 
proved  to  be  nothing  at  all.  It  was  train-oil, 
linseed  and  hempseed,  crushed  up  all  together, 
and  the  bugs  were  to  eat  it  till  they  burst 

"  After  all,  secrets  for  bug-poisons  ain't 
wortli  much,  for  all  depends  upon  the  applica- 
tion of  them.  For  instance,  it  is  often  the 
case  that  I  am  sent  for  to  find  out  one  bug  in 
a  room  large  enough  for  a  school.  I've  dis- 
covered it  when  the  creature  had  been  three  or 
four  months  there,  as  I  could  tell  by  his  having 
changed  his  jacket  so  often — for  bugs  shed 
their  skins,  you  know.  No,  there  was  no  rea- 
son that  he  should  have  bred ;  it  might  have 
been  a  single  gentleman  or  an  old  maid. 

**  A  married  couple  of  bugs  will  lay  from 
forty  to  fifty  eggs  at  one  laying.  The  eggs  are 
oval,  and  are  each  as  lai*ge  as  the  thirty- second 
part  of  an  inch  ;  and  when  together  are  in  the 
shape  of  a  caraway  comfit,  and  of  a  bluish- 
white  colour.  They'll  lay  this  quantity  of  eggs 
three  times  in  a  season.  The  young  ones  are 
hatched  direct  f^om  the  egg,  and,  hke  young 
partridges,  will  often  carry  the  broken  eggs 
about  with  them,  ding^g  to  their  back.  They 
get  their  fore-quarters  out,  and  then  they  run 
about  before  the  other  legs  are  completely 
cleared. 

"As  soon  as  the  bugs  are  bom  they  are 
of  a  cream  colour,  and  will  take  to  blood  di- 
rectly; indeed,  if  they  don't  get  it  in  two  or 
three  days  they  die ;  but  after  one  feed  they 
will  live  a  considerable  time  without  a  second 
meal.  I  have  known  old  bugs  to  be  frozen 
over  in  a  horse-pond — when  the  furniture  has 
been  thrown  in  the  water — and  there  they 
have  remained  for  a  good  three  weeks  ;  still, 
after  they  have  got  a  little  bit  warm  in  the 
sun's  rays  they  have  returned  to  life  again. 

**  I  have  myself  kept  bugs  for  five  years  and 
a  half  without  food,  and  a  housekeeper  at  Lord 

H 's  informed  me  that  an  old  bedstead  that 

I  was  then  moving  from  a  store-room  was 
taken  down  forty-five  years  ago,  and  had  not 
been  used  since,  but  the  bugs  in  it  were  still 
numerous,  though  as  thin  as  living  skeletons. 
They  couldn't  have  lived  upon  the  sap  of  the 
wood,  it  being  worm-eaten  and  dry  as  a  bone. 

**  A  bug  will  live  for  a  number  of  years,  and 
we  find  Uiat  when  bugs  are  put  away  in  old 
furniture  without  food,  they  dont  increase  in 
number ;  so  that,  according  to  my  belief,  the 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


39 


bn^  I  just  mentioned  most  have  existed  forty- 
tiTe  years :  besides,  they  were  large  ones,  and 
very  dark-coloured,  which  is  another  proof  of 
age. 

"  It  is  a  dangerous  time  for  bngs  when  they 

are  shedding  their  skins,  which  they  do  about 

I   four  times  in  the  course  of  a  year;  then  they 

I   throw  off  their  hard  shell  and  have  a  soft  coat, 

I    80  that  the  least  touch  will  kiU  them ;  whereas, 

at  other  times  they  will  take  a  strong  pressure. 

I  have  plenty  of  bug-skins,  which  I  keep  by 

me  as  curiosities,  of  all  sizes  and  colours,  and 

sometimes  I  have  found  the  young  bugs  col- 

I   lected  inside  the  old  ones'  skins  for  warmth,  as 

j   if  they  had  put  on  their  father's  great-coat 

I    There  are  white  bugs — albinoes  you  may  call 

I    'em — freaks  of  nature  like." 

I 

Biacx-Bbetles. 

'    CocEROAOHES  are  even  more  voracious  than 
^    crickets.     A  small  species  {Blaita  Lapponica^ 
Lo;^.),  occasionally  met  with  about  London,  is 
'    said  to  swarm  numerously  in  the  huts  of  the 
I    Laplanders,  and  will  sometimes,  iu  conjunc- 
tion with  a  carrion-beetle  (Silpha  Lapponica^ 
Ijx5.),  devour,  we  are  told,  in  a  single  day, 
their  whole  store  of  dried  fish. 
In  London,  and  many  other  parts  of  the 
'    couDtry,   coclooaches,    originally   introduced 
from  abroad,  have  multiplied  so  prodigiously 
I    as  to  be  a  great  nuisance.    They  are  often  so 
numerous  in  kitchens  and  lower  rooms  in 
the  metropolis  as  literally  to  cover  the  floor, 
and  render  it  impossible  for  them  to  move, 
j    except  over  each  other's  bodies.    This,  in- 
deed, onlj  happens  after  dark,  for  they  are 
I    strictly  night  insects,  and  the  instant  a  candle 
1    is  intruded  upon   the   assembly  they   rush 
towards  their  hiding-places,  so  that  in  a  few 
seconds  not  one  of  the  countless  multitude  is 
to  be  seen. 

In  oonsequenca  of  their  numbers,  inde- 
pendently of  their  carnivorous  propensities, 
they  are  driven  to  eat  anything  that  comes 
in  their  way;  and,  besides  devouring  eveiy 
species  of  kitchen-stuff,  they  gnaw  clothes, 
leather,  and  books.  They  likewise  pollute 
everything  they  crawl  over,  with  an  unpleasant 
nauseous  smell. 

These  **  black-beetles,"  however,  as  they  are 
eommonly  called,  are  harmless  when  compared 
viih  the  foreign  species,  the  giant  cockroach 
{Blalia  giganUa),  which  is  not  content  with 
devouring  the  stores  of  the  larder,  but  will 
attack  human  bodies,  and  even  gnaw  the  ex- 
tremities of  the  dead  and  dyings — (Drury's 
lUuMtraUoM  of  Nat,  Hut,  ilL  Pre/.) 

Codroaches,  at  least  the  kind  that  is  most 
■bmidant  in  Britain,  hate  the  light,  and  never 
come  forth  from  their  hiding-places  till  the 
Hg^ts  are  removed  or  extinguished  (the  Blatta 
Qtrmamea^  however,  which  abounds  in  some 
houses,  is  bolder,  making  its  appearance  in 
the  day,  and  rmming  up  the  walls  and  over 
the  tables,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  in- 


habitants). In  the  London  houses,  especially 
on  the  ground-floor,  they  are  most  abundant, 
and  consume  everything  they  can  find — flour, 
bread,  meat,  clothes,  and  even  shoes.  As  soon 
as  light,  natural  or  artificial,  appears,  they  all 
scamper  off  as  fast  as  they  can,  and  vilnish  in 
an  instant. 

These  pests  are  not  indigenous  to  this 
country,  and  perhaps  nowhere  in  Europe,  but 
are  one  of  the  evils  which  commerce  has  im- 
ported. In  Captain  Cook's  last  voyage,  the 
ships,  while  at  Husheine,  were  infested  with 
incredible  numbers  of  these  creatures,  which 
it  was  found  irapossible  by  any  means  to 
destroy.  Every  kind  of  food,  when  exposed 
only  for  a  few  minutes,  was  covered  with 
them,  and  pierced  so  full  of  holes,  that  it 
resembled  a  honeycomb.  They  were  so  fond 
of  ink  that  they  ate  out  the  writing  on  labels. 
Captain  Cook's  cockroaches  were  of  two  kinds — 
the  Blatta  Orientalis  and  Oermanica, — {Encyc. 
Briian.) 

The  following  fact  we  give  firom  Mr.  Douglas's 
World  of  Insect*  • — 

"  Everybody  has  heard  of  a  haunted  house  ; 
nearly  every  house  in  and  about  London  u 
haunted.  Let  the  doubters,  if  they  have  the 
courage,  go  stealthily  down  to  the  kitchen  at 
midnight,  armed  with  a  light  and  whatever 
other  weapon  they  like,  and  they  will  see  that 
beings  of  which  Tam  o'Shanter  never  dreamed, 
whose  presence  at  daylight  was  only  a  myth, 
have  here  *  a  local  habitation  and  a  name.* 
Scared  from  their  nocturnal  revels,  the  crea- 
tures run  and  scamper  in  all  directions,  until, 
in  a  short  time,  the  stage  is  clear,  and,  as  in 
some  legend  of  diablerie^  nothing  remains  but 
a  most  peculiar  odour. 

"  These  were  no  spirits,  had  nothing  even  of 
the  fairy  about  them,  but  were  veritable  cock- 
roaches, or  '  black-beetles' — as  they  are  more 
commonly  but  erroneously  termed — for  they 
are  not  beetles  at  all.  They  have  prodigious 
powers  of  increase,  and  are  a  corresponding 
nuisance.  Kill  as  many  as  you  will,  except, 
perhaps,  by  poison,  and  you  cannot  extirpate 
them — ^the  cry  is,  *  Still  they  come.* 

**  One  of  the  best  ways  to  be  rid  of  them  is  to 
keep  a  hedgehog,  to  which  creature  they  are 
a  favourite  food,  and  his  nocturnal  habits  make 
him  awake  to  theirs.  I  have  known  cats  eat 
cockroaches,  but  they  do  not  thrive  upon 
them." 

**One  article  of  their  food  would  hardly 
have  been  suspected,"  says  Mr.  Newman,  in 
a  note  communicated  to  the  Entomological 
Society,  at  the  meeting  in  February,  18ft6. 
<*  <  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun ;'  so 
says  the  proverb.  I  believed,  until  a  few 
days  back,  that  I  possessed  the  knowledge  of 
a  fact  in  the  dietary  economy  of  the  cockroach 
of  which  entomologists  were  not  cognisant, 
but  I  find  myself  forestalled ;  the  fact  is  *  as 
old  as  the  hills.*  It  is,  that  the  cockroach 
seeks  with  diligence  and  devours  with  great 
gusto  the  common  bed-bug. 


40 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


"  I  will  not  mention  names,  bat  I  am  so  con- 
fident of  the  Teracity  of  the  narrator,  that  I 
-wUlingly  take  the  entire  responsibility  of  the 
foUowiDg  narrative : — 

^  *  Poverty  makes  one  acquainted  with  strange 
bedfellows  ,**  and  my  informant  bears  willing 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  the  adage.  He  had 
not  been  prosperous,  and  liad  sought  shelter 
in  a  London  boarding-house ;  every  night  he 
saw  cockroaches  ascending  his  bed-cuitains ; 
every  morning  ho  complained  to  his  very 
respectable  landlady,  and  invaiiably  received 
the  comforting  assurance  that  there  was  not  a 

*  black-beetle  m  the  house.'  Still  he  pursued 
liis  nocturnal  investigations,  and  he  not  only 
saw  cockroaches  running  along  the  tester  of 
Uie  bed,  but,  to  his  great  astonishment,  he 
positively  observed  one  of  them  seize  a  bug, 
and  he  therefore  concluded,  and  not  without 
some  show  of  reason,  that  the  cockroach 
ascended  the  curtains  witli  this  especial  object, 
and  that  the  more  odoriferous  insect  is  a 
favourite  food  of  the  major  one. 

"  The  following  extract  from  Mr.  Webster's 
« Narrative  of  Foster's  Voyage,'  corroborates 
this  recent  observation,  and  illustrates  the 
proverb  wliich  I  have   taken   as  my  text: 

*  Cockroaches,  those  nuisances  of  ships,  are 
plentiful  at  St  Helena,  and  yet,  bad  as  they 
are,  they  are  more  endurable  than  bugs. 
Trevious  to  our  arrival  here  in  the  Chanticleer 
we  had  suffered  great  inconvenience  from  the 
latter ;  but  the  cockroaches  no  sooner  made 
their  appearance  than  the  bugs  entirely  dis- 
appeared. The  fact  is,  the  cockroach  preys 
ui)on  them,  and  leaves  no  sign  or  vestige 
of  where  they  have  been.  So  far,  the  latter 
is  a  most  valuable  insect' " 

So  great  is  the  annoyance  and  discomfort 
arising  fh>m  tlicse  insects  in  Cockney  house- 
holds, that  the  author  of  a  paper  in  the  Daily 
News  discusses  the  best  means  of  effecting 
their  extirpation.  The  writer  of  the  article 
referred  to  avows  his  conviction,  that  the 
ingeniouB  individual  who  shall  devise  the 
means  of  effectually  ridding  our  houses  of 
these  insect  pests  iiiU  deserve  to  be  ranked 
amongst  the  benefactors  of  mankind.  The 
writer  details  the  various  expedients  resorted 
to  —  hedgehogs,  cucumber-peel,  red  wafers, 
phosphonc  paste,  glazed  basins  or  pio-dishcs 
filled  with  beer,  or  a  syrup  of  beer  and  sugar, 
with  bits  of  wood  set  up  from  tiie  floor  to  the 
edge,  for  the  creatures  to  run  up  by,  and  then 
be  precipitated  into  the  fatal  lake,  but  believes 
that  *'none  of  these  methods  are  fundamental 
enough  for  the  evil,"  which,  so  far  as  he  is  ^et 
aware,  can  only  be  effectualJly  cured  by  heatmg 
our  houses  by  steam  t 

Beetle  Destboyeab. 

A  FiRV,  which  has  been  established  in  London 
seven  years,  and  which  manufactures  ex- 
clusively poison  known  to  the  trade  as  tlie 
**  I'hosplior  Paste  for  the  destruction  of  black- 


beeties,  cockroaches,  rats,  mice/'  &€,,  were 
kind  enough  to  give  mo  the  following  infor- 
mation:— 

"  AVe  have  now  sold  this  vermin  poison  for 
seven  years,  but  we  have  never  had  an  applica- 
tion for  our  composition  from  any  street-seller. 
We  have  seen,  a  year  or  two  since,  a  man 
about  London  who  used  to  sell  beetle-wafers ; 
but  as  we  knew  that  kind  of  article  to  bo 
entirely  useless,  we  were  not  surprised  to  fmd 
that  he  did  not  succeed  in  making  a  hving. 
We  have  not  heoi'd  of  him  fur  some  time,  anid 
have  no  doubt  he  is  dead,  or  has  taken  up 
some  other  line  of  emplo}'ment 

"It  is  a  strange  fact,  perhaps;  but  we  do 
not  know  anything,  or  scarceiy  anything,  as  to 
the  kind  of  people  and  tradesmen  who  pur- 
chase our  poison — to  speak  the  tmth,  we  do 
not  like  to  make  too  many  inquiries  of  our 
customers.  Sometimes,  when  tiiey  have  used 
more  than  their  customary  quantity,  we  have 
asked,  casually,  how  it  was  and  to  what  kind  of 
business-people  they  disposed  of  it,  and  wo  have 
always  been  met  with  an  evasive  sort  of  answer. 
You  see  tradesmen  don't  like  to  divulge  too 
mucli ;  for  it  must  be  a  poor  kind  of  pro£esaion 
or  calling  that  there  ore  no  secrets  in ;  and, 
again,  they  fancy  we  want  to  know  what  de- 
scription of  trades  use  the  most  of  our  com- 
position, so  that  we  might  supply  them  direct 
from  ourselves. 

"  From  tiiis  oanso  we  Ixavo  made  it  a  rule 
not  to  inquire  curiously  into  the  mutters  of  our 
customers.  We  are  quite  content  to  dispose 
of  the  quantity  wo  do,  for  we  employ  aix 
travellers  to  call  on  chemists  and  oilmen  fur 
tJie  town  trade,  and  four  for  the  country. 

*'  The  otlier  day  an  elderly  lady  from  High- 
street,  C&mden  Town,  called  upon  us :  she 
stated  that  she  was  overrun  with  black-beeties, 
and  wished  to  buy  some  of  our  paste  from  our- 
selves, for  she  said  she  always  found  things 
better  if  you  purchased  them  of  the  maker,  as 
yon  were  sure  to  get  them  stronger,  and  by 
that  means  avoid^  the  adulteration  of  the 
shopkeepers.  But  as  we  have  said  we  would 
not  supply  a  single  box  to  anyone,  not  wiahing 
to  give  our  agents  any  cause  for  complaint,  we 
were  obliged  to  refuse  to  sell  to  the  old  lady. 

•*  We  don't  care  to  say  how  many  boxes  we 
sell  in  tlio  year ;  but  we  can  tell  you,  sir,  that 
we  sell  more  for  boeUe  poisoning  in  the 
summer  than  in  the  winter,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  ViThen  we  find  that  a  particular  distnct 
uses  almost  an  equal  quantity  all  Uie  year 
round,  we  make  sure  that  that  is  a  rat  district ; 
for  where  there  is  not  the  heat  of  summer  to 
breed  beeties,  it  must  follow  that  the  people 
wish  to  get  rid  of  rats. 

"  Brixton,  Hackney,  Ball's  Pond,  and  Lower 
Road,  Islington,  are  the  places  that  use  most 
of  our  paste,  those  districts  lying  low,  and 
being  consequentiy  damp.  Camden  Town, 
though  it  is  in  a  high  situation,  is  vcr}*  much 
infested  with  beeties;  it  is  a  clayey  soil,  you 
undcx-staud,  which  retains  moisture,  und  will 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


41 


Bot  tllo  w  it  to  ®  ter  lihTOtigh  &e  gravel.  Tkis 
is  wby  in  flone  "very  low  districts,  where  the 
b<mses  are  bniH  <m  -gravel,  we  sell  scarce! j  any 
of  otir  xmste. 

"  As  the  fanners  say,  &  good  fttnt  year  is  a 
food  fly  ycirr;  so  we  say,  a  good  dnll,  wet 
smniner,  is  a  "good  beetle  smmner ;  and  this 
has  been  a  Tery  fertile  year,  and  we  only  hope 
it  win  be  as  good  next  year. 

••  We  don't  believe  in  rat-destroyers ;  they 
profess  to  Idll  with  weasels  and  a  lot  of  things, 
and  sometimes  even  say  they  can  charm  them 
away.  Captains  of  vessels,  when  they  anive 
in  the  docks,  will  employ  these  people ;  and, 
as  we  say,  they  genendly  use  onr  composition, 
bat  as  long  as  their  vessels  are  cleared  of  the 
vermin,  they  dont  care  to  know  how  it  is  done. 
A  man  who  drives  about  in  a  cart,  and  docs  a 
great  business  in  this  way,  we  have  reason  to 
believe  nses  %  great  qnantUy  of  our  Phosphor 
Paste.  He  comes  from  somewhere  down  the 
East-end  or  \NTiitechapel  way. 

•Our  prices  are  too  high  for  the  street- 
sellers.  Your  street-seller  can  only  afford  to 
sell  an  article  made  by  a  person  in  bnt  a  very 
httle  better  position  than  himself.  Even  onr 
small  boxes  cost  At  the  trade  priee  two  shillings 
a  dozen,  and  when  sold  "will  only  produce  three 
shillings ;  so  you  can  imagine  the  profit  is  not 
enough  for  the  itinerant  vendor. 

"  Bakers  don't  «se  much  of  our  paste,  far 
they  seem  to  think  it  no  use  to  destroy  the 
vermin — beetles  and  bakers*  ahops  generally 
go  togethar." 

Cbicqcts. 

The  house-cridket  may  perhaps  be  deemed 
a  s^H  more  annoiying  insect  than  the  common 
cockroach,  adding  an  incessant  noise  to  its 
ravages.  Though  it  may  not  be  unpleasant 
to  hear  for  a  short  time  '*  the  cricket 
chimip  in  the  hearth,^  so  constant  a  din 
every  evening  must  greatly  intaimpt  o<nnfort 
aad  conversation. 

These  garrulous  animals,  which  live  in  a 
land  of  artificial  torrid  zone,  ara  very  thirsty 
souls,  and  are  frequently  found  drowned  in 
pans  of  water,  milk,  broth,  and  the  like. 
Whatever  is  moist,  even  stockings  or  linen 
hung  out  to  dry,  is  to  them  a  houtu  boucke  ; 
Ihey  win  eat  the  skimmings  of  pots,  yeast, 
crambs  of  bread,  and  even  salt,  or  anything 
within  their  reafih.  Sometimes  thej  are  so 
abundant  in  houses  as  to  become  absolute 
pestSi  flying  into  the  candles  and  even  into 
people's  faces. —  (Kirby  and  Spence's  £hI.  u 
200,7.) 

The  house-cricket  {Acheia  domettica)  is  well 
known  for  its  habit  of  picking  out  the  mortar 
of  ovens  and  fire-places,  where  it  not  only 
enjoys  warmth,  but  can  procure  abundance  of 
food.  It  is  usually  supposed  that  it  feeds  on 
bread.  M.  Latreille  says  it  only  eats  insects, 
and  it  certainly  thrives  well  in  houses  infested 
by  the  cockroach ;  but  we  have  also  known  it 


eat  and  destroy  lamb's-wool  stockings,  and 
other  woollen  stuffs,  hung  near  a  fire  to  dry. 
Although  the  food  of  crickets  consists  chiefly 
of  vegetable  substances,  they  exliibit  a  pro- 
pensity to  carnivorous  habits.  The  house- 
cricket  thrives  best  in  the  vicinity  of  a  baker's 
oven,  where  there  are  plenty  of  breswl  crumbs. 

Mouffet  marvels  at  its  extreme  lankness, 
inasmuch  as  there  is  not  "  found  in  the  belly 
any  superfluity  at  all,  although  it  feed  on  the 
moisture  of  flesh  and  fat  of  broth,  to  which, 
eitlier  poured  out  or  reserved,  it  runs  in  the 
night ;  yea,  although  it  feed  on  bread,  yet  is 
the  belly  always  lank  and  void  of  superfluity." 
— (  Theatre  of  Insects,  p.  90.) 

White  of  Selbome,  again,  says,  "as  one 
would  suppose,  from  the  burning  atmosphere 
which  they  inhabit,  they  are  a  thirsty  race, 
and  show  a  great  propensity  for  liquids,  being 
frequently  found  dead  in  pans  of  water,  milk, 
broth,  or  tbo  like.  Whatever  is  moist  they 
arc  fond  of,  and  therefore  they  often  gnaw 
holes  in  wet  woollen  stockings  and  aprons 
that  are  hung  to  the  fire.  These  crickets  are 
not  only  VC17  thu-sty,  but  very  voracious ;  for 
they  will  eat  the  scummings  of  pots,  yeast, 
bread,  and  kitchen  offal,  or  sweepings  of 
almost  eveiy  description."  —  (A'o/.  Hist,  of 
Seliorne.) 

The  cricket  is  eridcntly  not  fond  of  hard 
labour,  but  prefers  those  places  where  the 
mortar  is  already  loosened,  or  at  least  is  new, 
soft,  and  easily  scooped  out ;  and  in  this  way 
it  will  dig  covert  channels  from  room  to  room. 
In  summer,  crickets  often  make  excursions 
from  the  house  to  the  neighbouring  fields, 
and  dwell  in  the  crevices  of  rubbish,  or  the 
cracks  made  in  the  ground  by  dry  weather, 
where  tliey  chirp  as  merrily  as  in  the  snuggest 
chimney-comer.  Whether  they  ever  dig  re- 
treats in  such  circumstances  we  have  not 
ascertained,  though  it  is  not  improbable  they 
ms^'  do  so  for  the  purpose  of  making  nests. 

"Those,-  says  Mr.  Gough  of  Manchester, 
"  who  have  attended  to  the  manners  of  the 
hearth -cricket,  know  that  it  passes  the  hottest 
part  of  the  summer  in  sunny  situations,  con- 
cealed in  the  crevices  of  widls  and  hei^  of 
rubbish.  It  quits  its  summer  abode  aboui 
the  end  of  August,  and  fixes  its  residence  by 
the  fireside  of  kitchens  or  cottages,  where  it 
multiplies  its  species,  and  is  as  meny  at 
Christmas  as  other  insects  in  the  dog-days. 
ThTis  do  the  comforts  of  a  warm  hearth  afford 
the  cricket  a  safe  refuge,  not  from  death,  but 
firom  temporaxy  torpiditj^,  though  it  con  sup- 
port this  for  a  long  time,  when  deprived  by 
accident  of  artificial  warmth. 

"  I  came  to  a  knowledge  of  this  fact,"  con- 
tinues Mr.  Gough,  "  by  planting  a  colony  of 
these  insects  in  a  kitchen,  where  a  constant 
fire  was  kept  through  the  summer,  but  which 
is  discontinued  from  November  till  June,  with 
the  exception  of  a  day  once  in  six  or  eight 
weeks.  The  crickets  were  brought  from  a 
distance,  and  let  go  in  this  room,  in  the  be- 


42 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


ginning  of  September,  1806;  here  they  in- 
creased considerably  in  the  course  of  two 
months,  but  were  not  heard  or  seen  after  the 
fire  was  removed.  Their  disappearance  led 
me  to  conclude  that  the  cold  had  killed  them ; 
but  in  this  I  was  mistaken ;  for  a  brisk  fire 
being  kept  up  for  a  whole  day  in  the  winter, 
the  warmth  of  it  invited  my  colony  from  their 
hiding*place,  but  not  before  the  evening ;  after 
which  they  continued  to  skip  about  and  chirp 
the  greater  part  of  the  following  day,  when 
they  again  disappeared — being  compelled,  by 
the  returning  cold,  to  take  refuge  in  their 
former  retreats.  They  left  the  chimney- 
comer  on  the  25th  of  May,  1807,  after  a  fit  of 
veiy  hot  weather,  and  revisited  their  winter 
residence  on  the  3 1st  of  August.  Here  they 
spent  the  summer  merely,  and  at  present 
(Januar}',  1808)  lie  torpid  in  the  crevices  of 
the  chimney,  with  the  exception  of  those  days 
on  which  they  are  recalled  to  a  temporary 
existence  by  the  comforts  of  the  fire." — (Reeve, 
Euay  on  the  Torpidity  qfAnimali,  p.  84.) 

M.  Bery  St.  Vincent  tells  us  that  the 
Spaniards  are  so  fond  of  crickets  that  they 
keep  them  in  cages  like  singing-birds. — (Did. 
CUusique  d*SUt,  Nat,  Ari,^  GrUlon.  Bennie's 
Intect  ArehiUeture,  4th  edit.  p.  242.) 

Associated  as  is  the  chirping  song  of  the 
cricket  family  of  insects  with  the  snug  chimney- 
corner,  or  the  sunshine  of  summer,  it  affords 
a  pleasure  which  certainly  does  not  arise  from 
the  intrinsic  quality  of  its  music.  ^*  Sounds," 
says  White,  *'  do  not  always  give  us  pleasure 
according  to  their  sweetness  and  melody ;  nor 
do  harsh  sounds  always  displease.  Thus, 
the  shrilling  of  the  field-cricket  {Acheta  cam- 
pettriM),  though  sharp  and  stridulous,  yet 
marvellously  delights  some  hearers,  filling 
their  minds  with  a  train  of  summer  ideas  of 
everything  that  is  rural,verdurous,  and  joyous." 
--{Nat.  Hist.  o/Selbome,  ii.  73.) 

*' Sounds  InharmoniouB  in  ihemielvea.  and  banh, 
Tet  heard  in  soenea  where  peace  for  ever  reignii^ 
And  only  there,  pleaae  highly  for  their  nke." 

CowFKB,  Tdak^  Book  I. 

This  circumstance,  no  doubt,  causes  the 
Spaniards  to  keep  them  in  cages,  as  we  do 
Binging-birds.  White  tells  us  that,  if  sup. 
pHed  with^  moistened  leaves,  they  will  sing  as 
merrily  and  loud  in  a  paper  cage  as  in  the 
fields ;  but  he  did  not  succeed  in  planting  a 
colony  of  them  in  the  terrace  of  his  garden, 
though  he  bored  holes  for  them  in  the  turf  to 
save  them  the  labour  of  digging. 

The  hearth-cricket,  again,  though  we  hear 
it  oocasionally  in  the  hedge-banks  in  simuner, 


prefers  the  warmth  of  an  oven  or  a  good  fire, 
and  thence,  residing  as  it  were  always  in  the 
torrid  zone,  is  ever  alert  and  merry — a  good 
Christmas  fire  being  to  it  what  the  heat  of  the 
dog-days  is  to  others. 

Though  crickets  are  frequently  heard  by 
day,  yet  their  natural  time  of  motion  is  only 
in  tiie  night.  As  soon  as  darkness  prevails 
the  chirping  increases,  whilst  the  hearth- 
crickets  come  running  forth,  and  are  often  to 
be  seen  in  great  numbers,  from  the  size  of  a 
flea  to  that  of  their  full  stature. 
I  Like  the  field-cricket,  the  hearth- crickets 
'  are  sometimes  kept  for  their  music ;  and  the 
learned  Scaliger  took  so  great  a  fancy  to  tlieir 
I  song,  that  he  was  accustomed  to  keep  them 
in  a  box  in  his  study.  It  is  reported  that  in 
some  parts  of  Africa  they  are  kept  and  fed  in 
a  kind  of  iron  oven,  and  sold  to  the  natives, 
who  like  their  chirp,  and  think  it  is  a  good 
soporific— (Mouffet,  Theat.  Insect,  136.) 

Milton,  too,  chose  for  his  contemplative 
pleasures  a  spot  where  crickets  resorted  :— 

"  Where  glowing  embcm  through  the  room 
Teach  bght  to  counterfeit  a  gloom. 
Far  from  all  retort  of  mirth, 
8ee  the  cricket  on  the  hearth."— /{ Peiucroso. 

Bennie,  in  his  Insect  Jfiscellaniei,  says, 
'*  We  have  been  as  tmsuccessf\il  in  transplant- 
ing the  hearth-cricket  as  White  was  wiUi  the 
field-crickets.  In  two  different  houses  we 
have  repeatedly  introduced  crickets,  but  could 
not  prevail  on  them  to  stay.  One  of  our 
.  trials,  indeed,  was  made  in  summer,  with 
'  insects  brought  from  a  garden-wall,  and  it  is 
probable  they  thought  the  kitchen  fire-side 
too  hot  at  that  season."— (p.  82.) 

The  so-called  chirp  of  the  cricket  is  a  vulgar 
error.  The  instrument  (for  so  it  may  be 
styled)  upon  which  the  male  cricket  plays 
(the  femide  is  mute)  consists  of  strong  ner. 
vures  or  rough  strings  in  the  wing-cases,  by 
the  friction  of  which  against  each  other  a 
sound  is  produced  and  communicated  to  the 
membranes  stretched  between  them,  in  the 
same  manner  as  the  vibrations  caused  by  the 
friction  of  the  finger  upon  the  tambourine  are 
difilised  over  its  surfSnce.  It  is  erroneously 
stated  in  a  popular  work,  that  "  the  organ  is 
a  membrane,  which  in  contracting,  by  means 
of  a  muscle  and  tendon  placed  under  the 
wings  of  the  insect,  folds  down  somewhat  like 
a  fan ;  **  and  this,  being  **  always  dry,  yields  by 
its  motion  a  sharp  piercing  sound." — (Bing, 
Anim,  Biog,  iv.  hth  edit.  Bennie's  Insed 
Miscellanies^  p.  62.) 


PUNCH'S   SHOWMEN. 

[From  a  PhotographJ] 


LOMDOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOKDON  POOR. 


At\ 


OUR  STREET  FOLK. 


I^STBEET  EXHIBITOES. 

PCKCH. 

The  perf'^nncr  of  Punch  thct  I  satr  iras  a 
short,  dark,  pleasant-looking  laan,  dressed  iu 
a  veiy  greasy  and  very  shiny  green  sliooting- 
.iacket.  This  waa  iaataned  togedier  by  one 
buUmi  iu  front,  all  the  other  button-holes 
having  been  boxat  through.  Protruding  from 
Lis  bo8oni,  a  comer  of  the  pandean  pipes  was 
just  A-icuble,  and  as  he  told  me  the  stor>'  of  his 
fctlventures,  he  kept  playing  with  the  band  of 
his  very  limp  and  very  rusty  old  beaver  hat 
lie  had  formeriy  been  a  gentleman's  servant, 
and  was  cspeeiiUly  civil  in  his  manners.  He 
came  to  nie  with  to  hair  tidily  brushed  for 
the  oeeasion,  but  apologised  for  his  appear- 
ance on  entering  the  room.  He  was  rery 
ccumDunieativey  and  took  great  delight  in  talk- 
ing hk»  Punch,  with  his  call  in  his  moutli, 
while  some  yoong  children  were  in  the  room, 
and  who,  hearing  the  well-known  sound  of 
Punch's  voice,  looked  all  about  for  the  figure. 
Not  seraig  the  show,  the}'  fancied  the  man 
had  the  figure  in  his  pocket,  luid  that  the 
soimds  came  from  it  The  change  from 
Punch's  voice  to  the  man's  natural  tone  was 
managed  without  ao  eflbrt,  and  inatanta- 
nwuslj.    It  had  a  very  peculiar  efiect. 

**  I  am  the  proprietor  of  a  Punch's  show," 
he  said.  **  I  goes  about  with  it  myself,  and 
pertarms  inside  the  frame  behind  the  green 
baize.  I  have  a  pardner  what  plays  the 
music — the  pipes  and  drum;  him  as  you 
seed  with  me.  I  have  been  ftve-and-twenty 
year  now  at  the  buainess.  I  wish  Pd  never 
K-en  it,  though  itVs  heen  a  money-making  busi- 
ness-^indeed,  the  best  of  all  the  street  hex- 
hibitBons  I  may  say.  I  am  fifty  years  old.  I 
took  to  it  for  money  gains — that  was  what  I 
done  it  for.  I  formerly  lived  in  service— 
was  a  fbotraan  in  a  gentieman's  family.  TYhen 
I  first  took  to  it,  I  could  make  two  and  three 
pounds  a-day— I  could  so.  You  see,  the  way 
in  whirh  I  took  first  to  the  business  was  thin 
here— there  was  a  party  used  to  come  and 
'  cheer'  for  ns  at  my  macfter's  house,  and  her 
son  having  a  liexhibition  of  his  own,  and  being 
in  want  of  a  pardner,  axed  me  if  so  be  Pd  go 
out,  which  was  a  thing  that  I  degraded  at  the 
time.  He  gave  me  informatioD  as  to  what  the 
money^akuig  was,  and  it  aeemed  to  me  that 
frood,'that  it  voold  pay  me  better  nor  service. 
X  had  twenty  poim«  a-yaar  in  my  place,  and 
my  boaand  and  lodging,  sad  two  amtaof  clothes, 
l>ut  the  young  man  told  me  as  how  I  could 
make  one  pound  ai^ay  at  the  Puneh^and- 
Jady  basiaesB,  after  a  little  practice.  I  took 
a  d^  of  penoasioa,  though,  be£6re  Pd  join 
him — it  was  beneath  my  dignity  to  fall  from  I 


a  footman  to  a  showman.  But,  you  ciee,  the 
French  gennehnan  as  I  Ivi^ed  with  (he  were  a 
merchant  in  the  dty,  and  had  fourteen  clerks 
working  for  him)  went  back  to  his  own 
country  to  reside,  and  left  me  with  a  written 
kerrackter ;  but  that  was  ao  use  to  me :  though 
I'd  fine  rocommeudations  at  the  back  of  it, 
no  one  would  look  at  it ;  so  I  was  five  months 
out  of  employment,  knocking  about — Kviog 
first  on  my  wages  and  then  on  my  clothes,  till 
all  was  gone  but  the  Hew  rags  on  ray  back.  So 
I  began  to  think  that  the  Punch-Mid-Judy 
business  was  better  than  starving  aifter  alL 
Yes,  I  should  think  anything  was  better  than 
that,  though  it's  a  business  that,  alter  youVe 
onee  took  to,  ynu  nerrer  can  get  out  of — 
people  fancies  you  know  too  much,  and  wont 
have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  If  I  got  a  situa- 
tion at  a  tradesman's,  why  the  boys  would  be 
sure  to  recognise  me  behind  the  counter,  and 
begin  a  shouting  into  the  shop  (theynurtf 
shout,  you  know):  *  Oh,  there's  Punch  and 
Judy-^there's  Punch  a-sarving  out  the  cus- 
tomers!' Ah,  it's  a  great  annoyaace  being  a 
public  kerrackter,  I  can  asaore  you,  sir;  go 
where  you  will,  if  s  *  Punchy,  Punchy ! '  As  for 
the  boys,  they'll  never  leave  me  alone  till  I 
die,  I  know;  and  I  suppose  in  my  old  age  I 
shall  have  to  take  to  the  paiish  broom.  All 
our  forefathers  died  in  the  workhouse.  I  don't 
know  a  Puneli's  showman  that  hasn't.  One 
of  ay  pardners  was  buried  by  the  workhouse ; 
and  e%'en  old  Pike,  the  most  noted  showman 
as  ever  was,  died  in  the  workhouse — Pike 
and  Porsini.  Porsini  was  the  first  original 
street  Pundi,  and  Pike  was  his  apprentice ; 
their  names  is  handed  dowm  to  posterity 
among  the  noblemen  and  footmen  of  the 
land.  They  both  died  in  the  workhouse,  and, 
in  course,  I  shall  do  the  same.  Something 
else  mi^  turn  up,  to  be  sure.  We  can't  say 
what  this  luck  of  the  world  is.  I'm  obliged  to 
strive  verjr  hard — very  hard  indeed,  sir,  now, 
to  get  a  hving ;  and  then  not  to  get  it  after  all 
•—at  times,  compelled  to  go  short,  often. 

**  Punch,  you  know,  sir,  ia  a  dramatic  per- 
formance in  two  hacts.  It's  a  play,  you  may 
say.  I  don't  think  it  can  be  cidled  a  tragedy 
hexactly;  a  drama  is  what  we  names  it. 
There  is  tragic  parts,  and  eomie  and  senti- 
mental i>arta,  toa  Some  families  where  I 
performs  will  have  it  most  sentimental — in 
the  original  style ;  them  families  is  generally 
sentimental  theirselves.  Others  is  all  for  the 
eomie,  and  then  I  has  to  kick  up  all  the  ga^fs 
I  can.  To  the  sentunental  fblk  I  am  obl^ed 
toi»erform  weny  steadv  and  werry  slow,  and 
leave  out  all  oomic  wotds  and  business.  They 
wont  have  no  ghost,  no  ooflfin,  and  no  detii; 
and  that's  what  I  call  qpiling  the  perfbrmsnea 


44 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


entirely.  It's  the  inarch  of  hintellect  wot's  a 
doing  all  this— it  is,  sir.  But  I  was  a  going 
to  tell  you  about  my  first  jining  the  business. 
Well,  you  see,  after  a  good  deal  of  persuading, 
atfl  being  drew  to  it,  I  may  say,  I  consented 
to  go  out  with  the  young  man  as  I  were  a- 
speaking  about.  He  was  to  give  me  twelve 
shillings  a-week  and  my  keep,  for  two  years 
certain,  till  I  oould  get  my  own  show  things 
together,  and  for  that  I  was  to  cany  the  show, 
and  go  round  and  collect.  Collecting,  you 
know,  sounds  better  than  begging ;  the  pro- 
nounciation's  better  like.  Sometimes  the  peo- 
ple says,  when  they  sees  us  a  coming  round, 
'  Oh,  here  they  comes  a-begging '.-.but  it 
can't  be  begging,  you  know,  when  you're  a 
hexerting  yourselves.  I  couldn't  play  the  drum 
and  pipes,  so  the  young  man  used  to  do  that 
himself,  to  call  the  people  together  before  he 
got  into  the  show.  I  used  to  stand  outside, 
and  patter  to  the  figures.  The  first  time  that 
ever  I  went  out  with  Punch  was  in  the  be- 
ginning of  August,  1825.  I  did  all  I  could  to 
avoid  being  seen.  My  dignity  was  hurt  at 
being  hobJigated  to  take  to  the  streets  for  a 
living.  At  fust  I  fought  shy,  and  used  to  feel 
queer  somehow,  you  don't  know  how  like, 
whenever  the  people  used  to  look  at  me.  I 
remember  werry  well  the  first  street  as  eyer 
I  performed  in.  It  was  off  Gray's  Inn,  one  of 
them  quiet,  genteel  streets,  and  when  the  mob 
began  to  gather  round  I  felt  all-overish,  and 
I  turned  my  head  to  the  frame  instead  of  the 
people.  We  hadn't  had  no  rehearsals  afore- 
hand,  and  I  did  the  patter  quite  permiBcnous. 
There  was  not  much  talk,  to  be  sure,  required 
then;  and  what  little  there  was,  consisted 
merely  in  calling  out  the  names  of  the  figures 
as  they  came  up,  and  these  my  master 
prompted  me  with  from  inside  the  fbune. 
But  little  as  there  was  for  me  to  do,  X  know  I 
never  could  have  done  it,  if  it  hadnt  been  for 
the  spirits — the  false  spirits,  you  see  (a  little 
drop  of  gin),  as  my  master  guv  me  in  the 
morning.  The  first  time  as  ever  I  made  my 
appearance  in  public,  I  collected  as  much  as 
eight  shillings,  and  my  master  said,  after  the 
peiformance  was  over,  'You'll  do  I'  You  see 
I  was  partly  in  livery,  and  looked  a  little  bit 
decent  like.  After  this  was  over,  I  kept  on 
going  out  with  my  master  for  two  years,  as  I 
had  agreed,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  had 
saved  enough  to  start  a  show  of  my  own.  I 
bought  the  show  of  old  Porsini,  the  man  as 
first  brought  Punch  into  the  streets  of  Eng- 
land.   To  be  Biure,  there  was  a  woman  over 

here  with  it  before  then.    Her  name  was 

I  can't  think  of  it  just  now,  but  she  never  per- 
formed in  the  streets,  so  we  consider  Porsini 
as  our  real  forefather.  It  isnt  much  more  nor 
setftDty  years  since  Porsini  (he  was  a  weny 
old  man  when  he  died,  and  blind)  showed 
the  hexhibidon  in  the  streets  of  London.  I've 
heerd  tell  that  old  Porsini  used  to  take  very 
often  as  much  as  ten  pounds  a-day,  and  he 
used  to  sit  down  to  his  fowls  and  wine,  and 


the  very  best  of  everything,  like  the  first 
gennelman  in  the  land;  indeed,  he  made 
enough  monev  at  the  business  to  be  quite  a 
tip-top  gennelman,  that  he  did.  But  he  never 
took  care  of  a  halfpenny  he  got.  He  was  that 
independent,  that  if  he  was  wanted  to  perform, 
sir,  he'd  come  at  his  time,  not  your'n.  At 
last,  he  reduced  himself  to  want,  and  died  in 
St.  Giles's  workhouse.  Ah,  poor  fellow !  he 
oughtn't  to  have  been  allowed  to  die  where  he 
did,  after  amusing  the  public  for  so  many 
years.  Every  one  in  London  knowed  him. 
Lords,  dukes,  princes,  squires,  and  wagabonds 
— all  used  to  stop  to  laugh  at  his  performance, 
and  a  funny  clever  old  fellow  he  was.  He  was 
past  performing  when  I  bought  my  show  of 
him,  and  werry  poor.  He  was  living  in  the 
Coal-yard,  Drury-lone,  and  had  scarcely  a  bit 
of  food  to  eat.  He  had  spent  all  he  had  got 
in  drink,  and  in  treating  friends, —  aye,  any 
one,  no  matter  who.  He  didn't  study  the 
world,  nor  himself  neither.  As  fast  as  the 
money  came  it  went,  and  when  it  was  gone, 
why,  he'd  go  to  work  and  get  more.  His 
show  was  a  very  inferior  one,  though  it  were 
the  fust — nothing  at  all  like  them  about  now 
—  nothing  near  as  good.  If  you  only  had  four 
sticks  then,  it  was  quite  enough  to  make 
plenty  of  money  out  of,  so  long  eis  it  wns 
Punch.  I  gave  him  thirty-five  shillings  for 
the  stand,  figures  and  all.  I  bought  it  cheap, 
you  see,  for  it  was  thrown  on  one  side,  and 
was  of  no  use  to  any  one  but  such  as  myself. 
There  was  twelve  figures  and  the  other  happa- 
ratus,  such  as  the  gallows,  ladder,  horse,  bell, 
and  stuffed  dog.  The  characters  was  Punch, 
Judy,  Child,  Beadle,  Scaramouch,  Nobody, 
Jack  Ketch,  the  Grand  Senoor,  the  Doctor, 
the  Devil  (there  was  no  Ghost  used  then). 
Merry  Andrew,  and  the  Blind  Man.  These 
last  two  kerrackters  are  quite  done  with  now. 
The  heads  of  the  kerrackters  was  all  carved  in 
wood,  and  dressed  in  the  proper  costmne  of 
the  country.  There  was  at  that  time,  and  is 
now,  a  real  carver  for  the  Punch  business. 
He  was  dear,  but  werry  good  and  hexcellent. 
His  Punch's  head  was  the  best  as  I  ever  seed. 
The  nose  and  chin  used  to  meet  quite  close 
together.  A  set  of  new  figures,  dressed  and 
all,  would  come  to  about  fifteen  pounds.  Each 
head  costs  five  shillings  for  the  bare  carving 
alone,  and  every  figure  that  we  has  takes  at 
least  a  yard  of  cloth  to  dress  him,  besides 
ornaments  and  things  tliat  comes  werry  ex- 
pensive. A  good  show  at  the  present  time 
will  cost  three  pounds  odd  for  the  stand  alone 
— that's  includmg  baize,  the  frx)ntispiece,  the 
back  scene,  the  cottage,  and  the  letter  doth, 
or  what  is  called  the  drop-scene  at  the 
theatres.  In  the  old  ancient  style,  the  back 
scene  used  to  pull  up  and  change  into  a  gaol 
scene,  but  that^s  all  altered  now. 

"  We've  got  more  upon  the  comic  business 
now,  and  tries  to  do  more  with  Toby  than 
with  the  prison  scene.  The  prison  is  what 
we  calls  the  sentimental  style.     Formerly 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


45 


L^ 


Tol>y  was  only  a  stuffed  figure.  It  was  Pike 
wlio  first  hit  upon  hintrodudng  a  live  dog, 
and  a  great  hit  it  were— 4t  made  a  grand 
alteration  in  the  hezhibition,  for  now  the  per- 
formance is  called  Punch  and  Toby  a»  well 
There  is  one  Punch  about  the  streets  at 
present  that  tries  it  on  with  three  dogs,  but 
that  ain't  much  of  a  go — too  much  of  a  good 
thing  I  calls  it.  Punch,  as  I  said  before,  is 
a  drama  in  two  hacts.  We  don't  drop  the 
scene  at  the  end  of  the  first — the  drum  and 
pipes  strikes  up  instead.  The  first  act  we 
consider  to  end  with  Punch  being  taken  to 
prison  for  the  murder  of  his  wife  and  child. 
The  great  difficulty  in  performing  Punch 
cr^nsists  in  the  speaking,  which  is  done  by  a 
call,  or  whistle  in  the  mouth,  such  as  this 
here.**  (He  then  produced  the  call  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  It  was  a  small  fiat  instru- 
ment, made  of  two  curved  pieces  of  metal 
about  the  size  of  a  knee-buckle,  bound  toge- 
ther with  black  thread.  Between  these  was  a 
plate  of  some  substance  (apparently  silk), 
which  he  sud  was  a  secret.  The  call,  he  told 
me.  was  timed  to  a  musical  instrument,  and 
Uxik  a  considerable  time  to  learn.  He  after- 
wards took  firom  his  pocket  two  of  the  small 
metallic  plates  unbound.  He  said  the  compo- 
ution  they  were  made  of  was  also  one  of  the 
"secrets  of  the  purfession."  They  were  not 
tin,  nor  zinc,  because  "  both  of  them  metals 
wt-re  poisons  in  the  mouth,  and  hii\jurious  to 
the  constitutxon.")  "These  calls,"  he  con- 
tinued, **we  often  sell  to  gennelmen  for  a 
sovereign  a-piece»  and  for  that  we  give  'em  a 
receipt  how  to  use  them.  They  ain't  whistles, 
but  calls,  or  unknown  tongues,  as  we  some- 
times names  'em,  because  with  them  in  the 
mouth  we  can  pronotmce  each  word  as  plain 
as  any  parson.  We  have  two  or  three  kinds 
— one  for  out-of-doors,  one  for  in-doors,  one 
for  spcaidng  and  for  singing,  and  another  for 
selling.  I've  sold  many  a  one  to  gennelmen 
puing  along,  so  I  generally  keeps  a  hextra  one 
with  me.  Porsini  brought  the  calls  iuto  this 
country  with  him  firom  Italy,  and  we  who  are 
now  in  the  purfession  have  all  learnt  how  to 
make  and  use  them,  either  from  him  or  those 
as  he  had  tatight  'em  to.  I  lamt  the  use  of 
mine  from  Porsini  himself.  My  master 
whom  I  went  out  with  at  first  would  never 
teach  me,  and  was  werry  partiekler  in  keeping 
it  all  secret  frtnn  me.  Porsini  taught  me  the 
call  at  the  time  I  bought  his  show  of  him.  I 
vas  six  months  in  {Meeting  myself  in  the 
use  of  it.  I  kept  practising  away  night  and 
morning  with  it,  until  I  got  it  quite  perfect. 
It  was  no  use  tiying  at  home,  'cause  it  sounds 
quite  different  in  the  hopen  hair.  Often 
vfaen  I've  made  'em  at  home,  I'm  obliged  to 
take  the  calls  to  pieces  after  tiying  'em  out 
in  the  streets,  they're  been  made  upon  too 
weak  a  scale.  When  I  was  practising,  I  used 
to  go  into  the  parks,  and  fields,  and  out-of. 
the-w«r  plAoes,  so  as  to  get  to  know  how  to 
use  it  m  the  hopen  hair.    Now  I'm  reckoned 


one  of  the  best  speakers  in  the  whole  pmf  es- 
sion.  When  I  made  my  first  appearance  as  a 
regular  performer  of  Punch  on  my  own 
account,  I  did  feel  uncommon  narvous,  to  be 
sure  :  though  I  know'd  tho  people  couldn't  see 
me  behind  tho  baize,  still  I  felt  as  if  all  the 
eyes  of  the  country  were  upon  me.  It  was  as 
much  as  hever  I  could  do  to  get  the  words 
out,  and  keep  the  figures  firom  shaking. 
When  I  struck  up  the  first  song,  my  voice 
trembled  so  as  I  tliought  I  never  should  be 
able  to  get  to  the  hend  of  Uie  first  hact.  I 
soon,  however,  got  over  that  there,  and  at 
present  I'd  play  before  the  whole  bench  of 
bishops  as  cool  as  a  cowcumber.  We  always 
have  a  pardncr  now  to  play  the  drum  and 
pipes,  and  collect  the  money.  This,  however, 
is  only  a  recent  dodge.  In  older  times  we 
used  to  go  about  Yi\\Xi  a  trumpet — that  was 
Porsini's  ancient  style ;  but  now  that's  stopped. 
Only  her  migesty's  mails  may  blow  trumpets 
in  the  streets  at  present.  The  fust  person 
who  went  out  with  me  was  my  wife.  She 
used  to  stand  outside,  and  keep  the  boys  from 
peeping  through  the  baize,  whilst  I  was  per- 
forming behind  it;  and  she  used  to  collect 
the  money  afterwards  as  well.  I  carried  the 
show  and  trumpet,  and  she  the  box.  She's 
been  dead  these  five  years  now.  Take  one 
week  with  another,  all  through  the  year,  I 
should  say  I  made  then  five  pounds  regular. 
I  have  taken  as  much  as  two  pounds  ten 
shillings  in  one  day  in  the  streets ;  and  I  used 
to  think  it  a  bad  day's  business  at  that  time  if 
I  took  only  one  pound.  You  can  see  Punch 
has  been  good  work — a  money-making  busi- 
ness— and  beat  all  mechanics  right  out.  If  I 
could  take  as  much  as  I  did  when  I  first 
began,  what  must  my  forefathers  have  done, 
when  the  business  was  five  times  as  good  as 
ever  it  were  in  my  time  ?  Why,  I  leaves  you  to 
judge  what  old  Porsini  and  Pike  must  have 
made.  Twenty  years  ago  I  have  often  and 
often  got  seven  shillings  and  eight  shillings 
for  one  hexhibition  in  the  streets :  two  shillings 
and  three  shillings  I  used  to  think  low  to  get 
at  one  collection ;  and  many  times  Pd  perform 
eight  or  ten  times  in  a  day.  Wo  didn't  care 
much  about  work  then,  for  we  could  get  money 
fast  enough;  but  now  I  often  show  twenty 
times  in  the  day,  and  get  scarcely  a  bare 
living  at  it  arter  all.  That  shows  the  times, 
you  know,  sir — what  things  was  and  is  now. 
Arter  performing  in  the  streets  of  a  day  we 
used  to  attend  private  parties  in  the  hevening, 
and  get  sometimes  as  much  as  two  pounds  for 
the  hexhibition.  This  used  to  be  at  the  juve- 
nile parties  of  the  nobility ;  and  the  perform- 
ance lasted  about  an  hour  and  a  half.  For  a 
short  performance  of  half-an-hour  at  a  gennel- 
man's  house  we  never  had  less  than  one 
potmd.  A  performance  outside  the  house 
was  two  shillmgs  and  sixpence ;  biit  we  often 
got  as  much  as  ten  shillings  forit%  I  have 
performed  afore  almost  all  the  nobility.  Lord 
— ^  was  particular  partial  to  us,  and  one  of 


46 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


our  greatest  patronizers.  At  the  time  of  the 
Police  Bill  I  met  him  at  Cheltenham  on  my 
travels,  and  he  told  me  as  he  had  saved 
Punch's  neck  once  more;  and  it's  through 
him  principally  that  we  are  allowed  to  exhibit 
in  the  streets.  Punch  is  exempt  from  the 
Police  Act.  If  ;ou  read  the  hact  throughout, 
you  won't  find  Punch  mentioned  in  it.  But 
all  I've  been  telling  you  is  about  tlte  business 
as  it  was.  What  it  i<,  is  a  werry  different 
oonsam.  A  good  day  for  us  now  seldom  gets 
beyond  five  shillings,  and  thot's  between 
m^'self  and  my  pardner,  who  plays  the  drum 
and  pipes.  Often  we  are  out  all  day,  and  get 
a  mere  nufiiug.  Many  days  we  have  been  out 
and  taken  nu£Bng  at  all — that's  werry  common 
when  wo  dwells  upon  hordera.  By  dwelling 
on  borders,  I  means  looking  out  for  gcnnelmcn 
what  want  us  to  play  in  front  of  their  houses. 
When  we  strike  up  in  the  hopeu  street  we  take 
upon  a  haverage  only  threepence  a  show.  In 
course  we  viay  do  more,  but  that's  about  the 
sum,  take  one  street  performance  with  another. 
Them  kind  of  performances  is  what  we  calls 
*  short  showing.'  We  gets  the  halfpence  and 
hooks  it  A  *  long  pitch '  is  tlie  name  we  gives 
to  performances  that  lasts  about  half-an  hour 
or  more.  Them  long  pitches  we  confine 
solely  to  street  comers  in  public  thorough- 
fares ;  and  then  we  take  about  a  sliilliug  upon 
a  haverage,  and  more  if  it's  to  bo  got — we 
never  turns  away  nuffing.  '  Boys,  look  up 
your  fardens,'  says  the  outside  man ;  *  it  ain't 
half  over  yet,  we'll  show  it  all  through.'  The 
short  shows  we  do  only  in  private  by-streets, 
and  of  them  we  can  get  through  about  twenty 
m  the  day ;  that's  as  much  as  we  can  tackle 
—ten  in  the  morning,  and  ten  in  the  after- 
noon. Of  the  long  pitches  we  can  only  do 
eight  in  the  day.  We  start  on  our  rounds  at 
nine  in  the  morning,  and  remain  out  till  dark 
at  night.  We  gets  a  snack  at  the  publics  on 
our  road.  The  best  hourn  for  Punch  ere  in 
the  morning  from  nine  till  ten,  because  then 
the  children  are  at  home.  Alter  that,  you 
know,  they  goes  oiut  with  the  maids  for  a 
walk.  From  twelve  tall  three  is  good  again, 
and  then  Irom  six  till  nine;  that's  because 
the  children  are  noostly  at  home  at  them 
hours.  We  make  much  more  by  borders  fur 
performance  houttide  the  gonnel men's  houses, 
than  we  do  by  performing  in  public  in  tlie 
hopen  streets.  Monday  is  the  best  day  for 
street  business;  Friday  is  no  day  at  all, 
because  then  iha  poor  people  has  spent  all 
their  BM>ney.  If  we  was  to  pitch  on  a  Friday, 
we  shouldn't  take  a  halfpenny  in  the  streets, 
so  we  in  general  on  that  day  goes  round  for 
horders.  Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  Friday 
is  the  best  days  for  us  with  hordera  at  gennel- 
men's  houses*  We  do  much  better  in  the 
spring  than  at  any  other  time  in  the  year, 
excepting  holiday  time,  at  Midsummer  and 
Christmas.  That's  what  we  call  Punch's 
season.  We  do  most  at  hevening  parties  in 
the  holiday  time,  and  if  there's  a  pin  u>  choose  I 


between  them,  I  should  say  Christmas  holi- 
days was  the  best.  For  attending  hevouing 
parties  now  we  generally  get  one  pound  and 
our  refreshments — as  much  more  as  they  like 
to  give  us.  But  the  business  gets  slacker  and 
slacker  every  season.  Where  I  went  to  ten 
parties  twenty  years  ago,  I  don't  go  to  two  now. 
People  isn't  getting  tired  of  our  performances^ 
but  stingier — that's  iL  Everybody  looks  at 
their  money  now  afore  they  parts  with  it,  and 
gennelfolks  haggles  and  cheapens  us  down  to 
shillings  and  sixpences,  as  if  they  was  guineas 
in  the  holden  tune.  Our  business  is  weriy 
■  much  like  hackney-coach  work ;  we  do  best  in 
vet  vethcr.  It  looks  like  rain  this  evening, 
and  I'm  imoommon  glad  on  it,  to  be  sure. 
You  see,  the  vet  keeps  the  children  in-doors 
all  day,  and  then  they  want^  something  to 
quiet  'em  a  bit ;  and  the  mother:^  and  fathers, 
to  pacify  tlie  dears,  gives  us  a  border  to  per- 
form. It  mustn't  rain  cats  and  dogs — that's 
as  bad  as  no  rain  at  aU.  What  we  likes  is  a 
regular  good,  steady  Scotch  mist,  for  then  w© 
takes  double  what  we  takes  on  other  days. 
In  summer  we  docs  little  or  nothing ;  the 
children  are  out  all  day  ei^oying  themselves 
in  the  parks.  The  best  pitch  of  all  in  London 
is  Leicester-square ;  there's  all  sorts  of  classes, 
you  see,  passing  there.  Then  comes  Hegent- 
strcet  (the  comer  of  Burlington-street  is  un- 
common good,  an  4  there's  a  good  publican 
til  ere  besides).  Bond-street  ain't  no  good 
now.  Oxford-street,  up  by  Old  Cavendish- 
street,  or  Oxford-market,  or  Wells- street,  are 
all  favourite  pitches  for  Punch.  We  don't  do 
much  in  the  City.  People  has  their  heads  all 
full  of  business  there,  and  them  as  is  greedy 
artcr  the  money  ain't  no  friend  of  Punch's. 
Tottenham-court-road,  the  New-road,  and  all 
the  henvirons  of  Londoui  is  pretty  goodg 
Hampstead,  tho',  ain't  no  good;  they've  got 
too  poor  there.  Id  sooner  not  go  out  at  all 
tlian  to  Ilompsteod.  Belgrave-square,  and  all 
about  that  part,  is  uncommon  good ;  but  whei*d 
there's  many  chapels  Punoh  won't  do  at  alL 
I  did  once,  tliougfa,  strike  up  hoppositlon  to  a 
street  preacher  wot  was  a  holding  forth  in  the 
New-road,  and  did  uncommon  well.  All  his 
flock,  08  he  called  'em,  left  him,  and  come 
over  to  look  at  mo.  Punch  and  preaching  is 
two  difi'erent  creeds — hopposition  parties,  I 
may  say.  We  in  generally  walks  from  twelve 
to  twenty  mile  every  day,  and  carries  the 
show,  which  weighs  a  good  half-hundred,  at 
the  least.  Arter  great  exertion,  our  woice 
werry  often  fails  us;  for  speaking  all  day 
through  the  *■  call '  is  werry  trying,  'specially 
when  we  are  chirruping  up  so  as  to  bring  the 
children  to  the  vinders*  The  boys  is  the 
greatest  nuisances  we  has  to  contend  with. 
Wherever  we  goes  we  are  sure  of  plenty  of 
boys  for  a  hindrance;  but  they've  got  no 
money,  bother  'em !  and  they'll  follow  us  for 
milos,  so  that  we're  often  compelled  to  go 
miles  to  awoid  'em.  Many  ports  is  swarming 
with  boys,  such  as  VitechapeL     SpitalfieldSy 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


47 


s  the  wont  place  for  boys  I  ever  come 
ir;  they^  like  flies  in  sommer  there, 
mnch  more  thicker.  I  never  shows  my 
within  miles  of  them  parts.     Chelsea, 

0,  has  an  nneommon  lot  of  boys;  and 
ferer  we  know  the  children  swarm,  there's 
spots  we  makes  a  point  of  awoiding. 
',  the  boys  is  snch  a  hobstruction  to  our 
onnance,  that  often  we  are  obliged  to  drop 
cnrtain  for  *em.  They'll  throw  one  ano- 
's  ei^  into  the  frame  while  I*m  inside  on 
dd  do  what  we  will,  we  can't  keep  'em  from 
ng  their  fingers  through  the  baize  and 
ing  holes  to  peep  through.  Then  they  will 
» tapping  the  drum ;  but  the  worst  of  all 
ie  most  of  *em  ain't  got  a  farthing  to  bless 
aseWes  with,  and  they  ttnll  shove  into  the 

places.  Soldiers,  again,  wc  don't  like, 
''re  got  no  money — no,  not  even  so  much 
ockets,  sir.  Nusscs  ain*t  no  good.  Even 
e  mothers  of  the  dear  little  children  has 
n  'em  a  penny  to  spend,  wliy  the  nnsses 
s  H  from  'em,  and  keeps  it  for  ribbins. 
letimes  we  can  coax  a  penny  out  of  the 
iren,  hnt  the  nusses  knows  too  much  to 
gammoned  by  us.  Indeed,  servants  in 
•raliy  don't  do  the  thing  what's  right  to 
.some  is  good  to  u.«,  but  the  most  of  'em 

hove  x>oundago  out  of  what  we  gets. 
lit  sixpence  out  of  every  half-crown  is 
t  the  footman  takes  from  us.  We  in 
erally  goes  into  the  country  in  the  summer 
i  for  two  or  three  months.  Watering- 
res  is  wenry  good  in  July  and  August. 
leh  mostly  goes  down  to  the  sea-side 
1  die  quatity.  Drighton,  though,  ain't  no 
Tont;  the  Pavilion's  done  up  with,  and 
nefinv  Punch  has'  discontinued  his  visits. 

don't  put  np  at  the  trompers'  houses  on 

tzavels,  but  m  generally  inns  is  where  we 
rs;  because  we  considers  ourselves  to  be 
ve  the  otlier  showmen  and  mendicants. 
Toe  lodging-houso  as  I  stopped  at  once  in 
nrick,  there  was  as  many  as  fifty  staying 
m  what  got  their  living  by  street  perform- 
w    the  greater  part  were  Italian  boys  and 

1.  There  are  altogether  as  many  as  six- 
I  Pondi-and-Judy  frames  in  England. 
hi  of  these  is  at  work  in  London,  and  the 
er  eight  in  the  countiy;  and  to  each  of 
le  frnnes  there  are  two  men.  We  are  all 
ninted  with  one  another ;  are  all  sociable 
9tlicr,  and  know  where  each  other  is,  and 
d  ^biej  are  a-dcing  on.  When  one  comes 
M^  another  goes  out;  that's  the  way  wo 
seed  through   Hfe.     It   wouldn't  do  for 

to  go  to  the  same  place.  If  two  of  us 
pens  to  meet  at  one  town,  we  jine,  and 
i  pardaciB,  and  share  the  money.  One 
I  one  waj,  and  one  another,  and  we  meet 
igbt,  and  reckon  up  over  a  sociaUe  pint 
i  glees.  We  shift  pardneis  so  as  each  may 
V  boir  much  the  other  has  taken.  It's 
common  practice  for  the  man  what  per- 
n  Pmich  to  share  with  the  one  wot  plays 
dnmi  end  pipes — each  has  half  wot  ia 


collected;  but  if  the  pordner  can't  play  the 
drum  and  pipes,  and  only  carries  the  frame, 
and  collects,  then  his  share  is  but  a  third  of 
what  is  taken  till  he  learns  how  to  perform 
himself.  The  street  performers  of  London 
lives  mostly  in  little  rooms  of  their  own ;  they 
has  generally  wives,  and  one  or  two  children, 
who  are  brought  up  to  the  business.  Some 
lives  about  the  Westminster-road,  and  St. 
George's  East.  A  great  many  are  in  Lock's- 
fields — they  are  all  the  old  school  that  way. 
Then  some,  or  rather  the  principal  part  of 
the  showmen,  are  to  be  found  about  lisson- 
grove.  In  this  neighbourhood  there  is  e 
house  of  call,  where  they  all  assembles  in  the 
evening.  There  are  a  very  few  in  Briuk-lane, 
Spitalfields,  now ;  that  is  mostly  deserted  by 
showmen.  The  West  end  is  the  great  resort 
of  all ;  fur  it's  there  the  money  lays,  and  there 
tho  showmen  abound.  We  aU  know  one 
another,  and  can  tell  in  what  part  of  the 
country  the  others  are.  We  have  intelligence 
by  letters  from  all  ports.  There's  a  Punch  I 
knows  on  now  is  either  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  or 
on  his  way  to  it." 

Punch  Talk. 

'*  *  Bona  parlore '  means  language ;  name  of 
patter.  '  Yeute  munjare ' — no  food.  ♦  Yeute 
Icnte' — no  bed.  *  Yeute  bivare ' — no  drink. 
I've  '  yeute  mui^jore,'  and  *  yeute  bivare,*  and, 
what's  worse,  *  yeute  lente.'  This  is  better  than 
the  costers'  talk,  because  that  ain't  no  slang 
at  all,  and  this  is  a  broken  Italian,  and  much 
higher  than  the  costers'  lingo.  We  know  what 
o'clock  it  is,  besides." 

Scene  with  two  Punchmen, 

**  *  How  arc  you  getting  on  ?'  I  might  say  to 
another  Punchman.  *  Ultra  cateva,'  he'd  say. 
If  I  was  doing  a  little,  I'd  say,  *Bonar.'  Let  us 
have  a  'shant  a  bivare' — pot  o'  beer.  If  we 
has  a  good  pitch  we  never  tell  one  another,  f(u: 
business  is  business.     If  they  know  we've  a 

*  bonar'  pitch,  theyll  oppose,  which  makes  it 
bad. 

"  •  Co.  and  Co.*  is  our  term  for  partner,  or 

*  questa  questa,'  as  well.  •  Ultray  cativa,' — no 
bona.  *Slumareys' — figures,  frame,  scenes, 
properties.    » Slum ' —  call,  or  unknown  tongue. 

*  Ultray  cativa  slum ' —  no t  a  good  oalL  '  Tam- 
bora' — drum;  that's  Italian.  «  Pipares* — 
pipes.  *  Questra  home  a  vardiing  the  dnm, 
scapar  it,  Orderly' — there's  someone  a  looking 
at  the  alum.  Be  off  quickly.  '  Fielia'  is  a 
child ;  *  Home'  is  a  man ;  *  Dona,'  a  fSemale  ; 
'  Gharfering-homa ' — talking-man,  policeman. 
Policeman  can't  interfere  with  us,  we're  sanc- 
tioned. Punch  is  exempt  out  of  the  Police 
Act.  Some's  rery  good  men,  and  some  on 
'em  are  tyrants ;  but  generally  speaking  they're 
an  worry  kind  to  us,  and  allows  us  every  privi- 
lege. That's  a  flattery,  you  know,  because 
you'd  better  not  meddle  with  them.  QviUty 
always  gains  its  esteem." 

The  man  here  took  a  large  dasp-knifb  ont 
of  his  breeches  pocket. 


48 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


'*  This  here  knife  is  part  of  Punch's  tools 
or  materials,  of  great  utility,  for  it  cannot  be 
done  without  The  knife  serves  for  a 
hammer,  to  draw  nails  and  drive  them  in 
again,  and  is  very  Iiondy  on  a  country  road  to 
cut  a  beefsteak — not  a  mistake  —  Well,  ye  can- 
not cut  a  mistake,  can  ye  ? — and  is  a  real  poor 
man's  friend  to  a  certainty. 

•*  This  here  is  the  needle  that  completes  our 
tools  {iakez  out  a  needle  from  inside  his  waistcoat 
collar,)  and  is  used  to  sew  up  our  cativa  stumps, 
that  is.  Punch's  breeches  and  Judy's  petticoats, 
and  his  master's  old  clothes  when  they're  in 
holes.  I  likes  to  have  everything  tidy  and  re- 
spectable, not  knowing  where  I'm  going  to  per- 
form  to,  for  every  day  is  a  new  day  tLat  we  never 
see  afore  and  never  shall  see  again ;  we  do  not 
know  the  produce  of  this  world,  being  luxurant 
(that's  moral),  being  humane,  kind,  and 
generous  to  all  our  society  of  life.  We  mends 
our  cativa  and  slums  when  they  gets  teearey  (if 
you  was  to  show  that  to  some  of  our  line  they'd 
be  horrified ;  they  can't  talk  so  affluent,  you 
know,  in  all  kinds  of  black  slums).  Under  the 
hedgeares,  and  were  no  care  varder  us 
questa — *  questa'  is  a  shirt — pronimciation 
for  quostra  homa. 

**  Once,  too,  when  I  was  scarpering  with  my 
culling  in  the  monkey,  I  went  to  meudare  the 
cativa  slums  in  a  churchyard,  and  sat  down 
under  the  tombs  to  stitch  'em  up  a  bit,  thinking 
no  one  would  varder  us  there.  But  Mr. 
Crookshank  took  us  off  there  as  we  was  a 
sitting.  1  know  I'm  the  same  party,  'cos  Joe 
seen  the  print  you  know  and  draVd  quite 
nat'ral,  as  now  in  print,  with  the  slumares  a 
If^'ing  about  on  all  the  tombstones  round  us." 

The  Punchman  at  the  Theatre. 

"  I  used  often  when  a  youth  to  be  very  fond 
of  plays  and  romances,  and  frequently  went  to 
theatres  to  learn  knowledge,  of  which  I  think 
there  is  a  deal  of  knowledge  to  be  leamt  from 
those  places  (that  gives  the  theatres  a  touch 
— helps  them  on  a  bit).  I  was  very  partial 
and  fond  of  seeing  Ilomeau  and  Juliet; 
Otheller;  and  the  Knights  of  St  John,  and 
tiie  Pret^  Gal  of  Peerlesspool ;  Macbeth  and 
the  Three  Dancing  Witches.  Don  Goovamey 
pleased  me  best  of  all  though.  What  took  me 
uncommon  were  the  funeral  purcession  of 
Juliet — it  affects  the  heart,  and  brings  us  to 
our  nat'ral  feelings.  I  took  my  ghost  from 
Bomeau  and  Juliet;  the  ghost  comes  from 
the  graye,  and  it's  beautiful.  I  used  to  like 
Kean,  the  principal  performer.  Oh,  admirable ! 
most  admirable  he  were,  and  especially  in 
Otheller,  for  then  he  was  like  my  Jim  Crow 
here,  and  was  always  a  great  friend  and  sup- 
porter of  his  old  friend  I^imch.  Otheller 
murders  his  wife,  ye  know,  like  Punch  does. 
OUieller  kills  her,  'cause  the  green  •  eyed 
monster  has  got  into  his  'art,  and  he  being  so 
extremely  fond  on  her;  but  Punch  kills  his'n 
by  accident,  though  he  did  not  intend  to  do  it, 
for  the  Act  of  Parliament  against  husbands 


beating  wives  was  not  known  in  his  time.  A 
most  excellent  law  that  there,  for  it  causes 
husbands  and  wives  to  be  kind  and  natural 
one  with  the  other,  all  through  the  society  of 
life.  Judy  irritates  her  husband.  Punch,  for 
to  strike  the  fatal  blow,  vich  at  the  same  time, 
vith  no  intention  to  commit  it,  not  knowing 
at  the  same  time,  being  rather  out  of  his  mind, 
vot  he  vas  about  I  hope  this  here  will  be  a 
good  example  both  to  men  and  wives,  always 
to  be  kind  and  obleeging  to  each  other,  and 
that  will  help  them  through  the  mainder  with 
peace  and  happiness,  and  will  rest  in  peace 
with  all  mankind  (that's  moral).  It  must  be 
well  worded,  ye  know,  that's  my,  beauty.* 

Mr,  Punches  Refreshment, 

"  Always  Mr.  Punch,  when  he  performs  to 
any  nobleman's  juvenile  parties,  he  requires  a 
litUe  refreshment  and  sperrits  before  com- 
mencing, because  the  peribrmance  will  go  far 
superior.  But  where  teetotallers  is  he  plays 
very  mournful,  and  they  don't  have  the  best 
parts  of  the  dramatical  performance.  Cos 
pump-vater  gives  a  person  no  heart  to  exhibit 
his  performance,  where  if  any  sperrits  is  given 
to  him  he  woold  be  sure  to  give  the  best  of 
satisfaction.  I  likes  where  I  goes  to  perform 
for  the  gennelman  to  ring  the  bdl,  and  say  to 
the  butler  to  bring  this  here  party  up  whatever 
he  chooses.  But  Punch  is  always  moderate ; 
he  likes  one  eye  wetted,  then  the  tother 
after;  but  he  likes  the  best:  not  particular 
to  brandy,  for  fear  of  his  nose  of  frtding, 
and  afeerd  of  his  losing  the  colour.  All  thea- 
trical people,  and  even  the  great  Edmund 
Kean,  used  to  take  a  drop  before  commencing 
perfoi-mance,  and  Punch  must  do  the  same, 
for  it  enlivens  his  sperrits,  cheers  his  heart 
up,  and  enables  liim  to  give  the  best  of  satis- 
faction imaginable." 

The  Hisiory  of  Punch. 

'*  There,  ore  hoperas  and  romamces.  A 
romamce  is  far  different  to  a  hopera,  you  Imow; 
for  one  is  interesting,  and  the  other  is  dull  and 
void  of  apprehension.  The  romance  is  the  in- 
teresting one,  and  of  the  two  I  likes  it  the  best; 
but  let  every  one  speak  as  they  find — that's 
moral.  Jack  Sheppard,  you  know,  is  a  romaznoe, 
and  a  fine  one ;  but  Punch  is  a  hopera— a  hup- 
roar,  we  calls  it,  and  the  most  pleasing  and  most 
interesting  of  all  as  was  ever  produced,  Pundi 
never  was  beat  and  never  wHl,  being  the  oldest 
performance  for  many  hundred  years,  and  now 
handed  down  to  prosperity  (there's  a  fine  moral 
in  it,  too). 

•*  The  history  or  origination  of  Punch— (neyer 
put  yerself  out  of  yer  way  for  me,  I'm  one  of 
the  happiest  men  in  existence,  and  gives  no 
trouble) — is  taken  from  Italy,  and  brought  over 
to  England  by  Porsini,  and  exhibited  in  the 
streets  of  London  for  the  first  time  fr^m  sixty 
to  seventy  years  a^o ;  though  he  was  not  the 
first  man  who  exhibited,  for  there  was  a  female 
here  before  him,  but  not  to  perform  at  all  in 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


40 


IKiblio — name  nnknown,  but  handed  down  to 
Iffosperitj.  She  brought  the  figures  and 
frame  oyer  with  her,  but  nerer  showed 
'em— keeping  it  an  unknown  secret  Porsini 
came  frtun  Hitalj,  and  landed  in  England, 
and  exhibited  his  performance  in  the  streets 
of  London,  and  realized  an  immense  sum 
of  money.  Porsini  always  carried  a  mm- 
bottle  in  his  pocket  ('cause  Punch  is  a 
nmi  fellow,  ye  see,  and  he's  very  fond  of  rum), 
and  drinked  out  of  this  unbeknown  behind  the 
baize  afore  he  went  into  the  frame,  so  that 
it  shoold  lay  in  his  power  to  give  the  audience 
a  most  excellent  performance.  He  was  a  man 
as  gave  the  greatest  satisfaction,  and  he  was 
the  first  man  that  brought  a  street  horgan  into 
England  from  Hitaly.  His  name  is  handed 
down  to  prosperity  among  all  classes  of  society 
mlife. 

"At  first,  the  performance  was  quite  dif- 
ferent then  to  what  it  is  now.  It  was  all  sen- 
timental then, and  very  touching  to  the  feelings, 
and  fall  of  good  morals.  The  first  part  was 
only  made  up  of  the  killing  of  his  wife  and 
babby,  and  the  second  with  the  execution  of 
the  hangman  and  killing  of  the  devil  — that 
was  the  original  drama  of  Punch,  handed  down 
to  prosperity  for  800  years.  The  killing  of 
the  devU  makes  it  one  of  the  most  moral  plays 
as  is,  for  it  stops  Satan's  career  of  life,  and 
then  we  can  all  do  as  we  likes  afterwards. 

**  Porsini  hved  like  the  first  nobleman  in 
the  land,  and  realized  an  immense  deal  of 
money  during  his  lifetime ;  we  all  considered 
him  to  be  our  forefather.  He  was  a  very  old 
man  when  he  died.  I've  heard  tell  he  used 
to  take  veiy  often  as  much  as  10/.  a-day,  and 
now  it's  come  down  to  little  more  than 
10^ ;  and  he  u^ed  to  sit  down  to  his  fowls 
and  wine,  and  the  very  best  of  luxuriousness, 
like  the  first  nobleman  in  the  world,  such  as 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  cetera.  At  last  he  re- 
duced himself  to  want,  and  died  in  the  work- 
house. Ah !  poor  fellow,  he  didn't  ought  to 
have  been  let  die  where  he  did,  but  misfortunes 
will  happen  to  all — that's  moral.  Every  one 
in  London  knowed  him :  lords,  dukes,  squires, 
princes,  and  wagabones,  all  used  to  stop  and 
laugh  at  his  pleasing  and  merry  interesting  per- 
formance ;  and  a  fUnny  old  fdlow  he  was,  and 
80  fond  of  his  snuff.  His  name  is  writ  in  the 
aimaals  of  history,  and  handed  down  as  long 
as  grasa  grows  and  water  runs — ^for  when  grass 
eetaes  to  grow,  ye  know,  and  water  ceases  to 
ton,  this  worid  will  be  no  utility ;  that's  moral. 

**  Pike,  the  second  noted  street  performer  of 
Pmich,  was  Porsini's  apprentice,  and  he  suc- 
eeeded  him  alter  his  career.  He  is  handed  down 
IS  a  most  elerer  exhibitor  of  Punch  and  show- 
man— 'caose  he  used  to  go  about  the  country 
irith  waggons,  too.  He  exhibited  the  per- 
formance for  many  years,  and  at  last  came  to 
decay,  and  died  in  the  workhouse.  He  was 
the  first  inventor  of  the  live  dog  called  Toby, 
■nd  a  great  invention  it  was,  being  a  great  un- 
dertaking of  a  new  and  excellent  addition  to 


I  Punch's  performance — that's  well  worded— 
we  must  place  the  words  in  a  superior  manner 
to  please  the  public. 

"  Then  if,  as  you  see,  all  our  forefathers 
went  to  decay  aud  died  in  the  workhouse, 
what  prospect  have  we  to  look  forward'  to 
before  us  at  the  present  time  but  to  share  the 
same  fate,  unless  we  meet  with  sufficient  en- 
couragement in  this  life  ?  But  hoping  it  wiU 
not  be  so,  knowing  tliat  there  is  a  new  generation 
and  a  new  exhibition,  we  hope  the  public  at  large 
will  help  and  assist,  and  help  us  to  keep  our 
head  above  water,  so  that  we  shall  never  float 
down  the  river  Thames,  to  be  picked  up, 
carried  in  a  shell,  coroner's  inquest  held, 
taken  to  the  workhouse,  popped  into  the 
pithole,  and  tliere's  an  end  to  another  poor  old 
Punch — that's  moral. 

"  A  footman  is  far  superior  to  a  showman, 
'cause  a  showman  is  held  to  be  of  low  degrade, 
and  are  thought  as  such,  and  so  circumstan- 
tiated  as  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  mendicant ; 
but  still  we  are  not,  for  collecting  ain't  begging, 
it's  only  selliciting ;  'cause  parsons,  you  know 
(I  gives  them  a  rub  here),  preaches  a  sermon 
and  collects  at  the  doors,  so  I  puts  myself  on 
the  same  footing  as  they — that's  moral,  and 
it's  optional,  ye  know.  If  I  takes  a  hat  round, 
they  has  a  plate,  and  they  gets  sovereigns 
where  we  has  only  browns ;  but  we  are  thank- 
ful  for  all,  and  always  look  for  encouragement, 
and  hopes  kind  support  from  all  classes  of 
society  in  life. 

"  Punch  has  two  kind  of  performances— 
short  shows  and  long  ones,  according  to 
den  are.  Short  shows  are  for  cativa  denare, 
and  long  pitches  for  the  bona  denare.  At 
the  short  shows  we  gets  the  ha'pence  and 
steps  it — scofare,  as  we  say;  and  at  the 
long  pitches  ve  keeps  it  up  for  half  an 
hour,  or  an  hour,  maybe — not  particular,  if 
the  browns  tumble  in  well — for  we  never 
leave  off  while  Uiere's  a  major  solde  (that's  a 
halfpenny),  or  even  a  quartercen  (that's  a 
farden).  to  be  made.  The  long  pitches  we 
fixes  at  the  principal  street-comers  of  London. 
"We  never  turn  away  no  think. 

"  *  Boys,  look  up  your  fardens,'  says  the  out- 
side man ;  '  it  ain't  half  over  yet,  and  well  show 
it  all  through.' 

"  Punch  is  liko  the  income-tax  gatherer, 
takes  all  we  can  get,  and  never  turns  away 
nothink — that  is  our  moral.  Punch  is  like 
the  rest  of  the  world,  ho  has  got  bad  morals, 
but  very  few  of  them.  The  showman  inside 
the  frame  says,  while  he's  a  working  the 
figures,  *Culley,  how  are  you  a  getting  on?' 
*  Very  inferior  indeed,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  master. 
The  company,  though  very  respectable,  seems 
to  have  no  pence  among  'em.'  *  What  quanta 
denare  have  you  chafered  ? '  I  say.  *  Soldi 
m%jor  quartereen;'  tliat  means,  three  half- 
pence three  fardens :  *  that  is  all  I  have  accu- 
mulated amongst  this  most  respectable  and 
niunerous  company.'  '  Never  mind,  master, 
the  showman  will  go  on ;  try  the  generosity  of 


50 


LOSDOS  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


tho  pablio  once  again.'  '  Well,  I  think  it's  of 
very  little  utility  to  collect  round  again,  for 
I've  met  with  that  poor  encouragement.'  *  Never 
mind,  master,  show  away.  Til  go  round  again 
and  chance  my  luck ;  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
have  not  seen  sofBcient,  I  think.  Well, 
master,  I've  got  tres  miyor ' — that  is,  three  half- 
pence— *  more,  and  now  it's  all  over  this  time. 
Boys,  go  home  and  say  your  prayers,'  we  says, 
and  steps  it  Such  scenes  of  life  we  see !  No 
person  would  hardly  credit  what  we  go 
through.  We  travel  often  yeute  muiyore 
(no  food),  and  oftentimes  we're  in  fluence,  ac- 
cording as  luck  runs. 

"  We  now  principally  dwells  on  orders  at 
noblemen's  houses.  The  sebiibs  of  London 
pays  us  far  better  than  the  busy  town  of  Lon- 
don.  When  we  are  dwelling  on  orders,  we 
goes  along  the  streets  chirripping  *  lioo- 
tooerovey  ooey-ooey-ooorovey;'  that  means, 
Any  more  wanted?  that's  the  pronounciation  of 
the  call  in  the  old  Italian  style.  Toorovey-to- 
roo-to-roo-toroo-torooey ;  that  we  does  when 
we  are  dwelling  for  orders  mostly  at  noble- 
men's houses.  It  brings  the  juveniols  to  tlie 
window,  and  causes  the  greatest  of  attractions 
to  the  children  of  noblemen's  families,  both 
rich  and  poor :  lords,  dukes,  «arls,  and  squires, 
and  gentlefolks. 

•*  *  Call-hunting,' — that's  another  term  for 
dwelling  on  orders  — pays  better  than  pitch- 
ing ;  but  orders  is  wery  casual,  and  pitching 
is  a  certainty.  We're  sure  of  a  brown  or 
two  in  the  streets,  and  noblemen's  work  don't 
come  often.  We  must  have  it  authentick,  for 
wo  traveU  many  days  and  don't  succeed  in 
getting  one ;  at  other  times  we  are  more  lluent ; 
but  when  both  combine  together,  it's  merely 
a  living,  after  all's  said  and  done,  by  great 
exertion  and  hard  perseverance  and  asidity, 
for  the  business  gets  slacker  and  slacker  every 
year,  and  I  expect  at  last,  it  will  come  to  the 
dogs — not  Toby,  because  he  is  dead  and  gone. 
Peoi)le  isn't  getting  tired  with  our  per- 
formances ;  they're  more  delighted  than  ever  ; 
but  they're  stingier.  Evcrjbody  looks  twice 
at  their  money  uforo  they  parts  with  it.  — Thats 
a  rub  at  the  mean  ones,  and  they  wants  it  un- 
common  bad. 

*'And  then,  sometimes  tho  blinds  is  all 
drawed  down,  on  accoimt  of  the  sun,  and  that 
cooks  our  goose ;  or,  it's  too  hot  for  people  to 
stop  and  varder — that  means,  see.  In  the 
cold  days,  when  wo  pitch,  people  stops  a  few 
minutes,  drops  their  browns,  and  goes  away 
about  their  business,  to  make  room  for  more. 
The  spring  of  the  year  is  the  best  of  tho  four 
seasons  for  us. 

^  A  sailor  and  a  lass  holf-scos  over  we  like 
best  of  aU.  He  will  tip  his  mag.  We  always 
ensure  a  few  pence,  and  sometimes  a  shilling, 
of  them.  We  are  fond  of  sweeps,  too ;  they'i-e 
a  sure  brown,  if  they've  got  one,  and  they'll  give 
before  many  a  gentleman.  But  what  we  can't 
abide  nohow  is  the  shabby  genteel — them 
altray  cativa,  and  no  mistake :  for  theyll  stand 


with  their  mouths  wide  open,  like  n  Bnt- 
cracker,  and  is  never  satisfied,  and  is  too  grind 
even  to  laugh.  It's  too  muefa  trouble  to  eazrj 
ha'pence,  and  they've  never  no  change,  or 
else  they'd  give  us  some ;  in  &ct,  they've  bo 
money  at  all,  they  wants  it  all  for,  dec.** 

Mr,  Pmich'i  Fiywm, 

"  This  is  Punch ;  this  his  wife,  Judy.  They 
never  was  married,  not  for  this  eight  hundred 
years — in  the  original  drama.  It  is  a  drama 
in  two  acts,  is  Punch.  There  was  a  Miss 
Polly,  and  she  was  Punch's  mistress,  and  dressed 
in  silks  and  satins.  Judy  catches  Punch  with 
her,  and  that  there  causes  all  the  disturbance. 
Ah,  it's  a  beautiful  history ;  there's  a  deal  of 
morals  with  it,  and  there's  a  large  volume 
wrote  about  it.    It's  to  be  got  now. 

"  This  here  is  Judy,  their  only  child.  She's 
tliree  years  old  come  to-morrow,  and  heir  to  all 
his  estate,  which  is  only  a  saucepan  without  a 
handle. 

**  Well,  then  I  brings  out  the  Beadle. 

"  Punch's  nose  is  the  homament  to  his  face. 
It's  a  great  wolue,  and  the  hump  on  his  back 
is  never  to  be  got  rid  on,  being  bom  with  him, 
and  never  to  be  done  without.  Punch  was 
silly  and  out  of  his  mind — which  is  in  the 
drama — and  the  cause  of  his  throwing  his 
child  out  of  winder,  vich  he  did.  Judy  went 
out  and  left  him  to  nurse  the  child,  and  the 
child  gets  so  terrible  cross  he  gets  out  of 
patience,  and  tries  to  sing  a  song  to  it,  and 
ends  by  chucking  it  into  the  street. 

*'  Punch  is  cunning,  and  up  to  all  kinds  of 
antics,  if  he  ain't  out  of  his  mind.  Artful  like 
My  opinion  of  Punch  is,  he's  very  incentrie, 
with  good  and  bad  morals  attached.  Very 
good  he  was  in  regard  to  benevolence ;  be- 
cause, you  see,  in  the  olden  style  there  was 
a  blind  man,  and  he  used  to  come  and  ax  cha- 
riry  of  him,  and  Punch  used  to  pity  him  and 
give  him  a  trifle,  you  know.  This  is  in  the 
olden  style,  from  Porsini  you  know. 

*'  The  caning  on  his  face  is  a  great  art,  and 
there's  only  one  man  as  does  it  reg'lar.  His 
nose  and  chin,  by  meeting  together,  we  thinks 
the  great  beauty.  Oh,  he's  admirable! — Ho  was 
very  fond  of  hisself  when  he  was  alive.  His 
name  was  Puneliinello,  and  we  callshim  Punch. 
That's  partly  for  short  and  partly  on  account 
of  tlie  boys,  for  they  calls  it  Punch  in  hell  0. 
*  Oh,  there's  Punch  m  hell,'  they'd  say,  and  gen- 
nelfolks  don't  like  to  hear  tlicm  words. 

"  Punch  has  very  small  legs  and  smnll  arms. 
It's  quite  out  of  portion,  in  course;  but  still  it's 
nature,  for  folks  with  big  bellies  generally  has 
thin  pins  of  their  own. 

"  His  dress  has  never  been  altered ;  the  use 
of  his  higli  hat  is  to  show  his  lialf-foolish 
head,  and  the  other  parts  is  after  the  best 
olden  fashion. 

•  Judy,  you  see,  is  very  ugly.  She  represents 
Pimch ;  cos,  you  see,  if  the  two  comes  togetlier, 
it  generally  happens  that  they're  summat 
alike ;  and  you  see  it's  because  his  wife  were 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TBE  LONDON  POOR. 


51 


10  oglj  that  lie   had  a  mistress.     You  see, 
a  head  like  that  there  wouldn't  please  most 


Thai 


>  miatFeas,  PoUj,  dances  with  Punch,  jnst 
like  a  lady  in  a  drawin^f-room.  There  ain't 
DO  pievance  between  lum  and  Judy  un  ac- 
ooant  of  Miss  Polly,  as  she's  called.  That's 
the  oiden  style  of  all,  cos  Judy  don't  know 
nothing  about  it 

**  Mias  PoUy  was  left  out  because  it  wasn't 

exaetly  moral ;  opinions  has  changed :  we  ain't 

better,  I  fancy.     Such  things  goes  on,  but 

peq^  don't  like  to  let  it  be  seen  now,  that's 

tiie  dilEBreince. 

I       "Judy's dress,  you  see,  is  far  different,  bless 

I   joa,  than  Miss  Polly's.    Judy's,  yon  see,  is 

bed-ftimiture  stnfi;  and  Polly's  all  silk  and 

^   satin.    Yes,  that's  the  way  of  the  world, — the 

•   wife  comes  off  second-best. 

I       ^  The  baby's  like  his  father,  he's  his  pet  all 

,    over  tnd  the  pride  of  his  heart;  wouldn't  take 

an  the  world  for  it,  you  know,  though  he  does 

throw  him  out  of  window.  He's  got  his  father's 

I    noee,  and  is  his  daddy  all  over,  from  the  top  of 

'    his  head  to  the  tip  of  his  toe.    He  never  was 

'    wtaned. 

I  **  Pnneh,y3a  know,  is  so  red  through  drink. 
,  He'd  look  nothing  if  his  nose  were  not  deep 
:  scarlet.  Punch  used  to  drink  hard  one  time, 
I    and  so  he  does  now  if  he  con  get  it.    ELis 

babby  is  red  all  the  same,  to  correspond. 
I       **  This  is   the  Beadle  of  the  parish,  which 
i    tries  to  quell  all  disturbances  but  finds  it  im- 
possible to  do  it.    The  Beadle  has  got  a  very 
I    reddish  nose.    He  is  a  ver}-  severe,  harsh  man, 
.     but  Pvnch  conimers  him.  Ye  see,  he's  diessed 
I    in  the  olden  stf le — a  brown  coat,  with  gold  lace 
and  cock'd  hat  and  all.  He  has  to  take  Punch 
up  for  Idlfing  his  wife  and  babby ;  but  Pimch 
I    beats  the  Beadle,  for  every  time  ho  comes  up 
I    he  knodn  hxm  down. 

I       *'  This  next  one  is  the  merry  Clown,  what 

tries  his  rig  with  Punch,  up  and  down — that's 

',    a  rhyme,  you  see.    This  is  the  merry  Clown, 

I    that  tries  his  tricks  all  round.    This  here's 

j    the  new  style,  for  we   dwells  more  on  the 

eomieal  now.    In  the  olden  time  we  used  to 

I    have  a  aearamouch  with  a  chalk  head.    He 

I    laed  to  torment  Punch  and  dodge  bim  about, 

tin  at  last  Punch  used  to  give  him  a  crock  on 

the  head  and  smash  it  all  to  pieces,  and  then 

I    cry  out—*  Oh  dear.  Oh  dear ;   I  didn't  go  to 

do  it — it  was  an  accident,  done  on  purpose.' 

But  now  we  do  with  Clown  and  the  sausages. 

I    Scaramouch  never  talked,  only  did  the  ballet 

business,  dumb  motions ;  but  the  Clown  speaks 

^    theatrical,  comic  business  and    seutiuiental. 

Pooch  bdng  silly  and  out  of  his  mind,  the 

,    Gown  persuades  Punch  that  he  wants  some- 

<    thing  to  eat.    The  Clown  gets  into  the  public- 

I    bouse  to  try  what  ho  can  steal.    He  pokes  his 

head  out  of  the  window  and  says,  '  Here  you 

tre,  here  you  are  ;•  and  then  he  asks  Punch 

I    to  give  him  a  helping  hand,  and  so  makes 

Punch  steal  the.  sausages.    They're  the  very 

I    best  poik-wadding  sausages,  made  six  years 


ago  and  warranted  fresh,  and  11  keep  for 
ever. 

**  This  here's  the  poker,  about  which  the 
Clown  says, '  Would  yon  like  something  hot  V 
Punch  says  *  Yes,'  and  then  the  Clown  bums 
Punch's  nose,  and  aits  down  on  it  himself  and 
bums  his  breeches.  Oh,  it's  a  jolly  lark  when 
I  shows  it  Clown  says  to  Punch,  *  Don't 
make  a  noise,  you'll  wake  the  landlord  up.' 
The    landlord,   you    see,    pretends    to    be 


"  Clown  says,  •  You  mustn't  hollar.'  *  No,* 
says  Punch,  *I  wont;'  and  still  he  hollars  all 
the  louder. 

"  This  is  Jim  Crow  :  ye  see  he's  got  a  chain 
but  he's  lost 'his  watch.  He  let  it  fall  on  Fish- 
street  Hill,  the  other  day,  and  broke  it  all  to 
pieces.  He's  a  nigger.  He  says,  *  Me  like 
ebeiy  body ;'  not '  every,'  but  *  ebery,'  cos  that's 
nigger.  Instead  of  Jim  Crow  we  used  formerly 
to  show  the  Grand  Turk  of  Sinoa,  called 
ShallabaUah*  Sinoa  is  nowhere,  for  he's  only 
a  substance  yer  know.  I  can't  find  Sinoa, 
although  W^e  tried,  and  thinks  it's  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  where  the  black  fish  lays. 

"  Jim  Crow  spnmg  from  Bice  from  America, 
he  brought  it  over  here.  Then,  ye  see,  being 
a  novelty,  all  classes  of  society  is  pleased. 
Everybody  liked  to  hear  *■  Jim  Crow'  sung,  and 
so  we  had  to  do  it.  The  people  used  to  stand 
round,  and  I  used  to  take  some  good  money 
with  it  too,  sir,  on  Hay-hill.  Everybody's 
funny  now-a-days,  and  they  like  comic  busi- 
ness. They  won't  listen  to  anything  sensible 
or  sentimental,  but  they  wants  foolishness. 
The  bigger  fool  gets  the  most  money.  Many 
people  says,  *  What  a  fool,  you  must  lookT 
at  Uiat.  I  put  my  head  back.  *■  Come  on.'  *  I 
shan't.    I  shall  stop  a  Httle  longer.' 

**  Tliis  is  the  Ghost,  that  appears  to  Punch 
for  destroying  his  wife  and  child.  She's  the 
ghost  of  the  two  together,  or  else,  by  rights, 
there  ought  to  be  a  little  ghost  as  well,  but  we 
should  have  such  a  lot  to  carry  about.  But 
Punch,  being  surprised  at  the  ghost,  falls  into 
exstericks — represented  as  such.  Punch  is 
really  terrified,  for  he  trembles  like  a  hospen 
leaf,  cos  he  never  killed  his  wife.  He's  got 
no  eyes  and  no  teeth,  and  can't  see  out  of  his 
mouth ;  or  cannot,  rather.  Them  cant  words 
ain't  grammatical.  When  Punch  sees  the 
Ghost  he  lays  dov^ii  and  kicks  the  bucket,  and 
represents  he's  dead. 

"  The  Ghost  is  very  effective,  when  it  comes 
up  very  solemn  and  moumfiil-like  in  Bomeau 
and  Juliet.  I  took  it  from  that,  yer  know : 
there's  a  ghost  in  that  when  she  comes  out  of 
the  grave.  Punch  sits  down  on  his  seat  and 
sings  his  merry  jirng  of  olden  times,  ahd  don't 
see  the  Ghost  till  he  gets  a  tap  on  the  cheek, 
and  then  he  thinks  it's  somebody  else ;  instead 
of  that,  when  he  turns  round,  he's  most  ter- 
rible alarmed,  putting  his  arms  up  and  out. 
The  drum  goes  very  shaky  when  the  Ghost 
comes  up.  A  little  bit  of '  The  Dead  March  in 
Saul,'  or  *  Home,  sweet  Home :'  anything  like 


Ko.  LVIIL 


'L 


62 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


that,  slow.  We  none  on  us  likes  to  be  hurried 
to  the  grave. 

**  I  now  takes  up  the  Doctor.  This  is  the 
Doctor  that  cures  all  sick  maids  and  says, 
*  Taste  of  my  drugs  before  you  die,  you'll  say 
tliey  are  well  made.'  The  Doctor  always  wears 
a  white  ermine  wig :  rabbit  skin  wouldn't  do, 
we  can't  go  so  common  as  that;  it's  most  costly, 
cos  it  was  made  for  him. 

^Aflar  the  Ghost  has  appeared  Punch  falls 
down,  and  calls  loudly  for  the  Doctor,  and 
offers  50,000/.  for  one  ;  thei^  the  Doctor  feels 
his  pulse  and  says,  *  Very  unfortunate  misfor- 
tune I  I  have  forgot  my  spectacles,  cos  I  never 
had  none.  I  can  see  all  through  it — ^the  man's 
not  dead. 

"  The  Doctor  gives  Punch  physic.  That's 
stick  -  lickerish  wot  he  subscribes  for  him; 
but  Punch  don't  like  it,  though  it's  a  capital 
subscription  for  a  cure  for  the  head-ache.  (I 
dare  say,  Mr.  Mayhew,  sir,  you  thinks  me  a 
very  funny  fellow.)  Punch  tries  to  pay  the 
Doctor  back  with  his  own  physic,  but  he 
misses  him  every  time.  Doctors  don't  like 
to  take  their  own  stuff  anyhow. 

*'  This  is  the  Publican  as  Punch  steals  the 
sausages  from ;  he  used  to  be  the  Grand  Turk 
of  Senoa,  or  Shallaballah,  afore  the  fashion 
changed — for  a  new  world  always  wants  new 
things :  the  people  are  like  babies,  they  must 
have  a  fresh  toy  ye  know,  and  every  day  is 
a  new  day  that  wc  never  seed  before. — There's 
a  moral  for  you ;  it'll  make  a  beautiful  book 
when  you  comes  to  have  the  morals  explained. 
Te  see  you  might  still  fancy  Punch  was  the 
Grand  Turk,  for  he's  got  his  moustaches  still ; 
butthe/re  getting  so  fashionable  that  even 
the  publicans  wears  'em,  so  it  dont  matter. 

'*  This  tall  figure  is  the  hangman  and  finisher 
of  the  law,  as  does  the  business  in  the  twink- 
ling of  a  bed-post.  He's  like  the  income-tax 
gatherer,  he  takes  all  in  and  lets  none  out,  for 
a  guilty  conscience  needs  no  accusing.  Punch 
being  condemned  to  suffer  by  the  laws  of  his 
countiy,  makes  a  mistake  for  once  in  his  life, 
and  always  did,  and  always  wUl  keep  a-doing 
it.  Therefore,  by  cunningness  and  artfUlness, 
Punch  persuades  Jock  ketch  to  show  him 
the  wa^ — which  ho  very  *  willingly  doeth' — to 
slip  his  head  into  the  noose,  when  Punch 
takes  the  opportunity  to  pull  the  rope,  after 
he  has  shown  him  the  way,  and  is  exempt  for 
once  more,  and  quite  free. 

**  Now  this  is  the  coffin,  and  this  is  the  pall. 
Punch  is  in  a  great  way,  after  he's  hung  the 
man,  for  assistance,  when  h^  calls  his  favour- 
ite friend  Joey  Grimaldi,  the  clown,  to  aid  and 
assist  him,  because  he's  afeard  that  he'll  be 
token  for  the  crime  wot  he's  committed.  Then 
the  body  is  placed  in  the  coffin ;  but  as  the  un- 
dertaker ain't  made  it  long  enough,  they  have 
to  double  him  up.  The  undertaker  requests 
permission  to  git  it  altered.  Ye  see  it's  a  royal 
coffin,  with  gold,  and  silver,  and  copper  nails ; 
with  no  plates,  and  scarlet  cloth,  cos  that's 
royalty.    The  undertaker's  forgot  the  lid  of 


the  coffin,  ye  see :  we  don't  use  lids,  cos  it 
makes  them  lighter  to  carr}'. 

"  This  is  the  pall  that  covers  him  over,  ta 
keep  the  flies  from  biting  him.  We  call  it 
St.  Paul's.  Don't  you  see,  palls  and  Paul's  is 
the  same  word,  with  a  <  to  it:  it's  comic. 
That  'ud  make  a  beautiful  play,  that  would. 
Then  we  take  out  the  figures,  as  I  am  doing* 
now,  from  the  box,  and  they  exaunt  with  a 
dance.  *  Here's  somebody  a-coming,  make* 
haste ! '  the  Clown  says,  and  then  they  exaunt, 
you  know,  or  go  off. 

**  This  here  is  tlie  Scaramouch  that  danceff 
without  a  head,  and  yet  has  got  a  head  that'll 
reach  from  here  to  St,  Paul's;  but  it's  scarceljr 
ever  to  be  seen.  Cos  his  father  was  my 
mother,  don't  ye  see.  Punch  says  that  it's  a 
beautiful  figure.  Pve  only  made  it  lately. 
Instead  of  him  we  used  to  have  a  nobody. 
The  figure  is  to  be  worked  with  four  heads, 
that's  to  say  one  coming  out  of  each  arm,  one 
from  the  body,  and  one  from  the  neck.  ( He 
touches  each  part  as  he  speaks.)  Scara- 
mouch is  old-fashioned  newly  revived.  He 
comes  up  for  a  finisli,  ycr  know.  This  figure's 
all  for  dancing,  Uie  same  as  the  ghost  is,  and 
don't  say  nothing.  Punch  being  surprised  to 
see  such  a  thing,  don't  know  what  to  make 
on  it.  Ho  bolts  away,  for  ye  see  (whispering 
and  putting  up  two  hands  first,  and  then 
using  the  other,  as  if  working  Scaramouch), 
I  wants  my  two  hands  to  work  him.  After 
Punch  goes  away  the  figure  dances  to  amuse 
the  public,  then  he  exaunts,  and  Ptmch  comes 
up  again  for  to  finish  the  remainder  part  of  his 
performance.  He  sings  as  if  he'd  forgot  all 
that's  gone  before,  and  wishes  only  to  amuse 
the  public  at  large.  That's  to  show  his  siOi- 
ness  and  simplicity.  He  sings  comic  or  sen- 
timental, such  as  'God  save  the  Queen ;'-i- 
that's  sentimental ;  or  *  Getting  up  stairs  and 
playing  on  the  fiddle;'  or  *  Dusty  Bob;*  or 

*  Rory  O'More,  with  the  chill  off;' — ^them's  all 
comic,  but  *■  the  Queen's '  sentimental. 

"  This  here  is  Satan, — we  might  say  the 
devil,  but  that  ain't  right,  and  gdnnelfolks  dont 
like  such  words.    He  is  now  commonly  called 

*  Spring-heeled  Jack ; '  or  the  *  Koosian  Bear,' 
— that's  since  the  war.  Ye  see  he's  chained  up 
for  ever ;  for  if  yer  reads,  it  says  somewhere 
in  the  Scripture  that  he's  bound  down  far 
two  thousand  years.  I  used  to  read  it  myself 
once;  and  the  figure  shows  ye  that  he's 
chained  up  never  to  be  let  loose  no  more. 
He  comes  up  at  the  last  and  shows  himself  to 
Punch,  but  it  ain't  continued  long,  yer  know, 
the  figure  being  too  frightful  for  people  to  see 
without  being  frightened;  unless  we  are  on 
comic  business  and  showing  -him  as  Spring* 
heeled  Jack,  or  the  Boosian  Bear;  and  then 
we  keeps  him  up  a  long  time.  Punch  kills 
him,  puts  him  on  the  top  of  his  stick,  and 
cries,  *  Hooray !  the  devil's  dead,  and  we  can 
all  do  as  we  like !  Good-by,  farewell,  and  it's 
all  over ! '  But  the  curtain  don't  come  down, 
cos  we  haven't  got  none. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


53 


"This  here's  the  belL  Stop  a  minute,  I 
fngot:  this  is  Punch's  comic  music,  com- 
monly called  a  peanner  sixty, — not  peanner 
forty,  cos  Punch  wants  something  out  of  the 
common  way, —  and  it  plays  fifty  tunes  all  at 
CBoe.  This  is  the  bell  which  he  uses  to  rattle 
in  the  publican's  ears  when  he's  asleep,  and 
wakes  his  children  all  up  after  the  nuss  as 
put  'em  to  bed.  All  this  is  to  show  his  fool- 
ishness and  simplicity;  for  it's  one  of  his 
feolish  tricks  and  frolics  for  to  amuse  him- 
self: but  he's  a  chap  as  won't  stand  much 
nonsense  fh>m  other  people,  because  his 
morals  are  true,  Just,  right,  and  sound ;  al- 
Ihongh  he  does  kill  his  wife  and  baby,  knock 
down  the  Beadle,  Jack  Ketch,  and  the  Grand 
SigDor,  and  puts  an  end  to  the  very  devil 
Imnself.'' 

Deteripium  of  Frame  and  Proscenium. 

« *  Indies  and  gents,'  the  man  says  outside 
the  show,  afore  striking  up,  *■  I'm  now  going 
10  exhibit  a  preformance  worthy  of  your  no 
tioe,  and  far  superior  to  anythmk  you  hever 
hid  a  hopportunity  of  witnessing  of  before.' 
(I  am  a  doing  it  noiv,  sir,  as  if  I  was  address- 
ing a  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  he 
added,  by  way  of  parenthesis.)  '  This  is 
the  original  preformance  of  Punch,  ladies 
and  gents  ;  and  it  will  always  gain  esteem.  I 
■m  going  to  hintroduce  a  preformance  worthy 
of  your  notice,  which  is  the  dramatical  pre- 
fbrmance  of  the  original  and  old-established 
preiSormaiice  of  Punch,  experienced  many 
jear.  I  merely  call  your  attention,  ladies  and 
geotB,  to  the  novel  attraction  which  I'm  now 
•bout  to  hintroduce  to  you. 

••  *  I  only  merely  place  this  happyratus  up 
to  inform  yon  what  I  am  about  to  preform  to 
you.  The  preformance  will  continue  for  up- 
wards of  one  hour — provising  as  we  meets 
wUk  smfident  encouragement.  (That's  business, 
ye  know,  master ;  just  to  give  'em  to  under- 
stand that  we  wants  a  little  assistance  afore 
we  begins.)  It  wUl  surpass  anythink  you've 
bad  the  hopportunity  of  witnessing  of  bofore  in 
all  the  hannuals  of  history.  I  hope,  ladies  and 
gents,  I  am  not  talking  too  grammatical  for 
some  of  you.* 

••  That  tliere  is  the  address,  sir,"  he  con- 
tbned,  ^  what  I  always  gives  to  the  audience 
outside  before  I  begins  to  preform — just  to 
let  the  resx>ectable  company  know  that  I  am  a 
working  for  to  get  my  living  by  honest 
I    indnstiy. 

•••Those  ladies  and  gents/  he  then  went 
on,  as  if  addressing  an  imaginary  crowd, 
•  what  are  a-standing  round,  a-looking  at  the 
piefbrmance,  will,  I  hope,  be  as  willing  to  give 
«s  tl^  is  to  see.  There's  many  a  lady  and 
lent  now  at  the  present  moment  standing 
aroond  me,  perhaps,  whose  hearts  mi^ht  be 
food  though  not  in  their  power.'  (This  is 
PttDch's  patter,  yer  know,  outside ;  and  when 
yoQ  has  to  say  sll  that  yourself,  you  wants  the 
aflhiency  of  a  methodist  parson  to  do  the 


talk,  I  can  tell  ye.)  *  Now  boys,  look  up  yer 
ha'pence !  Who's  got  a  farden  or  a  ha'penny  ? 
and  I'll  be  the  first  brown  towards  it.  I  aint 
particular  if  it's  a  half-crown.  Now,  my  lads, 
feel  in  your  pockets  and  see  if  you've  got  an 
odd  copper.  Here's  one,  and  who'll  be  the 
next  to  make  it  even  ?  We  means  to  show  it 
all  through,  provising  we  meets  with  sufficient 
encouragement.'  (I  always  sticks  to  them 
words,  *  sufficient  encouragement')  'You'll 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Spring-heeled 
Jack,  or  the  Hoosian  Bear,  and  the  comical 
scene  with  Joey  the  clown,  and  the  fryingpan 
of  sassages!'  (That's  a  kind  of  gaggery.) 
"  I'll  now  just  explain  to  you,  sir,  the  difie- 
rent  parts  of  the  frame.  This  here's  the 
letter-cloth,  which  shows  you  all  what  we  per- 
forms.    Sometimes  we  has  wrote  on  it — 

THE  DOMINION  OF  FANCY, 

or. 

Punch's  Opera  : 

that  fills  up  a  letter-doth;  and  Punch  is 
a  funcy  for  every  person,  you  know,  who- 
ever may  fancy  it  I  stands  inside  here  on 
this  footboard ;  and  if  there's  any  one  up 
at  the  winders  in  the  street,  I  puts  my 
foot  longways,  so  as  to  keep  ray  nob  out  of 
sight  This  here  is  the  stage  front,  or 
proceedings  (proscenium),  and  is  painted  over 
with  flags  and  banners,  or  any  dififerent  things. 
Sometimes  there's  George  and  the  Dragging, 
and  the  Kile  Queen's  Arms,  (we  can  have  them 
up  when  we  like,  cos  we  are  sanctioned,  and 
I've  played  afore  the  rile  princes).  But  any- 
thing  for  fireshness.  People's  tiroo  '-i  looking 
at  the  Bile  Arms,  and  wants  something  new 
to  cause  attraction,  and  so  on. 

**  This  here's  the  playboard,  where  sits  Punch. 
The  scenes  behind  are  representing  a  garding 
scene,  and  the  side-scenes  is  a  house  and  a 
cottage — they're  for  the  exaunts,  you  know, 
just  for  convenience.  The  back  scene  draws 
up,  and  shows  the  prison,  vnth  the  winders 
all  cut  out,  and  the  bars  showing,  the  same  as 
there  is  to  a  gaol;  though  I  never  was  in 
one  in  my  life,  and  I'll  take  good  care  I  never 
shall  be. 

'*  Our  speaking  instrument  is  an  unknown 
secret,  cos  it's  an  •  unknown  tongue,'  that's 
known  to  none  except  those  in  our  own  pur- 
fession.  It's  a  hiastrument  like  this  which  I 
has  in  my  hand,  and  it's  tuned  to  music 
We  has  two  or  three  kinds,  one  for  out-doors, 
one  for  in-doors,  one  for  speaking,  one  for 
singing,  and  one  that's  good  for  nothing,  ex- 
cept selling  on  the  cheap.  They  ain't  whistles, 
but  *  calls,'  or  *  unknown  tongues ; '  and  with 
them  in  the  mouth  we  can  pronounce  each 
word  as  plain  as  a  parson,  and  with  as  much 
affluency. 

"  The  great  difficulty  in  preforming  Punch 
consists  in  speaking  with  this  call  in  the 
mouth — cos  it's  produced  from  the  lungs :  it's 
all  done  from  there,  and  is  a  great  strain,  and 
requires    sucktion — and   that's    brandy-and- 


5i 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOIL 


-nater,  or   smnmAt   to   moisten  the  whistle 
with. 

**  We're  bound  not  to  drink  water  by  onr 
purfession,  when  we  can  set  anything  stronger. 
It  weakens  the  nerves,  but  we  always  like  to 
keep  in  the  bounds  of  propriety,  respectability, 
and  decency.  I  dnnas  my  beer  with  my  call 
in  my  mouth,  and  never  takes  it  out,  cos  it  ex- 
poses it,  and  the  boys  (hang  'em I)  is  so  in- 
qoiaitive.  They  runs  after  us,  and  looks  up 
m  our  face  tosee  howwe  speaks ;  but  we  drives 
•tem  away  with  civility. 

**  Punch  is  a  dramatical  performance,  sir,  in 
two  acta,  patronised  by  the  nobility  and  gentry 
at  Urge.  We  don't  drop  the  scene  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act,  the  drum  and  pipes  strikes  up 
instead.  The  first  act  we  consider  to  end 
with  Punch  being  took  to  prison  for  the 
murder  of  his  wife  and  baby.  You  can  pick 
out  a  good  many  Pnnoh  preformers,  without 
getting  one  so  well  versed  as  I  am  in  it;  they  in 
general  makes  such  a  muifiug  concern  of  it. 
A  drama,  or  dramatical  preform  ance,  we  calls 
it,  of  the  original  preformance  of  Punch.  It 
ain't  a  tragedy ;  it's  both  comic  and  sentimental, 
in  which  way  we  think  proper  to  preform  it. 
There's  comic  parts,  as  with  the  Clown  and 
Jim  Crow,  and  cetera— that's  including  a 
deiJ  more,  yer  know. 

"  It's  a  pretty  play  Punch  is,  when  preformed 
well,  and  one  of  the  greatest  novelties  in  the 
world ;  and  most  ancient ;  handed  down,  too, 
for  many  hundred  years. 

**  The  prison  scene  and  the  baby  is  what 
we  calls  the  sentimental  touches.  Some  folks 
where  I  nreforms  will  have  it  most  sen- 
timental, m  the  original  style.  Them  families 
is  generally  sentimental  theirselves.  To 
these  sentimental  folks  I'm  obliged  to  pre- 
form werry  steady  and  werry  slow ;  they 
won't  have  no  ghost,  no  coffin,  and  no  devil ; 
and  that's  what  I  call  spiling  the  preformance 
entirely.  Ha,  ha ! "  he  added,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
'*  it's  the  march  of  intellect  that's  a  doing  all 
this :  it  is,  sir. 

"  Other  folks  is  all  for  the  comic,  specially 
the  street  people ;  and  then  we  has  to  dwell  on 
the  bell  scene,  and  the  nursing  the  baby,  and 
the  frying-pan,  and  the  sossages,  and  Jim 
Crow. 

•*  A  few  years  ago  Toby  was  all  the  go. 
Formerly  the  dog  was  only  a  stuffed  figure, 
and  it  was  Mr.  Pike  what  first  hit  upon  intro- 
ducing a  live  animal ;  and  a  great  hit  it  war. 
It  made  a  surprising  alteration  in  the  exhibition, 
for  till  lately  the  preformance  was  culled  Punch 
and  Toby  as  well.  We  used  to  go  about  the 
streets  with  three  dogs,  and  that  was  ad- 
mirable, and  it  did  uncommon  well  as  a  new 
novelty  at  first,  but  we  can't  get  three  dogs  to 
do  it  now.  The  mother  of  them  dogs,  ye  see, 
was  a  singer,  and  had  two  pups  what  was 
singers  too.  Toby  was  wanted  to  sing  and 
smoke  a  pipe  as  well,  shake  hands  as  well  as 
seize  Puach  by  the  nose.  When  Toby  was 
quiet,  ye  see,  air,  it  was  the  timidation  of 


Punch's  stick,  for  directly  he  put  it  down  he 
flew  at  him,  knowing  at  the  same  time  that 
Punch  was  not  his  master. 

^  Punch  commences  with  a  song.  He  doea 
roo-too-rooey,  and  sings  the  '  Lass  of  0-owrie' 
down  below,  and  then  he  comes  up,  saying, 
*Ooy-ey;  Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  coming.  How  do 
you  do,  ladies  and  gents  ? ' —  ladies  alwi^s  first  •, 
and  then  he  bows  many  times.  *•  Vm  so  hiqppj 
to  see  you,'  he  says ;  '  Your  most  obedient 
most  humble,  and  dutiful  servant,  Mr.  Pnnch«' 
(Ye  see  I  can  talk  as  afliuent  as  can  be  with 
the  call  in  my  mouth.)  '  Ooy-ey,  I  wishes  you 
all  well  and  happy/  Then  Pimch  says  to  Ihft 
drum -and- pipes  man,  as  he  puts  his  hand  on^ 
'  How  do  you  do,  master? — play  up ;  play  up  ft 
hornpipe :  I'm  a  most  hexceUent  dancer ;'  and 
then  Punch  dances.  Then  ye  see  him 
a  -  dancing  the  hornpipe ;  and  after  that 
Punch  says  to  the  pipes,  '  Master,  I  shall 
call  my  wife  up,  and  have  a  dance ;  so  he  sings 
out,  *  Judy,  Judy !  my  pratty  creetur !  come  up 
stairs,  my  darling!  I  want  to  speak  to  you'^ 
and  he  knocks  on  the  play-board.— ^  Judy  I 
Here  she  comes,  bless  her  little  heart!' 

Enter  Jxt^t. 

Punch,  What  a  sweet  ereature!  what  • 
handsome  nose  and  chin !  {He  pott  her  om 
the /ace  very  gently.) 

Judy.  {Slapping  him.)  Keep  quiet,  do! 

Punch,  Don't  be  cross,  my  dear,  but  give  mo 
a  kiss. 

Judg.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  my  love.      [Z^^y  kiu. 

Punch.  Bless  your  sweet  lips  !  {Huggim§ 
her.)  This  is  melting  moments.  I'm  very 
fond  of  my  wife ;  we  must  have  a  dance. 

Judy.  Agi'eed.  \_They  both  < 

Punch,  Get  out  of  the  way !  you  don't  dance 
well  enough  for  me.  {He  hits  heron  the  note.} 
Go  and  fetch  the  baby,  and  mind  and  take 
care  of  it,  and  not  hurt  it.  [Judg  examntu 

Judg.  {Returning  hack  with  baby.)  Taka 
care  of  the  baby,  while  I  go  and  cook  the 
dumplings. 

Punch.  {Striking  Judg  with  his  right  hand.) 

Get  out  of  the  way !    I'll  take  care  of  the  baby. 

[Judy  exauntu 

Punch  {sits  dottm  and  simgs  to  the  baby) — 

"Huah-«-by,  baby,  upon  the  tree-top, 
Wh^u  the  wind  blows  the  oiudle  will  rock  ; 
When  the  bouffh  breaks  the  cradle  will  fidl, 
Down  oomes  the  baby  and  cradle  and  olL" 

[Baby  crietm 

Punch.  {Shaking  it.)  What  a  cross  boy! 
{He  tags  it  dawn  on  the  play-board^  and  roll»  ii 
backwards  and  forwards,  to  rock  U  to  ileep,  and 
sings  again.) 

*'  Oh,  slumber,  my  darlinf;,  thy  sire  k  a  kfii^i^ 
Thy  mother's  a  lady  so  lovely  and  bright ; 
Tho  hills  and  the  dales,  and  the  tow'rs  which  you  sec. 
They  all  shall  belong,  my  dear  creature,  to  thee." 

(Punch  continues  rocking  the  chikL  It  Miii 
cries,  and  he  takes  it  up  in  his  omu,  saying. 
What  a   cross  child!   I  oant  a-beor  cross 


ZOKDON  IsJLBOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


00 


ekiUreiu  Then  he  vehemently  shakes  tt,  and 
knockt  iCt  head  vp  against  the  side  of  the  pro- 
ceeding* several  timeSy  representing  to  kill  t/,  and 
%e  them  tkrtncs  U  out  of  the  vrinder.) 

Enter  Jnmr. 

Judg.  Where's  the  haby  f 

Fundi,  {In  a  lemonchotv  tone.)  I  have  had 
a  ndsfortime ;  the  child  was  so  terrible  cross, 
I  throwed  it  out  of  the  winder.  {Lemontaiion 
(fJudg  for  the  loss  of  her  dear  child.  She  goes 
into  atterisks,  and  then  excites  and  fetches  a  cudgel^ 
end  commences  beaUng  Punch  over  the  head,) 

Punch,  DoDt  be  cross,  my  dear :  I  didnt  go 
to  do  it 

Judg.  ni  pay  yer  for  throwing  the  child 
out  of  the  winder.  {She  keeps  on  giving  him 
knocks  of  the  head^  hut  Punch  snatches  the  stick 
owy,  and  commences  an  attack  upon  his  w'yfe^ 
end  hfots  her  severely,) 

Judy,  m  go  to  the  constable,  and  have 
joa  locked  up. 

Punch,  Go  to  the  de^^L  I  don't  care  where 
you  go.  Get  out  of  the  way  !  {Judg  exaunls, 
md  Punch  then  sings,  **  Cherry  ripe"  or  "  Cheer  ^ 
logs,  cheer,'*  All  before  is  sentimental,  now  this 
here's  comic.  Punch  goes  through  his  roo-too-to- 
roory,  and  then  the  Beadle  comes  up.) 

Beadle,  Hi  !  hallo,  my  boy ! 

Punch,  Hello,  my  boy.  {He gives  him  a  wipe 
over  the  head  with  his  sticky  u:hich  knocks  him 
down,  but  he  gets  up  again.) 

Beadle,  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  I've  a  special 
order  in  my  pocket  to  take  you  up  ? 

Punch,  And  Pve  a  special  order  to  knock 
you  down.  {He  knocks  him  down  with  simplicity ^ 
but  not  tpith  bruUUUy,for  the  jnvcnial  brandies 
don't  tike  to  see  severity  practised.) 

Beadle.  {Coming  up  again.)  D'ye  know,  my 
boy,  that  Pve  an  order  to  take  you  up  ? 

Punch,  And  I've  an  order  I  tell  yo  to  knock 
you  down.  {He  sticks  him.  Punch  is  a  tyrant 
to  the  Beadle,  ye  know,  and  if  he  was  took  up  he 
wouldnH  go  through  his  rambles,  so  in  course  he 
isn't.) 

Beadle,  IVe  a  warrant  for  yon,  my  boy. 

Punch,  (Striking  him.)  And  that's  a  warrant 
for  you,  my  boy.  {The  Beadle's  a  determined 
man,  ye  know,  and  resolved  to  go  to  the  ends  of 
justice  as  far  as  possible  in  his  power  by  special 
aulhority,  so  a  quarrel  enslioos  between  them.) 

Beadle,  You  are  a  blackguard. 

Punch,  So  are  you. 

{The  Beadle  hits  Punch  on  the  nose,  and  takes 
(ke  law  in  his  own  Imndsm  Punch  takes  it  up  mo- 
meuiary;  strikes  the  Beadle,  and  a  fight  ensluKts, 
Tkt  Beadle,  faint  and  exhausted,  gets  up  once 
mare:  then  he  strikes  Punch  over  the  nose,  which 
»  returned  pro  and  con, 

Beadle,  That's  a  good  'un. 

PmtdL  That's  a  better. 

Beadle*  That's  a  topper.  {He  hits  him  jolly 
hsrd,) 

PuntA,  (With  his  cudgel.)  That's  a  wopper. 
{Be  knocks  him  out  qf  his  senses,  and  the  Beadle 


Enter  Merrt  Clowx. 


Punch  sings  **  Getting  up  Stairs,**  in  quick  time, 

while  tlu  Clown  is  coming  up.     Clown  dances 

round  Punch  in  all  directions,  and  Punch  with 

his  cudgel  is  determined  to  catch  him  if  possible. 

Clown.  No  bono,  allez  tooti  sweet,  Mounseer. 
Look  out  sharp !  Make  haste  I  catch  'em  alive ! 
Here  we  are!  how  are  youf  good  morning! 
don't  yon  wish  you  may  get  it  f  Ahl  cowai^ 
strike  a  white  man !  {Clown  keeps  bobbing  vp 
and  down,  and  Punch  trying  to  hit  all  the  tkne 
till  Punch  is  exhausted  nearly.) 

(The  Clo^n,  ye  see,  sir,  is  the  best  friend 
to  Puncli,  he  carries  him  through  all  his  tricks, 
and  he's  a  great  favorite  of  Punch's.  He's  too 
cunning  for  him  though,  and  knows  too  much 
for  him,  so  they  both  shake  hands  and  make 
it  up. ) 

Clown,  Now  it's  all  fair ;  ain't  it.  Punch  ? 

Punch,  Yes. 

Clown,  Now  I  can  begin  again. 

(You  see,  sir,  the  Clown  gets  over  Punch 
altogether  by  his  artful  ways,  and  then  he  be- 
gins the  same  tricks  over  agiun ;  that  is,  if  we 
wants  a  long  performance ;  if  not,  we  cuts  it 
off  at  the  other  pint  But  I'm  tellkig  you  the 
real  original  style,  sir.) 

Clown.  Good!  you  cim't  catch  me. 

{Punch  gives  him  one  whack  of  the  head,  and 
Clown  exaunts,  or  goes  off.) 

Enter  Jm  Crow 
Jim  sings  **  Buffalo  Gals,**  while  coming  up,  and 

on  entering  Punch  hits  him  a  whack  of  the 

nose  backhanded,  and  almost  breaks  it. 

Jim.  What  for  you  do  that?  Me  nigger! 
me  like  de  white  man.  Him  did  break  my 
nose. 

Punch.  Humbly  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not 
go  to  help  it. 

(For  as  it  had  been  done,  you  know,  it  wasn't 
likely  he  could  help  it  after  he'd  done  it — he 
couldn't  take  it  away  from  him  again,  could 
he?) 

Jim,  "Me  beg  you  de  pardon.  (For  ye  see, 
sir,  he  tliinks  he's  offended  Punch.)  Nebber 
mind,  Punch,  come  and  sit  down,  and  we'll 
hab  a  song. 

Jim  Crow  prepares  to  sing. 

Punch,  Bravo,  Jimmy!  sing  away,  my  boy— 
give  us  a  stunner  while  you're  at  it. 

Juc  sings. 


**  I'm  a  roarer  oa  the  fiddle^ 
Down  in  tho  ole  Viiviuny ; 
And  I  plays  it  scientific, 
like  Mnuffr^y  Faganinni." 

Punch,  {Tapping  him  on  the  head.)  Bravol 
well  done,  Jimmy !  give  us  another  bit  of  a 
song. 

Jim,  Yes,  me  wilL  ISwgs  again. 


••  Oh.  lubly  Rom.  Sambo  c 

Do&tyoa  hear  tho  bapJoT  ' 

Tum,  tiun,  ttun  1 " 

Jim  hits  Fundi  with  hia  head  over  the 


dO 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


nose,  as  if  butting  at  him,  while  he  repefti^ 
turn -turn -turn.  Punch  offended,  beats  him 
with  the  stick,  and  sings — 

"  Lubly  Bom,  Sambo  coom  ; 
hon't  you  hew  the  bai^o  t 
Turn, turn,  turn!** 

Jim,  (Ruing.)  Oh  mi!  what  for  you  strike 
a  nigger?  {Holding  up  hi*  ieg.)  Me  will  poko 
your  eye  out.  Ready — shoot — bang — fire. 
\8havei  his  leg  into  Punch's  eye,) 

Punch,  He's  poked  my  eye  out!  I'll  lotjk 
out  for  him  for  the  fUture. 

Jim  Crow  excites,  or  oxaunis.  Exauiit 
we  calls  it  in  our  purfession,  sir, — that's  goin^ 
away,  you  know.  He's  done  his  port,  yon 
know,  and  ain't  to  appear  again. 

Judy  has  died  through  Punch's  ill  usagr 
after  going  for  the  Beadle,  for  if  she'd  done  ih<  * 
before  she  could'nt  ha'  fetched  the  constabli, 
you  know, —  certainly  not.  The  beholders 
only  behove  her  to  bo  dead  though,  for  sin- 
comes  to  life  again  aflerwards,  because,  if  s)ji 
was  dead,  it  would  do  away  with  Punch's  wiit* 
altogether — for  Punch  is  doatingly  fond  <>f 
her,  though  it's  only  his  fun  after  all's  said 
and  done. 

The  Ghost,  you  see,  is  only  a  repersentft 
tion,  as  a  timidation  to  soflen  his  bad  morals, 
80  that  ho  shouldn't  do  the  like  again.  Thi> 
Ghost,  to  be  sure,  shows  that  she's  really  dea^l 
for  a  time,  but  it's  not  in  the  imitation  ;  fur 
if  it  was,  Judy's  ghost  (the  figure)  would  W 
made  like  her. 

The  babby's  lost  altogether.  It's  killeil. 
It  is  supposed  to  be  destroyed  entirely,  but 
taken  care  offer  the  next  time  when  calk  J 
upon  to  preform  —  as  if  it  were  in  the  nest 
world,  you  know, — that's  moral. 

Enter  Ghost.  Punch  sings  meanwhile' 
*  Home,  sweet  Home.'  (This  is  original.)  Tbo 
Ghost  rcpcrsents  Uie  ghost  of  Judy,  becaunc 
he's  killed  his  wife,  don't  you  see,  ilie  Ghoss) 
making  her  appearance;  but  Punch  don't  know 
it  at  the  moment.  Still  he  sits  down  tireil, 
and  sings  in  the  comer  of  the  frame  the  son^ 
of  **  Home,  sweet  Home,"  wliile  the  Sperrit  ap- 
pears to  him. 

Punch  turns  round,  sees  the  Ghost,  ami 
is  most  terribly  timidated.  He  begins  !<> 
shiver  and  shake  in  great  fear,  bringing  his 
guilty  conscience  to  his  mind  of  what  he'n 
been  guilty  of  doing,  and  at  last  he  foils  down 
in  a  tit  of  frenzy.  Kicking,  screeching,  hoL 
laring,  and  shouting  "  Fifty  thousand  pounds 
for  a  doctor ! "  Then  he  turns  on  his  side,  anil 
draws  hisself  double  with  the  screwmatics  in 
his  gills.  IGhost  ezcitex. 

Enter  Doctob. 
Punch  is  represented  to  be  dead.    This  is 
the  dying  speech  of  Punch. 

Doctor.  Dear  met  bless  my  heart!  here' 
hl\'e  I  been  running  as  fast  as  ever  I  could 
walk,  and  veiy  near  tumbled  over  a  straw.  I 
heard  somebody  call  most  lustily  for  a  doctor. 
Dear  me  {looking  at  Punch  in  all  directions,  and 


examining  his  hodg),  this  is  my  perUckler  friend 
Mr.  Punch ;  poor  man !  how  pale  he  looks ! 
I'll  feel  his  pulse  {counts  his  pulse) — 1,  2, 14, 
0, 11.  Hi !  Punch,  Punch,  are  yoa  dead?  are 
you  dead  ?  are  you  dead  ? 

Punch.  {Hitting  him  with  his  right  hand  oper 
Vie  nose,  and  knocking  him  back.)     Yes. 

Doctor.    (Rubbing  his  nose  with  his  hand,) 
I    never  heard  a  dead  man    speak  befiore. 
Punch,  you  are  not  dead ! 
Punch.  Oh,  yes  I  am. 
Doctor.  How  long  have  you  been  dead  t 
Punch.  About  six  weeks. 
Doctor.   Oh,  you're  not  dead,  you're  only 
poorly;    I  must  fetch  you  a  little  reviving 
medicine,   such  as  some    stick-lickrish   and 
I  balsam,  and  extract  of  shillalagh. 

Punch.    (Rising.)     Make   haste — (he   gives 
I  the  Doctor  a  wipe  on  the  nose) — make  haste 
and  fetch  it.  ^Doctor  exaunts. 

Punch.  The  Doctor  going  to  get  me  some 
I  physic !  I'm  very  fond  of  brundy-and- water, 
i  and  rum-punch.  I  want  my  physic  ;  the 
Doctor  never  brought  me  no  physic  at  alL 
I  wasn't  ill;  it  was  only  my  fan.  (Doctor 
reappears  with  the  physic-sticky  and  he  whacks 
Punch  over  the  head  no  harder  than  he  U  able, 
and  cries — "There's  physic  I  physic!  physic! 
physic !  physic  I  pills !  balsaam !  stick- 
lickerish  ! " 

Punch.  (Rising  and  rttbbing  his  head  against 
the  wing.)     Yes;  it  is  sdck-lickrish. 

(Ah  !  it's  a  pretty  play,  sir,  when  it's  showed 
well — that  it  is — its  delightful  to  read  the 
morals ;  I  am  wery  fond  of  reading  the  morals, 
I  am.) 

Punch.  (Taking  the  stick  from  the  Doctor.) 
Now,  I'll  give  you  physic !  j)hysic !  physic ! 
(He  strikes  at  the  Doctor,  but  misses  him  every 
time.)     The  Doctor  don't  like  his  own  stuff. 

Punch.  (Presenting  his  stick,  gun-fashion,  at 
Doctor's  head.)    I'll  shoot  ye — one,  two<  three. 
Doctor,  (Closing  with  Punch.)  Come  to  gaol 
along  with  me. 

(He  saves  his  own  life  by  closing  with 
Punch.  He's  a  desperate  character  is  Punch, 
though  ho  means  no  harm,  ye  know.)  A 
struggle  enshoos,  and  the  Doctor  calls  for 
help,  Punch  being  too  powerful  for  him. 

Doctor.  Come  to  gaol !  You  shall  repent  for 
all  your  past  misdeeds.  Help!  assistance! 
help,  in  the  Queen's  name ! 

(He's  acting  as  a  constable,  the  Doctor 
is,  though  he's  no  business  to  do  it;  but 
he's  acting  in  self-defence.  He  didn't  know 
Punch,  but  he'd  heard  of  lib^  transactions, 
and  when  he  came  to  examine  him,  he  found 
kt  was  the  man.  The  Doctor  is  a  very  sedate 
kind  of  a  person,  and  wishes  to  do  good  to 
all  classes  of  the  community  at  large,  espe- 
inally  with  his  physic,  which  he  gives  gratis 
lor  nothink  at  all.  The  physic  is  called 
'  Head-e-cologne,  or  a  sure  cure  for  the  head- 
ache.') 

Re-enter  Beadis.   (Punch  and  the  Doctor  Mtiil 
struggling  together,) 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


67 


BeadU.  {Closing  with  them.)  Hi,  hi!  this 
it  him :  behold  the  head  of  a  traitor !  Come 
along !  come  to  gaol  I 

AmcA.  {A  kicking.)     I  will  not  go. 

Beadle.  {Sfwuting.)  More  help!  more  help! 
more  help !  help !  help !  Come  along  to  gaol  I 
come  along!  come  along!  More  help!  more 
kelp! 

(Oh !  it's  a  good  lark  just  here,  sir,  but 
tremendous  hard  work,  for  there's  so  many 
figures  to  work — and  all  struggling,  too, — and 
yon  have  to  work  them  all  at  once.  This  is 
comic,  this  is.) 

BfodU.  More  help !  be  quick !  be  quick ! 
Re-enter  JiM  Cnow. 

Jim  Crow.  Come  de  long  I  come  de  long ! 
come  de  long !  me  nigger,  and  you  beata  me. 

[Eiaunts  all^  Punch  still  singing  ouiy  '^I'll 
not  go." 

END   OF  FinST  ACT. 

Change  of  Scene  for  Second  Act. 
Scene  draws  up,  and  discovers  the  exterior 
of  a  prison,  with  Punch  peeping  through  the 
bars,  and  singing  a  merry  song  of  the  merry 
bells  of  £nglimd,  all  of  the  olden  time. 
(That's  an  olden  song,  you  know;  it's  old 
ancient,  and  it's  a  moral, — a  moral  song,  you 
know,  to  show  that  Punch  is  repenting,  but 
pleased,  and  yet  don't  care  nothink  at  all  about 
it,  for  he's  frolicsome,  and  on  the  height  of  his 
frolic  and  amusement  to  all  the  juveniles,  old 
and  young,  rich  and  poor.  "We  must  put  all 
classes  together.) 

Enter  Hangman  Jack  Ketch^  or  Mr.  O  has  all. 

That's  Jack  Ketch's  name,  you  know ;  he  takes 
all,  when  they  gets  in  his  clutches.  We 
mustn't  blame  him  for  he  must  do  his  duty, 
for  the  sheri£fs  is  so  close  to  him.) 

IPrejfaraiion  commences  for  the  execution  of 
Punch,  Punch  is  still  looking  through 
the  bars  of  Newgate. 

The  last  scene  as  I  hod  was  Temple-bar 
Scene;  it  was  a  prison  once,  ye  know;  that's 
the  old  ancient,  ye  know,  but  I  never  let  the 
others  see  it,  cos  it  shouldn't  become  too 
pubhc  But  I  think  Newgate  is  better, .  in 
the  new  edition,  though  the  prison  is  sus- 
pended, it  being  rather  too  terrific  for  the  be- 
holder. It  was  the  old  ancient  style ;  the  sen- 
tence is  passed  upon  him,  but  by  whom  not 
known ;  he's  not  tried  by  one  person,  cos  no- 
body can't 

Jmck  Ketch,  Now,  Mr.  Punch,  you  are  going 
to  be  executed  by  the  British  and  Foreign 
IcwB  of  this  and  other  countries,  and  you  are 
to  be  hung  up  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead 


Pkmeh,  What,  am  I  to  die  three  times  ? 

Jack.   No,  DO ;  you're  only  to  die  once. 

Punch.  Hoi*  is  that?  you  said  I  was  to  be 
hung  up  by  the  neck  till  I  was  dead— dead — 
dead?    Toa  can't  die  three  times. 

JadL   Oh,  no ;  only  once. 


Punch.  Why,  you  said  dead — dead — dead. 

Jack.  Yes ;  and  when  you  are  dead — dead-^ 
dead — ^you  will  be  quite  dead. 

Punch.  Oh  !  I  never  knowed  that  before. 

Jack.  Now,  prepare  yourself  for  execution. 

Punch.  What  for? 

Jack.  For  killing  your  wife,  throwing  your 
poor  dear  little  innocent  baby  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  striking  the  Beadle  unmercifully  over 
the  head  with  a  mop-stick.     Come  on. 

lExaunt  Hangman  behind  Scene j  and  re-enttTt 
leading  Punch  slowly  forth  to  the  foot 
of  tite  gallows.  Punch  comes  most  wili- 
ingly,  having  no  sense. 

Jack.  Now,  my  boy,  here  is  the  corfin,  here 
is  the  gibbet,  and  here  is  tbe  pall. 

Punch.  There's  the  corfee-shop,  there's 
giblets,  and  there's  St.  Paul's. 

Jack.  Get  out,  young  foolish!  Now  then, 
place  your  head  in  here. 

Punch.  What,  up  here  ? 

Jack.  No;  a  little  lower  down. 

(There's  quick  business  in  this,  you  know ; 
this  is  comic — a  little  comic  business,  this  is.) 

Punch.  {Dodging  tite  noose.)     WTiat,  here  ? 

Jack.  No,  no;  in  there  {showing  the  noose 
again). 

Punch.  This  way  ? 

Jack,  No,  a  little  more  this  way  ;  in  there. 
IPunch  falls  down^  and  pretends  he's  dead. 

Jack.  Get  up,  you're  not  dead. 

Punch.  Oh,  yes  I  am. 

Jack.  But  I  say,  no. 

Punch.  Please,  sir,  {bowing  to  the  hangman) 
— (Here  he's  an  hypocrite  ;  he  wants  to 
exempt  himself,)— do  show  me  the  way,  for  I 
never  was  hung  before,  and  I  don't  know  the 
way.  Please,  sir,  to  show  me  the  way,  and  I'll 
feel  extremely  obliged  to  you,  and  return  you 
my  most  sincere  thanks. 

(Now,  that's  well  worded,  sir;  it's  well  put 
together;  that's  my  beauty,  that  is;  I  am 
obliged  to  study  my  language,  and  not  have  any 
thing  vulgar  whatsoever.  All  in  simplicity,  so 
that  the  young  children  may  not  be  taught 
anything  wrong.  There  am't  nothing  to  be 
learnt  from  it,  because  of  its  simphcity.) 

Jack.  Very  well ;  as  you're  so  kind  and  con- 
descending, I  will  certainly  oblige  you  by 
showing  you  the  way.  Here,  my  boy !  now, 
place  your  head  in  here,  like  this  {hangman 
putting  his  liead  in  noose) ;  this  is  the  right  and 
the  proper  way;  now,  you  see  the  rope  is 
placed  under  my  chin ;  I'll  take  my  head  out, 
and  I  Ynh  place  yours  in  (that's  a  rhyme) 
and  when  your  head  is  in  the  rope,  you  must 
turn  round  to  the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and 
say — Good-by  ;  fare  you  weU. 

(Very  slowly  then  —  a  stop  between  each  of 
the  words ;  for  that's  not  driving  the  people  out 
of  the  world  in  quick  haste  without  givinj^  'em 
time  for  repentance.    That's  another  moral,  yer 

e.     Oh,  I  like  all  the  morals  to  it.) 

Punch  {quickly  pulling  the  rope).  Good- 
by;  fare  you  well.  {Hangs  the  hangman.) 
(What  a  hypocrite  he  is  again,  yer  see,  for 


M 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  J^OOB. 


directly  he's  done  it  be  says :  *  Now,  Fm  ft'ee 
again  for  frolic  and  fan  ;*  calls  Joey,  the  down, 
his  old  Mend,  because  they're  both  ftOl  of 
tricks  and  antics :  '  Joey,  here's  a  man  hung 
hisself;'— that's  his  hypocrisy  again,  yer  see, 
for  he  tries  to  get  exempt  after  he's  done  it 
hisself.) 

Enter  Clowv,  in  qvick  hawU,  hobhing  «p  o^otiul 
the  gaUowM, 

Clown.  Dear  me,  I've  nm  against  a  milk- 
post  !  Why,  dear  Mr.  Punch,  you've  hung  a 
man !  do  tdce  him  down !  How  came  you  to 
doit? 

Punch,  He  got  wet  through,  and  I  hung 
him  up  to  diy. 

Clown.  Dear  me !  why  you've  hung  him  up 
till  he's  dried  quite  dead ! 

Punch,  Poor  fellow!  then  he  won't  catch 
cold  with  the  wet  Let's  put  him  in  this 
snuff-box.  {Pointing  to  coffin. 

[Joey  takes  the  figure  down  and  gives  it  to 
Punch  to  hold,  so  as  the  body  do  not  run 
away,  and  then  proceeds  to  remove  the 
gallows.  In  doing  so  he  by  accident  hits 
Punch  on  the  nose. 

Punch,  Mind  what  you  are  about!  (for 
Punch  is  game,  yer  know,  right  through  to 
the  back-bone.) 

Clown,  Make  haste.  Punch,  here's  some- 
body a-coming!  (They  hustle  his  legs  and 
feet  in ;  but  they  can't  get  his  head  in,  the  un- 
dertaker not  having  made  the  coffin  large 
enough.) 

Punch,  We'd  better  double  him  up,  place 
the  pall  on,  and  take  the  man  to  the  brave, — 
not  the  grave,  but  the  brave :  cos  he's  been  a 
brave  man  in  his  time  may  be. — Sings  the 
Bong  of  *  Bobbing  around,'  while  with  the 
coffin  he  bobs  Joey  on  the  head,  and  exaunt. 

Be-enter  Punch. 

Punch,  That  was  a  jolly  lark,  wasn't  itf 
Sings,— 

"  I'd  be  a  butterfly,  bom  in  u  bower, 
HaUjig  aj^le-dumplinge  without  any  flour." 

All  this  wit  must  have  been  bom  in  me, 

or  nearly  so ;  but  I  got  a  good  lot  of  it  from 

Poraini  and  Pike — and  gleanings,  you  know. 

[PmucA  disappears  and  re-enters  with  bell. 

Punch.    This  is  my  pianner-sixty :  it  plays 

fifty  tunes  all  at  one  time. 

lOoes  to  the  landlord  of  the  public  chouse 
painted  on  the  side-scene,  or  cottage,  re- 
presented as  a  tavern  or  hotel.      The 
children  of  the  pubUcmn  are  ail  a-bed. 
Punch  plays  up  a  tune  and  soHeits  for 
money, 
Lamdiord  wakes  up  in  a  passion  through  the 
terrible  noise  ;  pokes  his  head  out  cf  win- 
dow and  tells  him  to  go  away, 
(There's  a  little  window,  and  a  httle  door  to 
this  side-scene.)     If  they  was  to  play  it  all 
through,  as  you're  a  writing,  it  *iidopen  Dmry- 
lane  Theatre. 
Punch.  Go  away?     Yes,  play  sway!  Oh, 


you  means,  O'er  the  hills  and  far  away.  (He 
misunderstands  him,  wilfully,  the  hypocrite.) 
[Punch  keeps  on  ringing  his  bell  violently. 
Publican,  in  a  violent  passion,  opens  the  door, 
and  pushes  him  away,  saying,  **  Be  off  with  you  /"] 

Punch,  I  will  not  {Hits  him  over  the  head 
with  the  bell.)  You're  no  judge  of  music. 
(Plays   away,) 

Publican  exaunts  to  fetch  cudgel  to  pay 
him  out.  Punch  no  sooner  sees  cudgel  than 
he  exaunts,  taking  his  musical  instrument 
with  him.  It's  far  superior  to  anything  of 
the  kind  vou  did  ever  see,  except  *  seldom.' 
You  know  it's  silver,  and  that's  what  we  says 
*  solilom ; '  silver,  you  know,  is  *  seldom,'  be- 
cause it's  seldom  you  sees  it. 

Publican  comes  out  of  his  house  with  his 
cudgel  to  catch  old  Punch  on  the  grand  hop. 
Must  have  a  little  comic. 

Punch  returns  again  with  his  bell,  while 
publican  is  hiding  secretly  for  to  catch  him. 
Publican  pretends,  as  he  stands  in  a  comer, 
to  be  fast  asleep,  but  keeps  hif>  eyes  wide 
awake  all  the  while,  and  says,  '  If  ho  comes 
up  here,  I'll  be  one  upon  his  tibby.' 

Punch  comes  out  from  behind  the  opposite 
side,  and  rings  his  bell  violently.  Publican 
makes  a  blow  at  him  with  his  cudgel,  and 
misses,  saying,  **  How  dare  you  intmde  upon 
my  premises  with  that  nasty,  noisy  bell  ?'' 

Punch,  while  publican  is  watching  at  this 
aida-scene,  appears  over  at  the  other,  with  a 
hartful  dodge,  and  again  rings  his  bell  loudly, 
and  again  the  publican  misses  him ;  and  while 
publican  is  watching  at  this  side-scene,  Punch 
re-enters,  and  draws  up  to  him  very  slowly, 
and  restes  his  pianner-sixty  on  the  board,  while 
he  slowly  advances  to  him,  and  gives  him  a 
whack  on  the  head  with  his  fist.  Punch  then 
disappears,  leaving  his  bell  behind,  and  the 
landlord  in  pursession  of  his  music.) 

Landlord  {collaring  the  belt).  Smuggings ! 
pursession  is  nine  points  of  the  Iaw  !  So  this 
bell  is  mine,  {guarding  over  it  with  a  stick), 
Smuggings !  this  is  mine,  and  when  he  comes 
up  to  take  this  bell  away,  I  shall  have  him. 
Smuggings !  it's  mine. 

Punch  re-enters  very  slowly  behind  the 
publican  as  he  is  watching  the  beU,  and 
snatching  up  the  bell,  cries  out, '  That's  mine,' 
and  exaunts  with  it 

Publican.  Dear  me  !  never  mind ;  I  look 
after  him ;  I  shall  catch  him  some  di^  cr 
other.  {Hits  his  nose  up  againtt  the  post  as  he 
is  going  away.)  (That's  comic.)  Oh,  mj  nosal 
never  mind.  111  have  him  again  soma  time. 

{Excite 'PxmuiOAM, 
Clown  re-enters  with  Punch. 

Clown,    Oh,  Punch,  how  are  yon? 

Punch.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Oh,  Joey, 
my  fnend,  how  do  you  do  7 

Clown,  Here,  Pimch,  are  you  a  mind  for  a 
lark?  {Peeping  in  at  the  cottage  window^  fv- 
presented  as  a  publie-house,)  Are  you  hungry. 
Punch  ?  would  you  lika  something  to  eat  f 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


09 


TmmcK.  Yes. 

Clown,  What  wonld  you  like  ? 

Pitnch.  NotpecnKar. 

(Not  particTilar,  he  means,  joa  know; 
that's  a  slip  word.) 

Clown.  Ill  go  up  into  the  landlord,  and  see 
if  he's  got  an^nEhing  to  eat.  {Exaunt  into  cot- 
tofe^  and  poking  his  head  of  the  window.) 
Here,  Prrncb ;  here's  the  landlord  fast  asleep 
m  the  kitchen  cellar ;  here's  a  lot  of  sausages 
hanging  up  here. 

(Joey's  a- thieving ;  don't  you  see,  he's  a  roh- 
hing  the  landlord  now?) 

Would  you  like  some  for  supper,  eh,  Punch  ? 

Punch.  Yes,  to  bo  sure. 

Clown.  Dont  make  a  noise ;  youTl  wake  the 
Imdlord. 

Punch  {whispering  ns  loud  as  he  can  bawl 
thwugh  the  window).  Hand  'em  out  here. 
{Punch  pulls  them  out  of  the  unndow.) 

Clown.  "What  are  we  to  fry  them  in  ?  HI  go 
and  see  if  I  can  find  a  fningpan. 

[Exaunt  from  window,  and  re-appcars  with 
frgingpan,  which  he  Jiands  out  of  unndow 
for  Punch  to  cook  sausages  in,  and  then 
disappears  fur  a  moment;  after  which  he 
returns^  and  says,  with  his  liead  out  of 
window,  *  Would  you  like  something  /«>/, 
Punch  r 

Punch.  Yes,  to  be  sure. 

(Punch  is  up  to  everything.  lie's  a  help- 
ing him  to  rob  the  publican.  One's  as  much 
in  the  mud  as  the  other  is  in  the  mire.) 

Clown  {Thrusting  red-hot  poker  out  of  win- 
dow.)  Here,  lay  hold — Here's  a  lark — Muke 
haste — Here's  the  landlord  a  coming.  {Rubs 
Punch  with  it  ever  the  nose.) 

Pfmek.  Oh  my  nose! — that  is  a  hot  'un. 
[Takes  poker. 

Clown,  {Re-enierg,  and  calls  in  at  window.) 
Landlord,  here's  a  fellow  stole  your  sausages 
and  fiyingpon.  {Wakes  vp  Landlord  and 
exaunis.) 

Landlord.  {Appears  at  window.)  Here's  some- 
body been  in  my  house  and  axually  stole  my 
saasagcs,  fryingpon,  and  red-hot  poker! 

(Clown  exaunts  when  he  has  blamed  it 
tU  to  Punch.  Joey  stole  'em,  and  Punch  took 
'tm,  and  the  receiver  is  always  worse  than  the 
tliief^  for  if  they  was  never  no  receivers  there 
wouldn't  never  be  no  thieves.) 

Landlord,  Seizing  the  sausngos  in  Punch's 
hand,  says,  How  did  you  get  these  here  ? 

Punch.  Joey  stole  'em,  and  I  took  'em. 

Landlord,  Then  youteboth  jolly  thieves,  and 
I  most  have  my  property.  A  scuffle  ensues. 
Punch  hollars  out,  Joey!  Joey  I  Hero's  the 
hodlord  a  stealing  the  sausages! 

(So  yon  see  Punch  wants  to  make  the 
landlord  ft  thief  so  as  to  exempt  himself.  He's 
a  hypocrite  there  again,  you  see  again — all 
through  the  piece  he's  the  master-piece.  Oh 
ft  most  dfiver  man  is  Punch,  and  such  an  hypo- 
oite.) 

(Punch,  seizing  the  fryingpan,  which  has 
ben  on  the  pli^-hoard,  knocks  it  on   the 


publican's  head ;  when,  there  being  a  false 
bottom  to  it,  the  head  goes  through  it,  and  the 
sausages  gets  about  tlie  Publican's  neck,  and 
Punch  pulls  at  the  pan  and  the  sausages  with 
veheminence,  till  the  landlord  is  exhausted,  and 
exaunts  with  his  own  property  back  again  ;  so 
there  is  no  harm  done,  only  merely  for  the 
lark  to  return  to  those  people  what  belongs  to 
'em — What  you  take  away  from  a  person 
always  give  to  them  again.) 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clown.  Well,  Mr.  Punch,  I  shall  wish  you 
a  pleasant  good  morning. 

Punch.  [Hits  him  with  /iu  cudgel."]  Good 
morning  to  you,  Joey. 

Exaunt  Joey. 

Punch  sits  down  by  the  side  of  the  poker, 
and  Scaramouch  appears  without  a  head. 

Punch  looks,  and  beholds,  and  he's  fright- 
ened, and  exaunts  with  the  poker. 

Scaramouch  docs  a  comic  dance,  with  his 
long  neck  shooting  up  and  down  with  the 
actions  of  his  body,  after  which  he  exaunts. 

Punch  re-enters  again  with  the  poker,  and 
places  it  beside  of  him,  and  takes  his  cudgel 
ill  his  hand  for  protection,  while  he  is  singing 
the  National  Anthem  of  '*  God  save  the  Queen 
and  all  the  Royal  Family." 

Satan  then  appears  as  a  dream  (and  it  is 
all  a  dream  after  all),  and  dressed  up  as  the 
Pvoossittn  Bear  (leave  Politics  alone  as  much  as 
you  can,  for  Punch  belongs  to  nobody). 

Punch  has  a  dreadful  struggle  with  Satan, 
who  seizes  tlie  red-hot  poker  and  wants  to  take 
Punch  away,  for  all  his  past  misdeeds,  and 
frolic  and  fun,  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

By  struggling  with  Satan,  Punch  over- 
powers him,  and  he  drops  tlie  poker,  and  Punch 
kills  him  with  his  cudgel,  and  shouts  "  Bravo  I 
Hooray!  Satan  is  dead,"  he  cries  (we  must 
have  a  good  conclusion) :  '*  we  can  now  all  do 
as  we  like!" — (That's  the  moral,  you  see.) 
*'  Good-by,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  :  this  is  the 
Avhole  of  the  original  performance  of  Mr. 
Punch :  and  I  remain  still  your  most  obedient 
and  most  humble  servant  to  command.  Good- 
by,  good-by,  good-by.  God  bless  you  alL 
I  return  you  my  most  sincere  thanks  for  your 
patronage  and  support,  and  I  hope  you'll  coma 
out  handsome  witli  your  gold  and  alver.*' 

There  is  one  Punch  in  France,  but  far 
different  to  the  English  Punch  ;  they  ex- 
hibiting their  figures  in  a  different  way  by 
performing  them  with  sticks,  the  same  as 
Scaramouch  is  done.  They  has  a  performing 
Punch  sitivated  at  the  Boulevards,  in  Paris, 
where  he  has  a  certain  piece  of  ground  allotted 
for  him,  with  seats  attached,  being  his  own  f^^e- 
hold  property;  the  passers-by,  if  they  wish  to 
see  the  performance,  they  take  their  seat  with 
the  juveniles,  sits  down,  and  he  performs  to 
them  for  what  they  think  proper  to  give  him. 
I  never  was  over  in  France,  but  I've  heard 
talk  of  him  a  deal  from  foreigners  who  has 


60 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


given  us  inflammation  about  it,  vich  they  was 
so  kind  to  do.  They  shows  the  difTerence 
between  English  and  French  you  know. 

The  Faktoccisi  Man. 

Every  one  who  has  resided  for  any  time  in 
London  must  have  noticed  in  the  streets  a 
large  roomy  show  upon  wheels,  about  four 
times  as  capacious  as  those  used  for  tlie  per- 
formance of  Punch  and  Judy. 

The  proprietor  of  one  of  these  perambulating 
exhibitious  was  a  person  of  some  50  years  of 
age,  with  a  sprightly  half-military  manner; 
but  he  is  seldom  seen  by  the  public,  on  ac- 
count  of  his  haMt  of  passing  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  concealed  within  his  theatre,  for 
the  purpose  of  managing  the  figures.  When 
he  paid  mo  a  visit,  his  peculiar  erect  bear- 
ing struck  me  as  ho  entered.  He  walked  with- 
out bending  his  knees,  stamped  with  his  heels, 
and  often  rubbed  his  hands  together  as  if 
washing  them  with  an  invisiblo  soap.  Ho  wore 
his  hair  with  Uio  curls  arranged  in  a  Brutus, 
k  la  George  the  Fourth,  and  his  chin  was  forced 
up  into  the  air  by  a  high  black  stock,  as  though 
ho  wished  to  increase  his  stature.  He  wore  a 
frock  coat  buttoned  at  waist,  and  open  on  his 
expanded  chest,  so  as  to  show  off  the  entire 
length  of  his  shirt-front 

I  could  not  help  asking  him,  if  he  had  ever 
served  in  tlie  army.  He,  however,  objected  to 
gratify  my  curiosity  on  that  point,  ^ough  it 
was  impossible  from  his  reply  not  to  infer  that 
he  had  been  in  her  m^jest/s  service. 

There  was  a  mystery  about  his  origin  and 
parentage,  which  he  desired  should  remain 
undisturbed.  His  relations  were  all  of  them 
so  respectable,  he  said,  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
disgrace  them  by  any  revelations  he  might 
moke ;  thus  implying  that  he  considered  his 
present  occupation  a  downfall  in  life. 

"  I  follow«)d  it  as  my  propensity,**  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  and  though  I  have  run  through  three 
fortunes,  I  follow  it  still.  I  never  knew  the 
value  of  money,  and  when  I  have  it  in  my 
pocket  I  cannot  keep  it  there.  I  have  spent 
forty-five  pounds  in  three  dajrs." 

He  seemed  to  be  not  a  little  fond  of  exhibit- 
ing his  dolls,  and  considered  himself  to  be  the 
only  person  living  who  knew  anything  of  the 
art.  He  said  orders  were  sent  to  him  from  all 
parts  of  the  country  to  make  the  figures,  and 
indeed  some  of  them  were  so  intricate,  that  he 
alone  had  the  secret  of  their  construction. 

He  hardly  seemed  to  like  the  Marionettes, 
and  evidently  looked  upon  them  as  an  inter- 
ference with  "  the  real  original  character"  of  the 
exhibition.  The  only  explanation  he  could  give 
of  the  difference  between  the  Marionettes  and 
the  Fantoccini  was,  that  the  one  had  a  French 
title,  and  referred  to  doUs  in  modem  costume, 
whilst  the  other  was  an  ItaUan  word,  and  ap- 
plied to  dolls  in  fancy  dresses. 

He  gave  me  the  following  interesting  state- 
ment : — 


"The  Fantoccini,"  he  said,  "is  the  proper 
title  of  the  exhibition  of  dancing  dolls,  Uiough 
it  has  lately  been  changed  to  that  of  the  *  Ma- 
rionettes,' owing  to  the  exhibition  under  that 
name  at  the  Adelaide  Gallery. 

"  That  exhibition  at  the  Adelaide  Gallery  was 
very  good  in  its  way,  but  it  was  nothing  to  be 
compared  to  tlie  exhibition  that  was  once  given 
at  the  Argyll  Rooms  in  Regent-street,  (that's 
the  old  place  that  was  bunied  down ) .  It  was 
called  *  Le  petit  Thedtre  Matthieu^'  and  in  my 
opinion  it  was  the  best  one  that  ever  come 
into  London,  because  they  was  well  manaj;ed. 
They  did  little  pieces — heavy  and  light.  They 
did  Shakespeare's  tragedies  and  farces,  and 
singing  as  well ;  indeed,  it  was  the  real  stage, 
only  with  dolls  for  actors  and  parties  to  speak 
for  'em  and  work  their  arms  and  legs  behind 
the  scenes.  I've  known  one  of  these  parties 
take  three  parts — look  at  that  for  clover  work 
— first  he  did  an  old  man,  then  an  old  woman, 
and  afterwards  the  young  man.  I  assisted  at 
tliat  performance,  and  I  should  say  it  was  full 
twenty  years  ago,  to  the  best  of  my  recollec- 
tion. After  the  Marionettes  removed  to  the 
Western  Institution,  Leicester-square,  I  as- 
sisted at  ihem  also.  It  was  a  passable  ex- 
hibition, but  nothing  out  of  the  way.  The 
figiures  were  only  modelled,  not  carved,  as  they 
ought  to  be.  I  was  only  engaged  to  exhibit 
one  figure,  a  sailor  of  my  own  making.  It 
was  a  capital  one,  and  stood  as  high  as  a  table. 
They  wanted  it  for  the  piece  called  the  '  Ma- 
nager in  Distress,'  where  one  of  the  performers 
is  a  sailor.  Mine  would  dance  a  hornpipe, 
and  whip  its  hat  off  in  a  minute ;  when  I  had 
finished  performing  it,  I  took  gooil  care  to 
whip  it  into  a  bag,  so  that  tliey  should  not  see 
how  I  arranged  the  strings,  for  they  was  very 
backwards  in  their  knowledge.  When  we 
worked  the  figiures  it  was  very  diihcult,  be- 
cause you  had  to  be  up  so  high — like  on  the 
top  of  the  ceiling,  and  to  keep  looking  down  aU 
the  time  to  manage  the  strings.  There  was  a 
platform  arranged,  with  a  place  to  rest  against. 

"  The  first  to  introduce  the  Fantoccini  into 
London — that  is,  into  London  streets,  mind 
you,  going  about — was  Gray,  a  Scotchman. 
He  was  a  very  clever  fellow, — very  good, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  what  was  good 
that  belonged  to  it — scenery,  dresses,  theatre 
and  all.  He  had  a  frame  then,  no  longer  than 
tlie  Punch  frame  now,  only  he  had  a  labouring 
man  to  cany  it  for  him,  and  he  took  with  him 
a  box  no  larger  than  a  haberdasher's  box,  which 
contained  the  figures,  for  they  were  not  more 
than  nine  inches  high.  Now  my  figures  are 
two  feet  high,  though  they  don't  look  it;  but 
my  theatre  is  ten  feet  high  by  six  foot  wide, 
and  the  opening  is  four  feet  high.  This  Gray 
was  engaged  at  all  the  tlieatros,  to  exhibit  hijj 
figures  at  the  masquerades.  Nothing  went 
down  but  Mr.  Gray,  and  he  put  poor  Pimch. 
up  altogether.  When  he  performed  at  the 
theatres,  he  used  to  do  it  as  a  wind-up  to  the 
entertainment,  after  the  dancing  was  over,  and 


GUY    FAWKES. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


61 


thrjwoiild  elMT  the  stage  on  purpose  for  him, 
ftod  then  let  down  a  scene  wiUi  an  opening  in 
it,  the  size  of  his  theatre.  On  these  occasions 
his  fi^rnres  were  longer,  about  two  feet,  and 
very  perfect.  There  was  juggling,  and  slack 
and  tight  rope-dandng,  and  Punches,  and 
everything,  and  the  performance  was  ne^er 
]«9s  than  one  hour,  and  then  it  was  done  a8 
quick  as  lightning,  every  morning,  and  no  feat 
lunger  than  two  or  three  minutes.  It  didn't 
do  to  have  silly  persons  there. 

^This  Gray  performed  at  Yauxhall  when 
Bifth,  the  lottery-man  in  Comhill,  had  it,  and 
he  vent  down  wonderful.  He  also  performed 
before  George  the  Fourth.  I've  heard  sny  that 
he  j^t  ten  pounds  a- week  when  he  performed 
at  Vauxhall,  for  they  snatched  him  out  of  the 
streets,  and  wouldn't  let  him  play  there.  It's 
impossible  to  say  what  ho  made  in  the  streets, 
for  he  was  a  Scotchman  and  uncommon  close. 
If  be  took  a  hatfull,  he'd  say,  *  I've  only  got  a 
few;'  but  he  did  so  well  he  could  sport  his 
diamond  rings  on  his  fingers, — first  rate — 
splendid. 

•*  Gray  was  the  first  to  exhibit  gratis  in  the 
Ktreeta  of  London,  but  he  was  not  the  first  to 
work  fantoccini  figures.  They  had  always 
been  exhibited  at  theatres  before  that,  Old 
Ponini  knowed  nothing  about  them  <~  it  was 
out  of  his  business  all  to^^ether,  for  he  was 
Punch  and  nothing  more.  Gray  killed  Porsini 
and  his  Punch  ;  regular  shut  him  up.  A  man 
of  the  name  of  Flocton  from  Birmingham  was, 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  the  first  that  ever 
had  a  fantocdni  exhibition  in  England;  but 
he  was  ooJEy  for  theatres. 

"  At  this  tone  I  had  been  playing  in  the 
orcfaestrmwiCli  some  travelling  comedians,  and 
Mr.  SaAWOod,  the  master,  used  among  other 
things  to  exhibit  the  dancing  figures.  He 
had  a  pnMeenium  fitted  up  so  that  he  could 
open  a  twenty-foot  theatre,  almost  large 
enough  for  living  persons.  He  had  the  splen- 
didest  figures  ever  introduced  into  this  cotmtry. 
He  was  sa  artist  as  well,  splendid  scene  and 
transparent  painter ;  indeed,  he's  worked  for 
some  of  the  first  noblemen  in  Cheltenham, 
doing  up  their  drawing-rooms.  His  figures 
worked  their  eyes  and  mouths  by  mechanism ; 
according  to  what  they  had  to  say,  they  looked 
and  moved  their  eyes  and  mouths  according ; 
and  females,  if  they  was  singing,  heaved  their 
I'Osoms  like  Christians,  the  same  as  life.  He 
had  a  Turk  who  did  the  tightrope  without 
anybody  being  seen.  He  always  performed 
diSnvnt  pieces,  and  had  a  regular  wardrobe 
vith  him— beautiful  dresses — and  he'd  diess 
'em  up  to  their  parts,  and  then  paint  their 
liees  up  with  distemper,  which  daiw  in  .an 
hour.  Somebody  came  and  told  me  that  Gray 
wu  in  London,  performing  in  the  streets,  and 
that's  what  bzought  me  out.  I  had  helped 
Mr.  Seawood  to  manage  the  figures,  and  I 
knew  something  about  them.  They  told  me 
Gray  had  a  frame,  and  I  said,  *Well,  it's  a 
Int  of  ganius,  and  is  a  fortune.*    The  only 


figures  they  told  me  he  had — and  it  was  true 
— was  a  sailor,  and  a  Turk,  and  a  clown,  and 
what  we  calls  a  Polander,  that's  a  man  that 
tosses  the  pole.  I  left  Seawood  directly,  and 
I  went  to  my  father  and  got  some  money,  and 
began  instantly  making  my  f^ame  and  figures. 
Mine  was  about  sixteen  inches  high,  and  I  had 
five  of  'em.  I  began  very  strong.  My  fifth 
figure  was  a  juggler.  I  was  the  second  that 
ever  came  out  in  the  streets  of  London.  It 
was  at  the  time  that  George  the  Fourth  went 
to  Scotland,  and  Gray  went  after  him  to  try 
his  luck,  following  the  royal  family.  As  the 
king  went  out  of  London  I  came  in.  I  first 
of  cdl  put  up  at  Peckham,  just  to  lay  to  a  bit  and 
look  about  me.  I'll  tell  you  the  reason.  I 
h£td  no  one  to  play,  and  I  couldn't  manage  the 
figures  and  do  the  music  as  weU,  consequently 
I  had  to  seek  after  some  one  to  do  the  pan- 
dean  pipes.  I  didn't  like  to  make  my  first 
appearance  in  London  without  music.  At 
last  I  met  a  party  that  used  to  play  the  pipes 
at  Vauxhall.  I  met  him  one  day,  and  ho 
says,  *  What  are  you  up  to  now  ? '  so  I  told  him 
I  had  the  fantoccini  figures.  He  was  a  beau- 
tiful pipe  player,  and  I've  never  heard  any  one 
like  him  before  or  since.  He  wouldn't  believe 
I  had  the  figures,  they  was  such  a  novelty.  I 
told  him  where  I  was  staying,  and  he  and  his 
partner  came  over  to  sec  me,  and  I  performed 
the  figures,  and  then  we  went  on  .shares.  Ho 
had  worked  for  Gray,  and  he  knew  all  his 
houses  where  he  used  to  perform,  and  I  knew 
nothing  about  these  things.  "When  Gray  came 
back  he  found  me  performing  before  one  of 
his  houses  in  Harley-strect,  where  he  always 
had  five  shiliings. 

"They  was  a  tremendous  success — won- 
derful. If  we  had  a  call  at  a  house  our 
general  price  was  two-and-sixpcnce,  and  the 
performance  was,  for  a  good  one,  twenty 
minutes.  Then  there  was  the  crowd  for  the 
collection,  but  they  was  principally  halfpence, 
and  we  didn't  cai»  about  them  much,  though 
we  have  taken  four  shillings.  We  never 
pitched  only  to  hottses,  only  stopping  when 
we  had  an  order,  and  we  hadn't  occasion  to 
walk  far,  for  as  soon  as  the  tune  was  heard, 
up  would  come  the  servants  to  tell  us  to 
come.  Tve  had  three  at  me  at  once.  I've 
known  myself  to  be  in  Devonshire-place,  when 
I  was  poforming  there,  to  be  there  for  three 
hours  and  upwards,  going  from  house  to  house. 
I  eotdd  tell  you  how  much  we  took  a-day.  It 
was,  after  taking  expenses,  from  four  to  five 
pounds  a-day.  Besides,  there  was  a  labourer 
to  whom  we  paid  a  guinea  a- week  to  carry  a 
fhutne,  and  he  had  his  keep  into  the  bargain. 
Where  Punch  took  a  shilling  we've  taken  a 
poimd. 

"I  recollect  going  down  with  the  show  to 
Brighton,  and  they  actually  announced  our 
arrival  in  the  papers,  saying,  that  among  other 
public  amusements  tliey  had  the  Fantoccini 
figures  ftom  London.  That's  a  fact  That 
was  in  the  paper.    We  did  well  in  Brighton. 


68 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


We'hftve,  I  can  assure  jon,  taken  eighteen 
shillings  and  sixpence  in  half  an  hour,  comer- 
pitching,  as  we  call  it ;  that  is,  at  the  comer  of 
a  street  where  there  is  a  lotof  people  passing. 
We  had  such  success,  that  the  magistrates 
sent  the  head-constable  round  with  us,  to  clear 
away  the  mob.  If  we  performed  before  any 
gentleman's  place,  there  was  this  constable  to 
keep  the  place  clear.  A  nasty  busy  fellow  he 
was,  too.  All  the  time  wo  was  at  Brighton  we 
made  twenty  pounds  a-week  clear,  for  we  then 
took  only  shillings  and  sixpences,  and  there 
was  no  fourpenny  pieces  or  threepenny  bits  in 
them  times.  We  had  gentlemen  come  up 
many  a  time  and  offer  to  buy  the  whole  con- 
cern, clear.  What  an  idea,  wasn't  it  ?  But  we 
didn't  want  to  sell  it,  they  couldn't  have  given 
us  our  price. 

"  The  crowd  was  always  a  great  annoyance 
to  us.  They'd  follow  us  for  miles,  and  the 
moment  we  pitched  up  they'd  come  and  gather 
about,  and  almost  choke  us.  What  was  their 
ha'pence  to  us  when  we  was  taking  our  half, 
crowns  ?  Actually,  in  London,  we  walked  three 
and  four  miles  to  get  rid  of  the  mob ;  but,  bless 
you  !  we  couldn't  get  rid  of  them,  for  they  was 
like  flies  after  honey. 

"  We  used  to  do  a  great  business  ¥rith  even- 
ing  parties.  At  Christmas  we  have  had  to  go 
three  and  four  times  in  the  same  evening  to 
different  parties.  We  never  had  less  than  a 
guinea,  and  I  have  had  as  much  as  five  pounds, 
but  the  usual  price  was  two  pounds  ten  ahil- 
lings,  and  all  refreshments  found  you.  I  had 
the  honour  of  performing  before  the  Queen 
when  she  was  Princess  Victoria.  It  was  at 
Gloucester-house,  Park-lane,  and  we  was  en- 
gaged by  the  royal  household.  A  nice  berth 
I  had  of  it,  for  it  was  in  May,  and  they  put  us 
on  the  landing  of  the  drawing-room,  where 
the  folding-doors  opened,  and  there  was  some 
place  close  by  where  hot  air  was  admitted 
to  warm  the  apartments ;  and  what  with  the 
heat  of  the  weather  and  this  'ere  ventilation, 
with  the  heat  coming  up  the  grating-places, 
and  my  anxiety  performing  before  a  princess, 
I  was  near  baked,  and  the  perspiration  quite 
run  off  me ;  for  I  was  packed  up  above,  stand- 
ing up  and  hidden,  to  manage  the  figures. 
There  was  the  maids  of  honour  coming  down 
the  stairs  like  so  many  nuns,  dressed  all  in 
white,  and  the  princess  was  standing  on  a 
sofa,  with  the  Duke  of  Kent  behind  her.  She 
was  apparently  very  much  amused,  like  others 
who  had  seen  (hem.  I  can't  recollect  what  we 
was  paid,  but  it  was  very  handsome  and  so 
forth. 

'^I've  also  performed  before  the  Baroness 
Rothschilds,  next  the  Duke  of  Wellington's, 
and  likewise  the  Baron  himself,  in  Grosvenor- 
place,  and  Sir  Watkyn  W.  Wynne,  and  half 
the  nobility  in  England.  We've  been  in  the 
very  first  of  drawing-rooms. 

"•  I  shall  never  forget  being  'at  Sir  Watkyn 
Wynne's,  for  we  was  very  handsomely  treated, 
and  had  the  best  of  eveiything.    It  was  in 


St  James's-square,  and  the  best  of  maasioiis. 
It  was  a  juvenile-party  ni^t,  and  there  was  a 
juggler,  and  a  Punch  and  Judy,  and  our  Fan- 
toccinL  One  of  the  footmen  comes  up,  and 
says  he,  *  Would  any  of  you  men  like  a  jelly?' 
I  told  him  I  didn't  care  for  none,  but  the  Punch- 
and-Judy  man  says — <  My  missus  is  very  par. 
tial  to  them.'  So  the  footman  asks — 'How 
will  you  carry  it  home?'  I  suggested  he 
should  put  it  in  his  hat,  and  the  foolish  fellow^ 
half  silly  with  horns  of  ale,  actually  did,  and 
wrapped  it  up  in  his  pocket-handkerchiet 
There  was  a  large  tumbler  full.  By  and  by 
he  cries — *Lord,  how  I  sweat!'  and  there 
was  the  stuff  nmning  down  his  hair  like  so 
much  size.    We  did  laugh,  I  can  assure  you. 

'*  Fantoccini  has  fallen  off  now.  It's  quite 
different  to  what  it  was.  I  don't  think  the 
people's  tired  of  it,  but  it  ain't  such  a  noveltj. 
I  could  stop  up  a  whole  street  if  I  liked,  so 
that  nothing  could  get  along,  and  that  showt 
the  people  ain't  tir^  of  it.  I  think  it's  the 
people  that  gave  the  half-crowns  are  tired  of 
It,  but  those  with  the  ha'pence  are  as  fond  of 
it  as  ever.  As  times  go,  the  performance  is 
worth  two  pounds  a-week  to  me;  and  if  it 
wasn't,  I  couldn't  afford  to  stop  with  it,  forPm 
very  clever  on  the  violin,  and  I  could  earn 
more  than  thirty  shillings  a-week  playing  in 
bands.  We  still  attend  evening  parties,  only 
it  isn't  to  princesses,  but  gentry.  We  depend 
more  upon  evening  parties.  It  isn't  street 
work,  only  if  we  didn't  go  round  they'd  think 
I  was  dead.  We  go  to  more  than  thirty  par- 
ties a-year.  We  always  play  according  to 
price,  whether  it's  fifteen  shillings,  or  teu 
shillings,  or  a  guinea.  We  dont  get  many 
five-guinea  orders  now.  The  last  one  was  six 
months  ago,  to  go  twenty-eight  miles  into  Kent, 
to  a  gentleman's  house.  When  we  go  to  parties, 
we  take  with  us  a  handsome,  portable,  fold-up 
frame.  The  front  is  beautifiil,  and  by  a  first- 
rate  artist.  The  gentleman  who  done  it  is  at 
the  head  of  the  carriage  department  at  a  rail- 
way, and  there's  the  royal  arms  all  in  gold, 
and  it  stands  above  ten  feet  high,  and  has 
wings  and  all,  so  that  the  music  and  every- 
thing is  invisible.  It  shuts  up  like  a  port- 
folio. The  figures  are  first-rate  ones,  and 
eveiy  one  dressed  according  to  the  country, 
whatever  it  may  be,  she  is  supposed  to  repre- 
sent They  are  in  the  best  of  material,  with 
satin  and  lace,  and  all  that's  good. 

"  When  we  perform  in  the  streets,  we  gene- 
rally go  through  this  programme.  We  begins 
with  a  female  hornpipe  dancer ;  then  there  is 
a  set  of  quadrilles  by  some  marionette  figun^s, 
four  females  and  no  gentleman.  If  we  did 
the  men  we  should  want  assistance,  for  four 
is  as  much  as  I  can  hold  at  once.  It  would 
require  two  men,  and  the  street  won't  pay  for 
it  After  this  we  introduces  a  representation 
of  Mr.  Grimaldi  the  clo^n,  who  does  tumbling 
and  posturing,  and  a  comic  dance,  ond  so 
forth,  such  as  trying  to  catch  a  buLtorfly. 
Then  comes  the  enchanted  Turk.    He  cornea 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


03 


00  in  the  costume  of  a  Turk,  and  he  throws 
off  his  light  and  left  arm,  and  then  his  legs, 
and  they  each  change  into  different  figures, 
the  arms  and  legs  into  two  boys  and  girls,  a 
dergyman  the  head,  and  an  old  lady  the  body. 
That  figure  was  my  own  invention,  and  I  could 
if  Ihke  uun  him  into  a  dozen ;  indeed,  Pve  got 
one  at  home,  which  turns  into  a  par»on  in  the 
pulpit,  and  a  derk  tmder  him,  and  a  lot  of 
wit  charity  children,  with  a  form  to  sit  down 
mon.  They  are  all  carved  figures,  every  one 
or  them,  and  my  own  make.  The  next  per- 
fi)nBance  is  the  old  lady,  and  her  arms  drop 
off  and  torn  into  two  figures,  and  the  body 
becomos  a  complete  bidloon  and  car  in  a 
minute,  and  not  a  flat  thing,  but  round — and 
the  figures  get  into  the  car  and  up  they  go. 
Then  there's  the  tight-rope  dancer,  and  next 
the  Indian  juggler — Ramo  Samee,  a  rcpresen- 
tation — who  chucks  the  balls  about  under  his 
iMt  and  under  his  arms,  and  catches  them  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  the  same  as  Ramo  Samee 
did.  Then  there's  the  sailor's  hornpipe — 
kalian  Scaramouch  (he's  the  old  style).  This 
one  has  a  long  neck,  and  it  shoots  up  to  the 
tup  of  the  theatre.  This  is  the  original  trick, 
and  a  very  good  one.  Then  comes  the  Po- 
lander,  who  balances  a  pole  and  two  chairs, 
and  stands  on  his  head  and  jumps  over  his 
pole ;  he  dresses  like  a  Spaniard,  and  in  the 
dd  style.  It  takes  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  do 
that  figure  well,  and  make  him  do  all  his 
tricks.  Then  comes  the  Skeletons.  They're 
regular  first  class,  of  course.  This  one  also 
was  my  invention,  and  I  was  the  first  to  make 
them,  and  I'm  the  only  one  that  can  make 
them.  They  are  made  of  a  particular  kind  of 
wood.  I'm  a  first-rate  carver,  and  can  make 
my  three  guineas  any  day  for  a  skull ;  indeed, 
I've  Bold  many  to  dentists  to  put  in  their  win- 
dow. It's  very  difficult  to  carve  this  figure, 
and  takes  a  deal  of  time.  It  takes  full  two 
months  to  make  these  skeletons.  I've  been 
offered  ten  pounds  ten  shillings  for  a  pair,  if 
Id  make  'em  correct  according  to  the  human 
frame.  Those  I  make  for  e^ibiting  in  the 
streets,  I  charge  two  pounds  each  for.  They're 
good,  and  all  the  joints  is  correct,  and  you  may 
put  'em  into  what  attitudes  you  like,  and  they 
walk  like  a  human  being.  These  figures  in 
my  show  come  up  through  a  trap-door,  and 
perform  attitudes,  and  shiver  and  lie  down, 
and  do  imitations  of  the  pictures.  It's  a 
tragic  sort  of  concern,  and  many  ladies  won't 
have  'em  at  evening  parties,  because  it  frightens 
the  children.  Then  there's  Judy  Callaghan, 
and  that  'livens  up  after  the  skeletons.  Then 
SIX  figures  jump  out  of  her  pockets,  and  she 
knocks  them  about.  It's  a  sort  of  comic  busi- 
Dcas.  Then  the  next  is  a  countryman  who 
ean*t  get  hia  donkey  to  go,  and  it  kicks  at 
him  and  throws  him  off,  and  all  manner  of 
comic  andca,  after  Billy  Button's  style.    Then 

1  do  the  skeleton  that  falls  to  pieces,  and  then 
becomes  whole  again.  Then  there's  another 
out  oithe-way  oomic  figure  that  falls  to  pieces 


similar  to  the  skeleton.  He  catches  holcT  of 
his  head  and  chucks  it  from  one  hand  to  the 
other.  We  call  him  the  Nondescript.  We 
wind  up  with  a  scene  in  Tom  and  Jerry. 
The  curtain  winds  up,  and  there's  a  watchman 
prowling  the  streets,  and  some  of  those  lark- 
ing gentlemen  comes  on  and  pitch  into  him. 
He  looks  round  and  he  can't  see  anybody. 
Presently  another  comes  in  and  gives  him 
another  knock,  and  then  there's  a  scuffle,  and 
off  they  go  over  the  watch-box,  and  down 
comes  the  scene.  That  makes  the  juveniles 
laugh,  and  finishes  up  the  whole  performance 
merry  like. 

"  I've  forgot  one  figure  now.  Iknow'd  there 
was  another,  and  that's  the  Scotchman  who 
dances  the  Highland  fling.  He's  before  the 
watchman.  He's  in  the  regular  national  cos- 
tume, everything  correct,  and  everything,  and 
the  music  plays  according  to  the  performance. 
It's  a  beautiful  figure  when  well  handled,  and 
the  dresses  cost  something,  I  can  tell  you ;  all  • 
the  joints  are  counter -simk — them  figures 
that  shows  above  the  knee.  There's  no  joints 
to  be  seen,  all  works  hidden  like,  something 
like  Madame  Yestris  in  Don  Juan.  All  my 
figures  have  got  shoes  and  stockings  on.  They 
have,  indeed.  If  it  wasn't  my  work,  they'd  cost 
a  deal  of  money.  One  of  them  is  more  ex- 
pensive than  all  those  in  Punch  and  Judy  put 
together.  Talk  of  Punch  knocking  the  Fan- 
toccini down  I  Mine's  all  show ;  Punch  is 
nothing,  and  cheap  as  dirt. 

"  I've  also  forgot  the  flower-girl  that  comes 
in  and  dances  'with  a  garland.  That's  a  very 
pretty  figure  in  a  fairy's  dress,  in  a  nice  white 
skirt  with  naked  carved  arms,  nice  modelled, 
and  the  legs  just  the  same ;  and  the  trunks 
come  above  the  knee,  the  same  as  them  ballet 
girls.    She  shows  all  the  opera  attitudes. 

"  The  performance,  to  go  through  the  whole 
of  it,  takes  an  hour  and  a  half;  and  then  you 
mustn't  stand  looking  at  it,  but  as  soon  as  cue 
thing  goes  off  the  music  changes  and  another 
comes  on.  That  ain't  one  third,  nor  a  quarter 
of  what  I  can  do. 

"  When  Pm  performing  I'm  standing  behind, 
looking  down  upon  the  stage.  All  the  figures 
is  hanging  round  on  hooks,  with  all  their 
strings  ready  for  use.  It  makes  your  arms 
ache  to  work  them,  and  especially  across  the 
loins.  All  the  strength  you  have  you  must  do, 
and  chuck  it  out  too ;  for  those  four  figures 
which  I  uses  at  evening  parties,  which  dance 
the  polka,  weighs  six  poimds,  and  that's  to  be 
kept  dangling  for  twenty  minutes  together. 
They  are  two  feet  high,  and  their  skirts  take 
three  quarters  of  a  yard,  and  are  covered  with 
spangles,  which  gives  'em  great  weight. 

"  There  are  only  two  of  us  going  about  now 
with  Fantoccini  shows.  Several  have  tried  it, 
but  they  had  to  knock  under  very  soon.  They 
soon  lost  their  money  and  time.  In  the  first 
place,  they  must  be  musicians  to  make  the 
figures  keep  time  in  the  dances ;  and,  again, 
they  most  be  carvers,  for  it  won't  pay  to  put 


04 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  fignres  out  to  be  done.  I  had  ten  pounds 
the  other  day  onlj  to  caxre  six  figures,  and  the 
wood  only  come  to  three  shinings;  that'll  give 
you  some  idea  of  what  the  carving  costs. 

''Formerly  I  used  to  make  ue  round  of 
the  watering-places,  hut  Tve  got  quite  enough 
to  do  in  London  now,  and  traTelling's  very 
expensive,  for  the  eating  and  drinking  is  so 
veiy  expensive.  Now,  at  Ramsgate  I've  had 
to  pa^  half~a-guinea  for  a  bed,  and  that  to  a 
man  m  my  position  is  more  than  I  like.  I 
always  pays  the  man  who  goes  along  with  me 
to  play  the  music,  because  I  don't  go  out  every 
day,  only  when  it  suits  me.  He  gets  as  good 
as  lus  twenty-three  shillings  a-week,  according 
to  how  business  is,  and  Uiat's  on  an  average 
as  good  as  four  shillings  a-day.  If  I'm  very 
lucky  I  makes  it  better  for  him,  for  a  man 
can't  be  expected  to  go  and  blow  his  life  away 
into  pandean  pipes  unless  he's  well  paid  for 
it." 

Gut  Fawkeses. 

Until  within  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years,  the 
exhibition  of  guyR  in  the  public  thorough- 
fares every  5th  of  November,  was  a  privilege 
enjoyed  exclusively  by  boys  of  from  10  to  15 
years  of  age,  and  the  money  arising  there* 
from  was  supposed  to  be  invested  at  night  in 
a  small  pyrotechnic  display  of  squibs,  crackers, 
and  Catherine- wheels. 

At  schoobi,  and  at  many  young  gentlemen's 
houses,  for  at  least  a  week  before  the  5th 
arrived,  the  bonfires  were  prepared  and  guys 
built  up. 

At  night  one  might  see  rockets  ascending 
in  the  air  from  many  of  the  suburbs  of  London, 
and  the  little  back-gardens  in  such  places  as 
the  Hampstead-road  and  Kennington,  and, 
ailer  dusk,  suddenly  illuminated  with  the 
blaze  of  the  tar-barrel,  and  one  might  hear  in 
the  streets  even  banging  of  crackers  mingled 
with  the  laughter  and  shouts  of  boys  ex^oying 
the  sport 

In  those  days  the  street  guys  were  of  a 
ver>'  humble  character,  the  grandest  of  them 
generally  consisting  of  old  clothes  stuff'ed  up 
with  straw,  and  carried  in  state  upon  a 
kitchen-chair.  The  arrival  of  the  guy  before 
a  window  was  announced  by  a  juvenile  chorus 
of  **  Please  to  remember  the  5th  of  November." 
So  diminutive,  too,  were  some  of  these  guys, 
that  I  have  even  seen  doUs  carried  about  as 
the  representatives  of  the  late  Mr.  Fawkes. 
In  fact,  none  of  these  effigies  were  hardly  ever 
made  of  larger  proportions  than  Tom  Thumb, 
or  than  would  admit  of  being  carried  through 
the  garden-gates  of  any  suburban  villa. 

Of  late  years,  however,  the  character  of  Guy 
Fawkes-day  has  entirely  changed.  It  seems 
now  to  partake  rather  of  the  nature  of  a 
London  May-day.  The  figures  have  grown 
to  be  of  gigantic  stature,  and  whilst  downs, 
musicians,  and  dancers  have  got  to  accompany 
them  in  their  travels  through  the  streets,  the 
traitor  Fawkes  seems  to  have  been  almoat' 


laid  aside,  and  the  festive  occasion  taken 
advantage  offer  the  expresaion  of  any  i>olitical 
feeling,  the  guy  being  made  to  represent  any 
celebrity  of  the  day  who  has  for  the  moment 
offended  against  Uie  opinions  of  the  people. 
The  kitchen-chair  has  been  changed  to  the 
costermongers'  donkey-truck,  or  even  Tans 
drawn  by  pairs  of  horses.  Tlie  bonlires  and 
fireworks  are  seldom  indulged  in ;  the  money 
given  to  the  exhibitors  b^ng  shared  among- 
the  projectors  at  night,  the  same  as  if  th« 
day's  work  had  been  occupied  with  acrobttting 
or  nigger  singing. 

The  first  guy  of  any  celebrity  that  made  its 
appearance  in  the  London  streets  was  about 
the  year  1844,  when  an  enormous  figure  was 
paraded  about  on  horseback.  This  had  a 
tall  extinguisher-hat,  with  a  broad  red  brim, 
and  a  pointed  vandyked  colloi*,  that  hung 
down  over  a  smock  frock,  which  was  stuffed 
out  with  straw  to  the  dimensions  of  a  water- 
butt.  The  figure  was  attended  by  a  body  of 
some  half-dozen  costermongers,  mounting 
many  coloured  cockades,  and  armed  with  for- 
midable bludgeons.  The  novelty  of  the  ex- 
hibition ensured  its  success,  and  the  " coppers* 
poured  in  in  such  quantities  that  ou  the 
following  year  gigantic  guys  were  to  be  found 
in  every  quarter  of  the  metropolis. 

But  the  gigantic  movement  did  not  attain 
its  zenith  till  the  **No  Popery"  cry  was  raised, 
upon  the  diri^ion  of  England  into  pajial 
bishoprics.  Then  it  was  no  longer  Fawkes 
but  Cardinal  Wiseman  and  the  Pope  of  Rome 
who  were  paraded  as  guys  through  the  London 
thoroughfares. 

The  figures  were  built  up  of  enormous  pro- 
portions, the  red  hat  of  the  cardinal  having  a 
brim  as  large  as  a  loo-table,  and  his  scarlet 
cape  being  as  long  as  a  tent.  Guy  Fawkes 
seated  upon  a  barrel  marked  **  Gunpowder  *  | 
usually  accompaniod  His  Holiness  and  the  I 
Cardinal,  but  his  diminutive  size  showed  that  i 
Guy  now  played  but  a  secondary  part  in  the  ! 
exhibition,  tdthough  the  lantern  and  the 
matches  were  tied  as  usual  to  his  radishy  and 
gouty  fingers.  According  to  the  newspapers, 
one  of  these  shows  was  paraded  on  the  Royal 
Exchange,  the  merchants  approving  of  the 
exhibition  to  such  an  extent  that  sixpences, 
shillings,  and  half-crowns  were  showered  in 
to  the  hats  of  the  lucky  costers  who  had  made 
the  speculation.  So  excited  was  the  publie 
mind,  that  at  night,  after  business  was  over, 
processions  were  formed  by  tradespeo2)le  and 
respectable  mechanics,  who,  with  bands  of 
music  playing,  and  banners  flying,  on  which 
were  inscribed  anti -papal  mottoes  and  devices, 
marched  through  the  streets  wtth  flaming 
torches,  and  after  parading  their  monster 
Popes  and  Cardinals  until  about  nine  o'clock  at 
night,  eventually  ac^oumed  to  some  open 
space — like  Peckhara-rye  or  Blackheath — 
where  the  guy  was  burned  amid  the  most 
boisterous  applauses. 

Cardinal  Wiseman  and  the  Pope  reappeared 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Gd 


Ibrserend  years  in  snccessioD,  till  at  length 
the  Banian  war  breaking  oat,  the  Guy-Fawkes 
WBStroctcws  had  a  fresh  model  to  work  upon. 
Ike  Emperor  of  Rnssia  accordingly  **came 
ovt**  in  the  streets,  in  all  forms  and  shapes ; 
sonetimes  as  the  Teritable  Nicholas,  in  jack- 
boots and  leather  breeches,  with  his  luimis. 
likable  moustache;  and  often  as  Old  Nick, 
vith  a  pab*  of  horns  and  a  lengthy  appendage 
ia  the  fozm  of  a  toil,  with  an  arrow-headed 
IvmiDation ;  and  not  unfrequently  he  was  re- 
fiwiiintod  as  a  huge  bear  cronching  beneath 
•ome  rode  symbol  of  the  English  and  French 
dfiaoee. 

On  the  9th  of  November  (1856)  the  gnys 
vcre  more  c^  a  political  than  a  religious  cha- 
neter.  The  unfortunate  Pope  of  Rome  had 
a  some  instances  been  changed  for  Bombc^ 
IhoDgh  the  Czar,  His  Holiness,  and  his 
British  leprescntative  the  Cardinal,  were  not 
alloaelher  neglected.  The  wont  of  any  poli- 
ticaf  agitation  was  the  caase  why  the  guys 
vcn  ofso  uninteresting  a  character. 

I  most  not,  however,  forget  to  mention  a 
"■»g"^— ■  innovation  that  was  thon  made  in  the 
racognised  fashion  of  guy  building — one  of 
the  groups  of  figures  exhibited  being  (strange 
to  say)  of  a  compUmentary  nature.  It  con- 
sisted of  Miss  Nightingale,  standing  between 
ML  Hnglicih  Grenadier  and  a  French  foot- 
w^er,  while  at  her  feet  lay  the  guy  between 
two  barrels  marked  "  Gunpowder,'*  and  so  equi- 
vocally attiK-d  that  he  might  be  taken  for 
«ther  the  Emperor  of  Russia  or  the  Pope  of 
Bonke. 

At  BiUing^ate,  a  guy  was  promenaded 
round  the  mariiet  as  cnrly  as  five  o'clock  in  tho 
morning,  by  a  party  of  charity-boys,  who  ap- 
peered  by  their  looks  to  have  been  sitting  up 
all  night.  It  is  well  known  to  the  boys  in  the 
aeighbourhood  of  the  great  fish-market,  that 
die  guy  which  is  first  in  the  field  reaps  the 
nchest  harvest  of  halfpence  from  the  salesmen ; 
and  iodeed,  till  within  the  last  three  or  four 
years,  one  fish-fjictor  was  in  the  habit  of  giving 
the  bearers  of  the  first  effigy  he  saw  a  half-crown 
piece.  Hence  there  were  usually  two  or 
three  diffarent  guy  luirties  in  attendance  soon 
lAer  four  o'clock,  awaiting  his  coming  into  the 
market. 

For  manufkctnring  a  cheap  guy,  sucli  as 
that  seen  at  Billingsgate,  a  pair  of  old  trousers 
ad  Wellington  boots  f(>rm  the  most  expensive 
ttm.  The  shoulders  of  the  guys  are  gene- 
laDv  decorated  with  a  paper  cape,  adorned 
«il£  diflerent  coloured  rosettes  and  gilt  stars. 
A  fbozpenny  mask  makes  the  face,  and  a 
proper  cocked  hat,  embellished  in  the  same 
tf^ie  as  the  oape,  surrounds  the  rag.  head. 

The  general  characteristics  of  all  gu>'8  con. 
■Bts  in  a  limpness  and  roundness  of  limb, 
^ieh  give  the  form  a  puddingy  appearance. 
An  the  extremities  have  a  kind  of  paralytic 
feebleness,  so  that  the  head  leans  on  one 
tide  li]^  that  of  a  dead  bird,  and  the  feet  have 
a  umiataral  propensity  for  placing  themselves 


in  every  position  but  the  right  one ;  sometimes 
turning  Oieir  toes  in,  as  if  their  legs  hod  been 
put  on  the  wrong  way,  or  keeping  their  toes 
turned  out,  as  if  they  had  been  "  struck  so  * 
while  taking  their  first  dancing-lesson.  Their 
fingers  radiate  like  a  bunch  of  carrots,  and  the 
arms  are  as  shapeless  and  bowed  as  the 
monster  sausage  in  a  cook-shop  window. 
The  face  is  always  composed  of  a  mask  painted 
in  the  state  of  the  most  florid  hcsdth,  and 
singularly  disagreeing  with  the  frightf^  de- 
bility  of  the  body.  Through  the  holes  for  the 
eyes  bits  of  rag  and  straw  generally  protrude, 
as  though  birds  had  built  in  the  sockets.  A 
pipe  is  mostly  forced  into  the  mouth,  where  it 
remains  with  the  bowl  downwards ;  and  in  the 
hands  it  is  customary  to  tie  a  lantern  and 
matches.  Whilst  the  guy  is  carried  along,  you 
can  hear  the  straw  in  his  interior  rustUng  and 
crackling,  like  moving  a  workhouse  mattrass. 
As  a  general  rule,  it  may  be  added,  that  guys 
have  a  lielpless,  dnmken  look. 

Wlien,  however,  the  monster  Guy  Fawkeses 
came  into  fashion,  considerably  greater  expense 
was  gone  to  in  **  getting  up"  the  figures.  Then 
the  feet  were  alwaj-s  fastened  in  their  proper 
position,  and  although  the  airangement  of  the 
hands  was  never  perfectly  mastered,  yet  the 
fingers  were  brought  a  little  more  closely 
togetlier,  and  approached  the  digital  dexterity 
of  the  dummies  at  the  cheap  clothes  marts. 

For  corrjing  the  guys  about,  chairs,  wheel- 
barrows, trucks,  carts,  and  vans  are  employed. 
Chairs  and  wheelbarrows  are  patronised  by  the 
juvenile  population,  but  the  other  vehicles  be- 
long to  the  gigantic  speculations. 

(.)n  the  Surrey  side  a  guy  was  exhibited  in 
1850  whose  stmw  body  was  encased  in  a  coacli- 
man's  old  great  coat,  covered  with  different 
coloiu*s,  as  various  as  tlic  waistcoat  patterns  on 
a  tailor's  show-book.  He  was  wheeled  about 
on  a  truck  by  three  or  four  yoimg  men,  ^hose 
hoarse  voices,  when  shouting  **  Please  to  re- 
member the  Guy,"  showed  tlieir  regular  occu- 
pation to  be  street-selling,  for  they  had  the 
same  husky  sound  as  the  "  Eight  a-groat  fVesh 
lierrens,"  in  the  Saturday  night  stroet- 
marketa. 

In  the  ncighb()urhoo<l  of  Walworth,  men 
dressed  up  as  guys  were  dragged  about  on 
trucks.  One  of  them  was  seated  upon  a 
barrel  marked  "  Gunpowder,"  his  face  being 
painted  green,  and  ornamented  with  on  im- 
mense false  nose  of  a  bright  scarlet  colour.  I 
could  not  understand  what  this  guy  was  meant 
to  represent,  fr »r  he  wore  a  sugarloaf  hat  with 
an  ostrich  feather  in  it,  and  had  on  a  soldier's 
red  coat,  decorated  with  paper  rosettes  as  big 
OS  cabbages.  His  legs,  too,  were  covered  with 
his  own  corduroy  trowsers,  but  adorned  with 
paper  streamers  and  bows.  In  front  of  him 
marched  a  couple  of  men  carrying  broomsticks, 
and  musicians  playing  upr >n  a  tambourine  and 
a  penny  tin  whistle. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  stuffed  figures 
of  1856  was  oue  dressed  ui  a  sheet,  intended 


96 


LOKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


to  represent  the  Bev.  ^Ir.  Spurgeon  in  a  sur- 
plice !  It  was  carried  alxmt  on  a  wooden  stage 
by  boys,  and  took  very  well  with  the  mob,  lor 
no  sooner  did  the  lads  cr}-  out,— 

"Remember,  remember. 

The  fifth  of  November, 

Old  Spurgeou'a  treason  aod  plot  I  " 

than  a  shout  of  laughter  burst  from  the  crowd, 
and  Uie  halfpence  began  to  pour  in.  '^JTithout 
this  alteration  in  the  November  rhyme,  nobody 
would  have  been  able  to  have  traced  the 
slightest  resemblance  between  the  guy  and  the 
reverend  gentleman  whose  effigy  it  was  stated 
to  be. 

Further,  it  should  be  added,  that  the  guy 
exhibitors  have  of  late  introduced  a  new  sys- 
tem, of  composing  special  rhymes  for  the  occa- 
sion, which  are  delivered  after  the  well-known 
**  Remember,  remember.''  Those  with  the 
figures  of  tlie  Pope,  for  instance,  sing, — 

"  A  penn'orth  of  chcoeo  to  food  the  pope, 
A  twopenny  loiif  to  choke  him, 
A  pint  of  boer  to  wash  it  down. 
And  a  good  loi^ge  fagot  to  smoke  bim  !  ** 

I  heard  a  parly  of  costonnongera,  who  had 
the  image  of  His  Imperial  Majesty  the  Em- 
peror of  all  the  Uussias  wabbling  on  their 
truck,  sing  in  chorus  this  homo-manufactured 
verse, — 

*'  Poke  an  ingun  in  his  eye — 

A  squib  shove  up  his  nose,  sirs ; 
Then  roast  him  till  he's  done  quite  brown, 
And  Nick  to  old  Nick  goes,  sirs." 

With  the  larger  guys  little  is  usually  sold  or 
done  beyond  exhibiting  them.  In  the  crowded 
thoroughfares,  the  proprietoi-^  mostly  occupy 
themselves  only  with  collecting  the  money,  and 
never  let  the  procession  stop  for  a  moment. 
On  coming  to  the  squares,  however,  a  different 
course  is  pursued,  for  then  they  stop  before 
every  window  where  a  head  is  visible  and  sing 
the  usual  "  Remember,  remember,"  winding 
up  with  a  vociferous  hurrah  I  as  they  holdout 
their  hats  for  the  halfpence. 

At  the  West-end,  one  of  the  largest  guys  of 
1856  was  drawn  by  a  horse  in  a  cart.  This 
could  not  have  been  less  than  fourteen  feet 
high.  Its  face,  whicli  was  as  big  as  a  shield, 
was  so  flat  and  good-humoured  in  expres- 
sion that  I  at  once  recognised  it  as  a  panto- 
mime mask,  or  one  ivsed  to  hang  outside  some 
masquerade  costiunier's  shop  door.  The  coat 
was  of  the  Charles  the  Second's  cut,  and  com- 
posed of  a  lightish  coloured  paper,  ornamented 
with  a  profusion  of  Dutch  metaL  There  was 
a  sash  across  the  right  shoulder,  and  the  legs 
were  almost  as  long  as  the  funnel  to  a  penny 
steamer,  and  ended  in  brown  paper  cavalier 
boots.  As  the  costermongers  led  it  along,  it 
shook  like  a  load  of  straw.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  bull's-eye  lantern  and  lath  matches, 
nobody  would  have  recognised  in  the  dandy 
figure  the  effigy  of  the  wi-etched  Fawkes. 


By  far  the  handsomest  turn-out  of  the  daj, 
at  this  time,  was  a  group  of  three  figuxeii^ 
which  promenaded  Whitechapel  and  Beum«U 
green.  They  stood  erect  in  a  van  drawn  Ijj, 
a  bhnd  horse,  and  accompanied  by  a  '^baad^- 
of  one  performer  on  the  drum  and  pandaaa 
pipes.  Four  clowns  in  f^  costume  mad* 
faces  while  they  jumped  about  among  tba 
spectators,  and  collected  donations.  AU  ths 
guys  were  about  ten  feet  high.  The  oentro. 
one,  intended  for  Fawkes  himself,  was  attired 
in  a  flowing  cloak  of  crimson  glazed  calico^  and 
his  black  hat  was  a  broad-brimmed  sugar- 
loaf,  the  pointed  crown  of  which  was  like  a 
model  of  Langhom -place  church  steeple,  and  il 
had  a  profusion  of  black  hair  streaming  aboo^ 
the  face.  The  figures  on  either  side  of  this 
were  intended  for  Lords  Suffolk  and  Monteaj^ 
in  the  act  of  arresting  the  traitor,  and  aooord* 
ingly  appeared  to  be  gently  tapping  Mr. 
Fawkes  on  either  shoulder.  The  bodies  of 
their  lordships  were  encased  in  gold  sods* 
ai-mour,  and  their  legs  in  silver  ditto,  whilst 
their  heads  were  covered  with  three-cornered 
cocked  hats,  surmounted  by  white  feathers. 
In  the  front  of  the  van  were  two  white  bonnersy 
with  tlie  following  inscriptions  in  letters  of 
gold  :— 

"  Apprehension  op  Guy  Fawkes  ok  thr  flm 

OF  NOTEMBEB,  IN  THE  YEAB  IdOd.** 

And,— 

"  The  Discovery  of  the  Gunpowdeb  Piot 
ON  the  5th  of  November,  lOOd.** 

At  the  back  of  the  van  flaunted  two  flags  of  sE 
nations.  In  addition  to  the  four  clowns,  thers 
were  several  other  attendants ;  one  in  partioulsr 
had  the  appearance  of  half  a  man  and  half  a 
beast,  his  body  being  clad  in  a  green  frock-coat| 
whilst  his  legs  and  feet  were  shaggy,  and  made 
to  imitate  a  bear's. 

The  most  remarkable  part  of  this  exhibition 
was  the  expression  upon  the  countenances  of 
the  figiures.  They  were  ordinary  masks,  and 
consequently  greatly  out  of  proportion  for  the 
height  of  the  figures.  There  was  a  stzonff 
family  resemblance  between  the  traitor  and 
his  arresters;  neither  did  Fawkes's  coun- 
tenance exhibit  any  look  of  rage,  astonishment, 
or  disappointment  at  finding  his  designs  fhis- 
trated.  Nor  did  their  lordships  appear  to  be 
angn-,  disgusted,  or  thunderstruck  at  the  con- 
spirator's bold  attempt. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  Bond-street  the 
guys  partook  of  a  political  character,  as  if  to 
please  the  various  Members  of  Parliament  who 
might  be  strolling  to  their  Clubs.  In  oaie 
barrow  was  the  effigy  of  the  Emperor  of  the 
Fi'ench,  holding  in  his  hands,  instead  of  the 
lantern  and  matches,  a  copy  of  the  2%ms 
newspaper,  torn  in  hcdf.  I  was  informed  that 
another  figure  I  saw  was  intended  to  represent 
the  form  of  Bomba. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  Lambeth  Palaee 
the  gn^ys  were  of  an  ecclesiastical  kind,  and 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


07 


as  it  was  imagined  would  be  likely  to 
'  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbtuy  into 
'  at  least  a  half-crown.  One  of  the»e  was 
I  bj  two  donkeys,  and  accompanied  by 
I  and  pipes.  It  represented  Cardinal 
mm  in  Uie  company  of  four  members  of 
H0I7  Inquisition."  The  Cardinal  wab 
d  in  the  nsoal  scarlet  costome,  while  the 
bUhv  were  robed  in  black  with  green 
oiver  their  faces.  In  front  of  the  cart 
bottle,  labelled  **  Holy  Water,"  which 
ootinnally  turned  round,  so  that  the 
» might  discover  that  on  the  other  side 
tinted  "  YThUky.- 

*  practice  of  burning  guys,  and  lighting 
es.  and  letting  oft  fireworks,  is  now 
ally  discontinued,  and  particularly  as 
b  the  public  exhibitions  at  Blackheath 
'eekham  Kye.  The  greatest  display  of 
cin*  we  are  inclined  to  believe,  took 
in  the  public  streets  of  the  metropolis, 
I  to  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  one  might  oc- 
lally  hear  reports  of  penny  cannons,  and 
riiy  explosions  of  crackers. 

Guy  Fawkes  (Man). 

in  the  crock'iy  line,  going  about  with  a 
t  and  changing  jugs,  and  glass,  and 
i»  for  clothes  and  that;  but  for  the  last 
years  I  have,  every  Fifth  of  Novt»mlK?r, 
out  with  a  guy.  It's  a  good  job  for  tlu^ 
for  what  little  we  lay  out  on  the  guy  we 
nusa,  and  the  money  comes  in  all  of 
np  at  the  last.  While  it  lasts  there's 
;▼  to  bo  made  by  it.  I  used  always  to 
the  gfiqr  about  for  two  days ;  but  tliis  lost 
I  foc«  him  about  for  three. 
wwM  nineteen  year  old  when  I  first  went 
itb  a  gruy.  It  was  seeing  others  about 
'An,  and  being  out  of  work  at  the  time, 
hBving  nothing  to  sell,  I  and  another 
we  knocked  up  one  between  us,  and  we 
I  it  go  on  pretty  well,  so  we  kept  on  at 
[he  first  one  I  took  out  was  a  very  first- 
Imt  we'd  got  it  up  as  well  as  we  could 
iw  people*s  attention.  I  said,  *  It  ain't  no 
domg  as  the  others  do,  wc  must  have 
topper.'  It  represented  Guy  Fawkes  in 
velvet.  It  was  about  nine  feet  high, 
le  was  standing  upright,  with  matches  in 
land  and  lantern  in  the  other.  I  show'd 
me  round  Clerkeuwell  and  Islington.  It 
Iw  first  big  'un  as  was  ever  brought  out. 
s  had  been  paper  ones  as  big,  but  ne'er 
dressed  up  in  the  style  mine  was.  1  had 
okey  and  cart,  and  we  placed  it  against 
croes-rails  and  some  bits  of  wood  to 
him  steady.  He  stood  firm  because  he 
two  poles  up  his  legs,  and  being  lashed 
1  the  boily  holding  him  firm  to  the  posts 
c  a  rock.  We  done  better  the  first  time 
ent  out  than  we  do  lately.  The  guy  must 
eost  a  sovereign.  He  had  a  trunk-hose 
white  legs,  which  we  made  out  of  a  pair 
bite  drawers,  for  fleshings  and  yeUow 


boots,  which  I  bought  in  Petticoatlcne.  We 
took  over  3/.  with  him,  whicli  was  pretty  fhir, 
and  just  put  us  on  again,  for  November  is  a 
bad  time  for  most  street  trades,  and  getting 
a  few  shillings  all  at  once  mokes  it  all  right 
till  Christmas. 

**  A  pal  of  mine,  of  the  name  of  Smith,  was 
the  first  as  ever  brought  out  a  big  one.  His 
wasn't  a  regular  dressed-up  one,  but  only  with 
a  paper  apron  to  hang  down  the  front  and 
bows,  and  such -like.  He  put  it  on  a  chair, 
and  had  four  boys  to  carry  it  on  their  shoul- 
ders. He  was  the  first,  too,  as  introduced 
clowns  to  dance  about.  I  see  him  do  well, 
and  that's  why  I  took  mine  in  hand. 

**  The  year* they  was  chalking  *  No  Popery* 
all  about  the  walls  I  had  one,  dressed  up  in 
a  long  black  garment,  with  a  red  cross  on  his 
bosom.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  it  meant, 
but  they  told  mo  it  would  be  popular.  I  had 
only  one  figure,  witli  nine  bows,  and  that 
tidiwated  all  about  him.  As  we  went  along 
everybody  shouted  out  *No  Popery  1'  Every- 
body did.  He  had  a  large  brimmed  hat  with 
a  low  crown  in,  and  a  wax  mask.  I  always 
had  wax  ones.  I've  got  one  at  home  now 
I've  had  for  five  year.  It  cost  two-and-six- 
pence.  It's  a  very  good-looking  face  but  rathor 
sly,  with  a  great  horse-hair  beard.  Most  of 
the  boys  make  their'n  de>ils,  and  as  ugly  as 
they  con,  but  that  wouldn't  do  for  Christians 
like  as  I  represent  mine  to  be. 

"  One  year  I  hod  Nicholas  and  his  adviser. 
That  was  tho  Emperor  of  Russia  in  big  top- 
boots  and  white  breeches,  and  a  green  coat 
on.  I  gave  him  a  good  bit  of  mustachios — 
a  little  extra.  He  had  a  Russian  helmet  hat 
on,  with  a  pair  of  eagles  on  the  top.  It  was 
one  I  bought.  I  bought  it  cheap,  for  I  only 
gave  a  shilling  for  it.  I  was  oflered  five  or 
six  for  it  aftem-ards,  but  I  found  it  answer  my 
purpose  to  keep.  I  had  it  dressed  up  this 
year.  Tlie  other  figure  was  the  devil.  I  made 
him  of  green  tinsel  papur  cut  out  like  scale 
armour,  and  pasted  on  to  his  legs  to  make  it 
stick  tight  He  had  a  devil's  mask  on,  and 
I  made  him  a  pair  of  horns  out  of  his  head. 
Over  them  was  a  banner.  I  was  told  what  to 
do  to  make  the  banner,  for  I  hod  the  letters 
writ  out  first,  and  then  I  cut  'em  out  of  tinsel 
paper  and  stuck  them  on  to  glazed  calico.  On 
this  banner  was  these  words  : — 

'  What  shall  I  do  next  V 
*  Why,  blow  your  broiua  out  1 ' 

That  took  immensely,  for  the  people  said 
*  That  is  wery  well.*  It  was  tlie  time  the  war 
was  on.  I  dare  say  I  took  between  3/.  and  4/. 
that  time.  There  was  thre«>  of  us  rowed  in 
with  it,  so  we  got  a  few  shillings  a-piece. 

"The  best  one  I  ever  had  was  the  trial  of 
Guy  Fawkes.  There  was  foiur  figures,  and 
they  was  drawn  about  in  a  horse  and  cart. 
There  was  Guy  Fawkes,  and  two  soldiers  had 
hold  of  him,  and  thpre  was  the  king  sitting  in 
a  chair  in  front.    The  king  was  in  a  acariet 


88 


LOSDOS  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LOXDOy  POOB, 


yelvet  cloak,  sitting  in  an  old  arm-choir, 
papered  over  to  make  it  look  decent.  There 
was  green  and  blue  paper  hanging  over  the 
arms  to  hide  the  ragged  parts  of  it  The 
king's  cloak  cost  sevenponce  o-yard,  and  there 
was  seven  of  these  jards.  He  had  a  gilt  paper 
crown  and  a  long  black  wig  made  out  of  some 
rope.  His  trunks  was  black  and  crimson,  and 
he  had  blue  stockings  and  red  boots.  I  made 
him  up  out  of  my  own  head,  and  not  from  pic- 
tures. It  was  just  as  I  thought  would  be  the 
best  way  to  get  it  up,  out  of  my  own  head.  I've 
seed  the  picture  of  Guy  Fawkes,  because  I've 
got  a  book  of  it  at  home.  I  never  was  no  scho- 
lar, not  in  the  least  The  soldiers  had  a  breast- 
plate  of  white  steel  paper,  and  baggy  knee- 
breeches,  and  top  boots.  They  had  a  big  pipe 
each,  with  a  top  cut  out  of  tin.  Their  helmets 
was  the  same  us  in  the  pictures,  of  steel  paper, 
and  a  kind  of  a  disli-cover  shape,  with  a  petRi 
in  front  and  behind.  Guy  was  dressed  the  same 
kind  as  he  was  this  year,  with  a  black  velvet 
dress  and  red  cloak,  and  red  boots  turning 
over  at  U)p,  with  lace  sewed  on.  I  never  made 
any  of  my  figures  fVightful.  I  get  'em  as  near 
as  I  can  to  the  life  hkc. 

^*  I  reckon  that  show  was  the  best  as  I  ever 
had  about  I  done  ver}-  well  with  it  They  said 
it  was  a  very  good  sight,  and  well  got  up. 
I  dare  say  it  cost  me,  with  one  thing  and 
another,  pretty  nigh  4/.  to  get  up.  There  was 
two  of  us  to  shove,  me  and  my  brother. 
I  know  I  had  a  sovereign  to  myself  when 
it  was  over,  besides  a  little  bit  of  meriy- 
moking. 

This  year  I  hod  the  apprehension  of  Guy 
Fawkes  by  Lord  Suflfolk  and  Monteagle.  I've 
followed  up  the  hLst'ry  as  close  as  I  can.  Next 
year  I  shall  have  him  being  burnt,  with  a  lot 
of  faggits  and  things  about  him.  This  year 
the  figures  cost  about  3/.  getting  up.  Fawkes 
was  dressed  in  his  old  costume  of  black  velvet 
and  red  boots.  I  bought  some  black  velvet 
breeches  in  Petticoat-lone,  and  I  gave  Is.  Od. 
for  the  two  pair.  They  was  old  theatrical 
breeches.  Their  lordships  was  dressed  in 
gold  scale-armour  like,  of  cut-out  paper  pasted 
on,  and  their  legs  imitated  steel.  They 
had  three-comer  cock'd  hats,  with  white  fea- 
thers in.  I  always  buy  fierce-looking  masks 
^ith  frowns,  but  one  of  them  this  year  was 
a  smiling — Lord  Monteagle,  I  think.  I  took 
the  figures  as  near  as  I  can  form  from  a  pic- 
ture I  saw  of  Guy  Fawkes  being  apprehended. 
I  placed  them  figures  in  a  horse  and  cart, 
and  piled  them  up  on  apple-chests  lo  the  level 
of  the  cart,  so  they  showed  all,  their  feet  and 
all.  I  bind  the  chests  with  a  piece  of  table- 
cover  cloth.  The  first  day  we  went  out  we 
took  2/.  7».,  and  the  second  we  took  1/.  17.s„ 
and  the  last  day  we  took  21.  U.  We  did 
so  well  the  third  day  because  we  went  into 
the  country,  about  Tottenham  and  Eilmonton. 
They  never  witnessed  such  a  thing  down 
them  parts.  The  drummer  what  I  had  with 
me  was  a  blind  man,  and  well  known  down 


there.  They  call  him  Friday,  beoanse  he  goes 
there  every  Friday,  so  what  they  usually  gava 
him  we  had.  Our  horse  was  blind,  so  we  ifM 
obliged  to  have  one  to  lead  him  in  front  aoA 
anoUier  to  lead  the  blind  dnunmer  behmdL 
We  paid  the  drummer  16<.  for  the  three  dajt* 
We  paid  for  two  days  10«.,  and  the.  thud  ooa 
most  of  it  came  in,  and  we  all  went  shaieai 
It  was  a  pony  more  than  a  horse.  I  think 
we  got  about  a  1/.  a-piece  clear,  when  ira 
was  done  on  the  Friday  night  It  took  ma 
six  weeks  getting  up  in  my  leisure  time. 
There  was  the  Russian  bear  in  front  Ha 
wore  a  monkey  dress,  the  same  as  in  tha 
pantomimes,  and  that  did  just  as  well  fijr 
a  bear.  I  painted  his  face  as  near  as  I  oonld 
get  it  to  moke  it  look  frightfhL 

"  AVhen  I'm  building  up  a  guy  we  firat  f&i 
some  bags  and  things,  and  cut  'em  out  to  At 
shape  of  the  legs  and  things,  and  then  sew  U 
up.  We  sew  the  body  and  arms  and  all  rcmnd 
together  in  one.  Wo  puts  two  poles  down  fat 
the  legs  and  then  a  cross-piece  at  the  baQr 
and  another  cross-piece  at  the  shoulder,  and 
that  holds  'em  firm.  We  fiU  the  legs  with 
sawdust,  and  stuff  it  down  with  our  hands  to 
make  it  tight  It  takes  two  sacks  of  aantrdmi 
for  tliree  figures,  but  I  generally  have  it  giro 
to  me,  for  I  know  a  young  feller  as  worln  at 
the  wood- chopping.  We  stand  'em  up  in  tha 
room  against  the  wall,  whilst  we  are  dressing 
them.  We  have  lots  of  chaps  come  to  see  us 
working  at  the  guys.  Some  will  sit  thara 
for  many  hoiu^  looking  at  us.  We  stuff  the 
body  with  shavings  and  paper  and  any  sort  of 
rubbish.  I  sew  whatever  is  wanted  mptUg 
and  in  fact  my  fingers  is  sore  now  with  the 
thimble,  for  I  don't  know  how  to  use  a  thiraMe^ 
and  I  feel  awkward  with  it.  I  design  etexy* 
thing  and  cut  out  all  the  clothes  and  tha 
painting  and  all.  They  allow  me  5f.  for  the 
building.  This  last  group  took  me  six  weeka, 
— not  constant,  you  know,  but  only  laiy  tima 
of  a  night.  I  lost  one  or  two  days  over  it, 
that's  alL 

**  I  think  there  was  more  Guy  Fawkeses  oni 
this  year  than  ever  was  out  before.  There 
was  one  had  Guy  Fawkes  and  Punch  and 
a  Clown  in  a  cart,  and  anotlier  was  liisa 
Nightingale  and  two  soldiers.  It  was  meant 
to  be  complimentary  to  that  lady,  but  for 
myself  I  think  it  insulting  to  bring  out  a  ladr 
like  that  as  a  guy,  when  she's  done  good 
to  all. 

"  They  always  reckon  me  to  be  about  the 
first  hand  in  London  at  building  a  guy. 
I  never  see  none  like  them,  nor  no  one  else 
I  don't  think.  It  took  us  two  quire  of  gold 
paper  and  one  quire  of  silver  paper  to  do 
the  armour  and  the  banner  and  other  things. 
The  gold  paper  is  6d.  a-sheet,  and  the  silver 
is  Id.  a  sheet  It  wouldn't  look  so  noble  if 
we  didn't  use  the  gold  paper. 

"This  year  we  had  three  clowns  with  oa, 
and  we  paid  them  3s.  a-day  each.  I  waa 
dressed  up  as  a  clown,  too.    We  had  to  dance 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


00 


dbont,  and  Joke,  and  say  wbat  we  thought 
vwdd  be  ttaaij  to  the  people.  I  bad  a 
diQd  in  mj  arma  made  of  a  doll  stuffed  with 
durdoga,  and  made  to  represent  a  little  boy. 
It  was  juat  to  make  a  laugh.  Every  one 
I  went  up  to  I  told  the  doU  to  ask  their  uncle 
«r  their  aunt  far  a  copper.  I  had  another 
nore,  too,  of  calling  for  *  Bill  Bowers '  in  the 
crowd,  and  if  I  got  into  any  row,  or  anything, 
I  used  to  call  to  him  to  protect  me.  We  hid 
no  time  to  say  much,  for  we  kept  on  moving, 
and  it  loses  time  to  talk. 

*  We  took  the  guy  round  Goswell-road  and 
Pentonville  the  first  day,  and  on  the  second 
w«  waa  round  Bethnal-green  way,  among  the 
weavers.  We  went  that  way  for  safety  the 
Mcond  day,  for  the  police  won't  interrupt  you 
fl«re.  The  private  houses  give  tlio  most 
They  fery  seldom  give  more  than  a  penny. 
I  dun't  8upj[>ot»e  we  got  more  than  Ss.  or  4s.  in 
aSver  all  the  three  days. 

**  Sometimes  we  have  rough  work  with  the 
Irish  going  about  with  guys.  The  '  No 
PopeiT  *  year  tliere  was  several  rows.  I  was 
up  at  Iidington-gate,  there,  in  the  Lower-road, 
and  there's  loads  of  Irish  live  up  there,  and  a 
loogh  lot  they  are.  They  came  out  with  sticks 
and  bricks,  and  cut  after  us.  We  bolted  with 
the  guy.  If  our  guy  hadnt  been  very  Arm, 
H  would  have  been  jolted  to  bits.  We  always 
&nli:d  straps  round  the  feet,  and  support  it  on 
rails  at  the  waist,  and  lashed  to  the  sides. 
We  bolted  from  this  Irish  mob  over  Islington - 
green,  and  down  John -street  into  Clerkenwell. 
My  mate  got  a  nick  with  a  stone  just  on  the 
head.  It  just  give  him  a  sli^'ht  hurt,  and 
drawed  the  blood  from  him.  Wo  jumped  up 
ID  the  donkey-cart  and  drove  off. 

••  There  was  one  guy  was  pulled  out  of  the 
eirt  this  year,  down  by  Old  Gravel-lane,  in  the 
Baicfiff-higliway.  They  pulled  Miss  Nightin- 
gale out  of  the  cart  and  ran  away  with  her, 
and  regular  destroyed  the  two  soldiers  that  was 
<m  eadi  aide  of  her.  Sometimes  the  cab- 
men lash  at  the  guys  with  their  whips.  We 
never  say  anything  to  them,  for  fear  we 
mi^ht  get  stopped  by  the  police  for  making 
a  row.  You  stand  a  chance  of  having  a 
feather  knocked  off,  or  such-likC|  as  is  attached 
to  them. 

■*  There's  a  lot  of  boys  goes  about  on  the  5th 
with  fldcks,  and  make  a  reprular  businofis  of 
knocking  guys  to  irieces.  The/re  called  guy- 
tmashers.  They  don't  come  to  us.  we're  too 
•trong  for  that,  but  they  only  manage  the 
fittle  ones,  as  they  can  take  advantage  of. 
They  do  this  some  of  tliem  to  take  tlie  money 
the  biivs  have  collected.  I  have  had  regular 
prigs  following  my  show,  to  ])ick  the  pockets 
of  those  looking  on,  but  as  sure  as  I  see  them 
I  start  tliem  off  by  putting  a  policeman  on  to 
them. 

"When  we're  showing,  I  don't  take  no 
trouble  to  invent  new  rhymes,  but  stick  to  the 
r>ld  poetry.  There's  some  do  new  songs.  I 
luually  &ing  out, — 


No.  LIX. 


'  OentlefoIkB,  praj 

BeaMmbwr  this  day; 
Tia  with  kind  zuitioa  we  bzing 

TbefijTureofalv 

And  villAnoua  Ouy, 
Wko  wanted  to  murder  the  king. 

By  nowdnr  and  otore, 

His  bitterly  gwota. 
iji  ho  ekulk'd  in  the  walla  to  repair. 

The  parliament,  too. 

By  lam  and  his  crew, 
Should  all  be  blowod  up  in  the  air. 

But  James,  "rery  wise. 
Did  the  PapistH  sunnise. 

As  they  plotted  the  cruelty  groat ; 
He  know'd  their  intent, 
4^0  Suffolk  hu  sent 

To  save  both  kingdom  and  state. 
Ouy  Fairibos  he  was  found 
With  a  lantern  unduiground. 

And  soon  was  the  traitor  bound  fast : 
And  they  swore  he  should  di(^ 
8o  they  hang  him  up  high. 

And  bornt  him  to  ashes  at  last. 
So  we,  once  a-year. 
Come  round  without  fear. 

To  keopup  remembruneo  of  this  day ; 
While  aasistftuce  from  you 
May  brinf(  a  review 

Of  Guy  Fawkes  a-blaziug  away. 

So  hollo,  boys  f  hollo,  bojrs ! 

Sliout  and  huzsa ; 
So  hollo,  boys !  hollo,  boys ! 

Keep  up  this  day ! 
So  hollo,  boys !  hollo,  ooys  f 

An<l  make  the  bells  ring ! 
Down  with  the  Pope,  and  God  save  the  Queen  !* 

"  It  used  to  be  King,  but  we  say  Queen  now, 
and  though  it  don't  rh}iiic,  it's  more  correct. 

"  It's  very  seldom  that  the  police  say  anything 
to  us,  80  long  as  we  don't  stop  too  long  in  the 
gangway  not  to  create  any  mob.  They  join  in 
the  fun  and  laugh  like  the  rest.  Wherever  we 
go  there  is  a  great  crowd  from  morning  to 
night. 

**  We  have  dinner  on  Ouy  Fawkea'  doys  be- 
tween one  and  two.  We  go  to  any  place  where 
it's  convenient  for  us  to  stop  at,  generally  at 
some  public-house.  We  go  inside,  and  leave 
some  of  the  lads  to  look  after  the  guy  outside. 
We  always  keep  near  the  window,  where  we 
can  look  out  into  the  street,  and  we  keep  our- 
selves ready  to  pop  out  in  a  minute  if  any- 
body should  attack  the  guy.  We  generally  go 
into  some  by-way,  where  there  ain't  mucJi 
traffic.  We  never  wos  interrupted  much  whilst 
we  was  at  dinner,  only  by  boys  chucking  stones 
and  flinging  things  at  it ;  and  tliey  run  off  aa 
soon  as  wo  come  out. 

"  There's  one  party  that  goes  out  with  a 
guy  that  sells  it  afterwards.  They  stop  in 
London  for  the  iirst  two  days,  and  then  they 
work  their  way  into  the  country  as  fur  as 
Sheemess,  and  then  they  sells  the  guy  to  form 
part  of  tlio  procession  on  Lord -mayor's  day. 
It's  the  watermen  and  ferrymen  mostly  bu}-  it, 
and  they  carry  it  about  in  a  kind  of  merriment 
among  themselves,  and  at  night  they  bum  it 
and  let  off  fireworks.  They  don't  make  no 
charge  for  coming  to  see  it  bunit,  but  it's 
open  to  the  uir  and  free  to  the  public. 

<*  None  of  the  good  guj's  taken  about  od 


Y' 


* 


70 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  5th  are  burnt  at  night,  nnlegs  some  gen- 
tlemen  buy  them.  I  used  to  sell  mine  at  one 
time  to  the  Albert  Saloon.  Sometimes  they'd 
give  me  V)».  for  it,  and  sometimes  less,  accord- 
ing to  what  kind  of  a  one  I  had.  Three  years, 
I  think,  I  sold  it  to  them.  They  used  to  bum 
it  at  first  in  the  gardens  at  the  back,  but  after 
they  found  the  gardens  fill  very  well  without 
it,  so  they  wouldn't  have  any  more. 

'*  I  always  take  the  sawdust  and  shavings 
out  of  my  guys,  and  save  the  clothes  for  another 
year.  The  clothes  are  left  in  my  possession 
to  be  taken  core  of.  I  make  a  kind  of  private 
bonfire  in  our  yard  with  the  sawdust  and 
shavings,  and  the  neighbours  oome  there  and 
have  a  kind  of  a  spree,  and  shove  one  another 
into  the  fire,  and  kick  it  about  the  yard,  and 
one  thing  and  another. 

"  When  I  am  building  the  guy,  I  begin  about 
six  weeks  before  5th  of  November  comes,  and 
then  we  subscribe  a  shillmg  or  two  each  and 
buy  such  things  as  we  wants.  Then,  when  we 
wants  more,  I  goes  to  my  pals,  who  live  close 
by,  and  we  subscribe  another  shilling  or  six- 
pence each,  according  to  how  we  gets  on  in 
the  day.  Nearly  aU  those  that  take  out  guys 
are  mostly  street  traders. 

*'  The  heaviest  expense  for  any  guy  I've  built 
was  4/.  for  one  of  four  figures." 

Guy  Fawkes  (Boy). 

^  I  ALWAYS  go  out  with  a  Guy  Fawkes  every 
year.  I'm  seventeen  years  old,  and  I've  been 
out  with  a  guy  ever  since  I  can  remember,  ex- 
oept  last  year ;  I  didn't  then,  because  I  was  in 
Middlesex  Hospital  with  an  abscess,  brought 
on  by  the  rbeumatio  fever,  I  was  in  the  hos- 
pital a  month.  My  father  was  an  undertaker; 
he's  been  dead  four  moi^hs :  mother  carries 
onjthe  trade.  He  didn't  lik«  my  going  out 
with  guys,  but  I  always  would*  He  didn't  like 
it  at  all,  he  used  to  sny  it  was  a  disgrace. 
Mother  didn't  much  fiincy  my  doing  it  this 
year.  When  I  was  a  very  little  un,  I  was  carried 
about  for  a  guy.  I  couldn't  a  been  more  than 
seven  years  old  when  I  first  begun.  They  put 
paper-hangings  round  my  legs — they  got  it 
from  Baldwin's,  in  the  Tottenham  Court-road; 
sometimes  they  bought,  and  sometimes  got  it 
give  'em ;  but  they  give  a  rare  lot  for  a  penny 
or  twopence.  After  that  they  put  me  on  a 
apron  made  of  the  same  sort  of  paper — showy, 
you  know — then  they  put  a  lot  of  tinsel  bows, 
and  at  the  comers  they  cut  a  sort  of  tail  like 
there  is  to  farriers'  aprons,  and  it  look  stun- 
nin' ;  then  they  put  on  my  chest  a  tinsel  heart 
and  rosettes ;  they  was  green  and  red,  because 
it  shows  off.  All  up  my  arms  I  had  bows  and 
things  to  make  a  show-off.  Then  I  put  on  a 
black  mask  with  a  little  red  on  the  cheek,  to 
make  me  look  like  a  devil :  it  had  boras,  too. 
Always  pick  out  a  devil's  mask  with  horns :  it 
looks  fine,  and  ftightens  the  people  a'most 
The  boy  that  dressed  me  was  a  very  clever 
chap,  and  made  a  guy  to  rights.    Why,  he 


made  me  a  little  guy  about  a  foot  high,  ta 
carry  in  my  lap— it  was  piecings  of  qmlting 
like,  a  sort  of  patch-work  all  sewn  together,-^ 
and  then  he  filled  it  with  saw-dust,  and  made' 
a  head  of  shavings.  He  picked  the  shavings-' 
small,  and  then  sewed  'em  up  in  a  little  bag  ^ 
and  then  he  painted  a  fiice,  and  it  looked  wer^ 
well;  and  he  made  it  a  little  tinsel  bob-tail 
coat,  and  a  tinsel  cap  with  two  feathers  on  the 
top.  It  was  made  to  sit  in  a  chair;  and 
there  was  a  piece  of  string  tied  to  each  of  the 
legs  and  the  arms,  and  a  string  come  behind; 
and  I  used  to  pull  it,  and  the  legs  and  arms' 
jumped  up.  I  was  put  in  a  chair,  and  two  old 
broom-handles  was  put  through  the  rails,  and 
then  a  boy  got  in  front,  and  another  behind^ 
and  carried  me  off  round  Holbom  way  in  the 
streets  and  squares.  Every  now  and  then  they 
put  me  down  before  a  window ;  then  one  of 
'em  used  to  say  the  speech,  and  I  used  all  the 
time  to  keep  pulling  the  string  of  my  little 
guy,  and  it  amused  the  children  at  the  win> 
ders.  After  they'd  said  the  speech  we  all 
shouted  hurrah  !  and  tlusn  Kome  of  them  went 
and  knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  *  Please  to 
remember  the  guy;'  and  the  little  childrea 
brought  us  ha'pence  and  pence;  and  some- 
times  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  chucked  us 
some  money  out  of  the  winder.  At  last  they 
carried  me  into  Russell-square.  They  pat  hm 
down  befbre  a  gentleman's  house  and  begun 
saying  the  speech :  while  they  was  saying  itp 
up  comes  a  lot  o'  boys  with  sticks  in  iheir 
hands.  One  of  our  chaps  knowed  what  they 
was  after,  and  took  the  little  guy  out  of  my 
hand,  and  went  on  saving  the  speech.  I  kept 
all  on  sitting  still.  After  a  bit  one  of  thes« 
'ere  boys  says,  *  Oh,  it's  a  dead  guy;  let's  have  & 
lark  with  it ! '  and  then  one  of  'em  gives  me  a 
punch  in  the  eye  with  his  fist,  and  then  snatched 
the  mask  off  my  face,  and  when  he'd  pulled  it 
off  he  says,  *  Oh,  BUI,  it's  a  live  un!*  Wa 
was  afraid  we  should  get  the  worst  of  it,  so  wa 
run  away  round  the  square.  The  biggest  cma 
of  our  lot  carried  the  chair.  Alter  we'd  run. 
a  little  way  they  caught  us  again,  and  says^ 
*  Now  then,  give  us  all  your  money ; '  with 
that,  some  ladles  and  gentlemen  that  see  it  all 
came  up  to  'em  and  says, '  If  you  don't  go  we'll 
lock  you  up ; '  and  so  they  let  us  go  away.  And 
so  we  went  to  another  place  where  they  sold 
masks;  and  we  bought  another.  Then  they 
asked  me  to  be  guy  again,  but  I  wouldn't,  for 
I'd  got  a  black-eye  through  it  already.  So 
they  got  another  to  finish  out  the  day.  When 
we  got  home  at  night  we  shared  2t.  ft- 
piece.  There  was  five  of  us  altogether;  but  I 
think  they  chisselled  me.  I  know  they  got  A 
deal  more  than  that,  for  they'd  had  a  good 
many  sixpences  and  shillings.  People  usent 
to  think  much  of  a  shilling  that  time  a-day, 
because  there  wasn't  any  but  little  guys  about 
then ;  but  I  don't  know  but  what  the  people 
now  encourage  little  guys  most,  because  thif 
say  that  the  chaps  with  the  big  ones  ought  to 
go  to  work. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


71 


•"  Next  year  I  was  ont  with  a  stuffed  guy. 
Tb^  wanted  me  to  be  gay  again,  because  I 
visn't  frightened  easy,  and  I  was  lightish ;  but 
I  told  *em  *  No,  Tve  had  enough  of  being  guy ; 
I  don*!  be  guy  any  more :  besides,  I  had  such 
^B0  money  for  getting  a  whack  in  the  eye ! ' 
We  got  on  pretty  well  that  year;  but  it  gets 
VDB  and  wns  every  year.  We  got  hardly  any- 
tiung  this  year ;  and  next  I  don't  suppose  we 
4iall  get  anything  at  all.  These  chaps  that 
go  alMiit  pitchin'  into  guys  we  call  'guy 
aoashers;'  but  they  don't  do  it  only  for  the 
krk  of  smashing  the  guys :  they  do  it  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  the  boys'  money  away,  and 
flometimes  the  clothes.  If  one  of  'em  has  a 
bde  in  his  boots,  and  he  sees  a  guy  with  a 
food  x>air  on,  he  pretty  soon  pulls  'em  of  the 
goy  and  hooks  it  off  with  'em. 

**  After  I'd  been  out  with  guys  for  three 
«r  four  years,  I  got  big  enough  to  go  to  work, 
and  I  used  to  go  along  with  my  brother  and 
help  hsn  at  a  ooal-shed,  carrying  out  coals.  I 
was  there  ten  months,  and  then  one  night — a 
bitter  cold  night,  it  was  freezing  hard — we  had 
1  ji^htha  lamp  to  light  in  the  shop ;  and  as 
"Be  and  my  brother  was  doing  it,  cither  apiece 
tif  the  match  dropped  in  or  else  he  poured  it 
over,  I  cant  say  which,  but  all  at  once  it  ex- 
ploded and  blowed  me  across  the  road  and 
knocked  him  in  the  shop  all  a-flre;  and  I  was 
all  a-fire,  too — see  how  it's  burnt  my  face  and 
the  hand  I  held  the  lucifer  in.  A  woman  run 
out  of  the  next  shop  with  some  wet  sacks,  and 
:diraw'd  'em  upon  me,  but  it  flared  up  higher 
then :  water  dont  put  it  out,  unless  it's  a  mass 
of  water  l^ce  a  engine.  Then  a  milkman  run 
Up  and  pulled  off  his  cape  and  throwed  it  over 
me,  ana  that  put  it  out ;  then  he  set  me  up, 
and  I  run  home,  though  I  don't  know  how  1 
fot  thoe,  and  for  two  day^  after  I  didn't  know 
:Snybody.  Another  man  ran  into  the  shop  and 
pulled  out  my  brother,  and  we  was  both  taken 
to  the  University  HospitaL  Two  or  three 
people  touched  me,  and  the  skin  came  off  on 
their  hands,  and  at  nine  o'clock  the  next 
jBomingmy  brother  died.  When  they  took 
me  to  the  hospital  they  had  no  bed  forme,  and 
to  they  sent  me  home  again,  and  I  was  seven 
months  before  I  got  well.  But  I've  never 
been  to  aay  well  since,  and  I  shall  never  be  fit 
for  hard  work  any  more. 

**  The  next  year  I  went  out  with  a  guy 
again,  and  I  got  on  pretty  well ;  and  so  I've 
dime  every  year  since,  except  last.  I've  had 
several  litUe  places  since  I  got  bumt^  but  they 
haven't  lasted  long. 

*  This  year  I  made  a  stunning  guy.  First  of 
till  got  a  ]>air  of  my  own  breeches — black 
VIS— and  stuffed  'em  full  of  shavings.  I  tied 
the  bottoms  with  a  bit  of  string.  Then  I  got 
a  blaek  eoat— that  belonged  to  another  boy — 
and  sewed  it  all  round  to  the  trousers ;  then 
we  filled  that  with  shavings,  and  give  him  a 
good  oorpoimtlon.  Then  we  got  a  block,  sich 
IS  the  milliners  have,  and  shoved  that  right 
ia  the  neck  of  the  coat,  and  then  we  shoved 


some  more  shavings  all  round,  to  make  it  stick 
in  tight ;  and  when  that  was  done  it  looked  just 
like  a  dead  man.  I  know  something  about 
dead  men,  because  my  father  was  always  in 
that  line.  Then  we  got  some  horsehair  and 
some  glue,  and  plastered  the  head  all  round 
with  glue,  and  stuck  the  horse-hair  on  to  imi- 
tate the  hair  of  a  man ;  then  we  put  the  mask 
on :  it  was  a  twopenny  one — they're  a  great 
deal  cheaper  than  they  used  to  be,  you  can  get 
a  very  good  one  now  for  a  penny — it  had  a 
great  big  nose,  and  it  had  two  red  horns,  black 
eyebrows,  and  red  cheeks.  I  like  devils,  they're 
so  ugly.  I  bought  a  good-looldng  un  two  or 
three  years  ago.  and  wo  didn't  get  hardly  any- 
thing, the  people  said,  *Ah!  it's  too  good- 
looking;  it  don't  frighten  us  at  all.'  Well, 
then,  after  we  put  on  his  mask  we  got  two 
gloves,  one  was  a  woollen  un,  and  the  other  a  kid 
un,  and  stuffed  them  full  of  shavings,  and  tied 
'em  down  to  the  chair.  We  didn't  have  no 
lantern,  'cos  it  keeps  on  falling  out  of  his  hands. 
After  that  we  put  on  an  old  pair  of  lace-up 
boots.  We  tied  'em  on  to  the  legs  of  the 
breeches.  The  feet  mostly  twistes  round,  but 
we  stopped  that;  we  shoved  a  stick  up  the  leg  of 
his  breeches,  and  the  other  end  into  the  boot, 
and  tied  it,  and  then  it  couldn't  twist  round 
very  easy.  After  that  we  put  a  paper  hanging- 
cap  on  his  head ;  it  was  silk- velvet  kind  of 
paper,  and  decorated  all  over  with  tinsel  bows. 
His  coat  we  pasted  all  over  with  blue  and  green 
tinsel  bows  and  pictures.  They  was  painted 
theatrical  characters,  what  we  buy  at  the  shop 
a  ha'penny  a  sheet  plain,  and  penny  a  sheet 
coloured :  we  bought  'em  plain,  and  coloured 
them  ourselves.  A-top  of  his  hat  we  put  a 
homament.  We  got  some  red  paper,  and  cut  it 
into  narrow  strips,  and  curled  it  with  the  blade 
of  the  scissors,  and  stuck  it  on  like  a  feather. 
We  made  him  a  fine  apron  of  hanging-paper, 
and  cut  that  in  slips  up  to  his  knees,  and  curled 
it  with  the  scissors,  the  same  as  his  feather, 
and  decorated  it  with  stars,  and  bows,  and 
things,  made  out  of  paper,  all  manner  of 
colours,  and  pieces  of  tinseL  After  we'd 
finished  the  guy  we  made  ourselves  cock'd 
hats,  all  alike,  and  then  we  tied  him  in  a  chair, 
and  wrote  on  his  breast,  *  Villanous  Chty.* 
Then  we  put  two  broomsticks  under  the  chair 
and  carried  him  out.  There  was  four  of  us, 
and  the  two  that  wasn't  canying,  they  had  a 
large  bough  of  a  tree  each,  with  a  knob  at  the 
top  to  protect  the  guy.  We  started  off  at  once, 
and  got  into  the  squares,  and  put  him  in  Aront  of 
the  gentlemen's  houses, and  said  this  speech: — 

•Pray,  gentlefolka,  pray 

Romomb«r  this  day. 
At  which  kind  notice  we  bring 

This  figxire  of  dy. 

Old.  vUlanous  Guy, 
He  wanted  to  murder  the  king. 

With  powder  in  store. 

He  bitterly  swore 
By  him  in  the  vaulte  to  compare, 

By  him  and  his  crew, 

And  parliament,  ton. 
Should  all  be  blow'd  up  in  the  air. 


79 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  JPOOB. 


Bo  ploftae  to  remombor 

The  fifth  of  Norember, 
The  Bunpowder  titnaoD  and  plol, 

1  aeo  no  reason 

Why  gunpowder  troMon 
Should  ever  be  foii^t. 

So  hollo,  boye !  hollo^  bojre  I 
Shout  otil  the  day ! 

Hollo,  boys !  hollo,  boys  I 
Hollo,  Hurrah ! 

'*  After  we'd  finished  our  speech  in  one  of  the 
tqnareB,  and  hollowed  Hurrah!  the  beadle 
come  out,  and  said  he'd  give  us  the  stick  about 
our  bocks,  and  the  guy  too,  if  we  didn't  go  away. 
&o  we  went  away,  and  got  into  Russcil-square 
and  Bedford-square ;  but  there  was  such  a  lot 
of  small  guys  out,  that  we  did  worse  than  ever 
we'd  done  before.  When  wo  was  in  South- 
ampton-btreet,  Holbom,  I  finished  the  speech 
with  '  Down  with  the  Pope,  and  God  save  the 
Qocen ;'  so  four  shoe-bluok  ben's  come  up,  and 
says,  says  they,  *  What  do  you  say,  Down  \**ith 
tho  Pope  and  God  save  the  Queen  for?'  And 
1  says,  *  1  didn't  moan  no  harm  of  iL'  With 
that  they  makes  use  of  some  bod  language,  and 
toM  me  they'd  smash  my  head  and  tho  guy's 
too ;  and  they  was  going  to  do  it,  when  up 
oomofl  a  boy  that  I  knew,  and  I  says  to  him, 
'They're  going  to  knock  mo  about;'  so  he 
says,  *  No  they  won't ;'  so  then  tho  boys  maile 
their  r.'ply,  and  said  thi^  would.  So  I  told 
'em  they  was  very  fast  about  fighting,  I'd  fight 
one  of  them ;  so  with  that  they  all  got  ready 
to  pitch  upon  me :  but  when  they  see  this 
other  boy  stuck  to  mo,  they  went  oti,  and  never 
Atnick  a  blow.  When  we  got  homo  I  opened 
the  money-box  and  shared  tho  money;  one 
had  bd,,  and  two  had  ^d.  each,  imd  I  hod  Id. 
because  I  said  the  speech.  At  night  we  pulled 
him  all  to  pieces,  and  burnt  his  stutfing,  and  let 
off  some  squibs  and  crackers.  I  always  used 
to  spend  the  money  I  got  guying  on  myself.  I 
used  to  buy  somi 'times  fowls,  because  I  could 
sell  tlie  eggs.  There  is  some  boys  that  take 
out  guys  as  do  it  for  the  sake  of  getting  a 
bit  of  bread  and  butter,  but  not  many  as  I 
knows  of. 

**  It  don't  cost  much  to  mako  a  gny.  The 
clothes  we  never  bums — tliey're  generally  too 
good :  they're  our  own  clothes,  what  we  wears 
at  other  times ;  and  when  people  bum  a  guy 
they  always  pull  off  any  of  the  Uiings  that's  of 
use  ftist ;  but  mostly  the  guy  gets  pulled  all  to 
pieces,  and  only  the  shanugs  gets  burnt.'' 

Ax  Old  Stbest  Showxan. 

A  sHont,  thick-set  man,  with  small,  puckered- 
up  eyes,  aiid  dressed  in  an  old  brown  velveteen 
shooting-jacket  gave  me  an  account  of  some 
bygone  exhibitions^  of  the  galanteo  show. 

*•  My  father  was  a  soldier,"  he  said,  "  and 
was  away  in  foreign  parts,  and  I  and  a  sister 
Hved  "with  my  mother  in  St,  Martin's  work- 
house. I  was  fifty- five  last  New-year's -duy. 
My  unde,  a  bootmaker  in  St  Mortin's-lane, 
took  my  mother  out  of  the  workhouse,  that 


she  might  do  a  little  washing,  and  pick  up  a 
linng  for  herself;  and  we  children  went  to 
live  with  my  grandfather,  a  tailor.  After  his 
death,  and  after  many  chanses,  we  had  a 
lodging  in  the  Dials,  and  thero  — ^,  the 
sweep,  coaxed  me  with  pudding  one  day,  and 
encouraged  me  so  well,  that  I  didn't  like  to  go 
bock  to  my  mother ;  and  at  last  I  was  'pren- 
ticed  to  him  from  Hatton-Garden  on  a  mouth's 
trial,  and  I  liked  chimley-sweeping  for  thst 
month ;  but  it  was  quite  dillerent  when  I  wsa 
regularly  indentured.  I  was  cruelly-treated 
then,  and  poorly  fed,  and  had  to  turn  out 
barefooted  between  three  and  four  man^  a 
morning  in  frost  and  snow.  In  first  climbmg 
the  chimleys,  a  man  stood  beneath  me,  ana 
pushed  me  up,  telling  me  how  to  use  mj 
elbows  and  knees,  and  if  I  slipped,  he  was 
beneath  me  and  kctched  me,  and  shoved  me 
up  again.  Tlie  skin  camo  off  my  knees  and 
elU>ws;  here's  the  marks  now,  you  see.  I 
suffered  a  invent  deal,  as  well  as  Dan  Du£t^  a 
fellow-swccp,  a  boy  that  died.  Tve  been  to 
Mrs.  Montague's  dinner  in  the  Square  on  the 
1st  of  May,  when  I  was  a  boy-sweep.  It  was 
a  dinner  m  honour  of  her  son  having  been 
stolen  away  by  a  sweep."  (The  man's  own 
wortlfi.)  "I  suppose  there  were  more  than 
three  hundred  of  us  sweeps  there,  in  a  large 
green,  at  Uie  back  of  her  house.  I  run  awaj 
from  my  master  once,  but  was  carried  back» 
and  was  rather  better  used.  My  master  then 
got  me  knee  and  ankle-pads,  and  batlied  n^ 
limbs  in  salt  and  water,  and  I  managed  to 
drag  on  seven  sorrowful  years  with  him.  I 
was  glad  to  be  my  own  man  at  last,  and  I  cut 
the  sweep- trade,  bought  paodean  pipes,  and 
started  with  an  organ-man,  as  his  mate.  I 
saved  money  witli  the  organ-man  and  then 
bought  a  drum.  Ho  gave  me  five  shillings, 
a-week  and  my  wittles  and  drink,  washing  and 
lodging ;  but  there  wasn't  so  much  music  afloat 
then.  I  left  Uie  music-man  and  went  out 
with  '  Michael,'  the  Italy  bear.  Michael  was 
the  man's  name  that  brought  over  the  bear 
from  somewhere  abroad.  He  was  a  Ital}*  man; 
I  and  he  used  to  beat  the  bear,  and  manage  her; 
j  they  called  her  Jenny ;  but  Michael  ^-as  not 
I  to  say  roughish  to  her,  unless  she  was  obstro- 
I  pelous.  If  she  were,  he  showed  her  the  large 
!  mop-stick,  and  beat  her  with  it — hard  some- 
times— specially  when  she  wouldn't  let  the 
monkey  get  a  top  on  her  head ;  for  that  was 
a  part  of  the  performance.  The  monkey  was 
dressed  the  same  as  a  soldier,  but  the  bear 
had  no  dress  but  her  muzzle  and  chain.  The 
monkey  (a  clover  fellow  he  was.  and  could 
jump  over  sticks  like  a  Christian)  was  called 
Billy.  He  jumped  up  and  down  the  bear,  too, 
and  on  his  master's  shoulders,  where  he  set 
as  Michael  walked  up  and  down  the  streets. 
Tho  bear  had  been  taught  to  roll  and  tumble. 
She  rolled  right  over  her  head,  all  round  a 
stick,  and  th(>n  she  danced  round  about  it. 
She  did  it.  at  the  word  of  command.  IMicbnul 
1  said  to  her,  *  Hound  and  round  again.'    We 


tONJDOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


73 


fed  bar  on  bread,  a  qoaitem-loaf  every  night 
afkerherwoik  in  half-a-pail  of  water,  the  same 
emy  morning ;  never  any  meat— notliing  bat 
Inad.  boiiad  'tatoea,  or  raw  canota:  meat 
voold  hava  mada  her  savage.  The  monkey 
m  fed  upon  nata,  apples,  gingerbread,  or 
■tything.  Beaidea  them  we  had  two  dancing- 
dogi.  Tlia  bear  didnt  Uke  them,  and  they 
wre  kept  on  one  side  in  performing.  The 
dqp  jiunpad  through  hoops,  and  danced  on 
flinr  Una  legs;  they're  easyish  enough  trained. 
SoDietiniea  the  batchers  set  bull- dogs,  two  or 
thiee  at  a  tima,  at  Jenny ;  and  Michael  and  me 
httl  to  boat  them  off  as  well  as  the  two  other 
■en  that  we  had  with  us.  Those  two  men  col- 
laotad  the  money,  and  I  played  the  pipes  and 
dniBi,  and  Miohaal  minded  the  bear  and  the 
dogs  and  monkey.  In  London  we  did  very  well. 
The  West-end  was  the  best.  Whitechapel  was 
BRwded  for  us,  but  only  with  ha'pence.  I 
don't  know  what  Michael  made,  but  I  had 
Mfven  shilHngs  a-week,  with  my  wittles  and 
kd^ng.  Michael  done  well.  We  generally 
had  twenty  to  thirty  shillings  every  ni^ht  in 
ha'pence,  and  used  to  ^vo  twcnt^'-onc  shillings 
af  It  for  a  one-pound  note ;  for  they  was  in 
than.  When  we've  travelled  in  the  country, 
we've  sometimes  had  trouble  to  get  lodgings 
%K  the  bear.  We've  had  to  sleep  in  outhouses 
widi  her,  and  have  sometimes  frightened  people 
that  didn't  know  as  we  was  there,  but  nothing 
■Minns  Bears  is  well-behaved  enough  if  they 
aiii*t  amravated.  Perhaps  no  one  but  nio  is 
JaA  in  Enghind  now  what  properly  understands 
adaBMong-bear. 

^  Jenny  wasn't  ever  baited,  but  offers  was 
Bade  for  it  by  sporting  characters. 

**  The  country  was  better  than  London, 
whan  the  weather  aUowed ;  but  in  Gloucester, 
Chahftnham,  and  a  good  many  places,  we 
wient  let  in  the  high  streets. 

*  The  gentlelblk  in  the  balconies,  both  in 
tofwn  and  country,  where  they  had  a  good 
■gfat,  were  our  best  friends. 

■"It's  mora  than  thirty  years  ago — yes,  a 
gaod  bit  more  now;  at  Chester  races,  gne 
yaar,  we  were  all  taken,  and  put  into  prison : 
War,  and  dogs,  andmusicianer,  and  all— every 
ana-— because  we  played  a  day  after  the  races ; 
Ibatwaa  Saturday. 

^  We  were  all  in  quod  until  Monday  morn- 
ing. I  don't  know  how  the  authorities  fed  the 
bsar.  We  wero  each  in  a  separate  cell,  and  I 
kai  braad  and  cheese,  and  gruel. 

**  Oa  Mondi^  morning  we  were  discharged, 

~  the  bear  was  shot  by  the  magistrate's 


«dm.    They  wanted  to  bang  poor  Jenny  at 
Int,  bat  she  was  shot,  and  sold  to  the  hair- 

*  I  aonldn't  stay  to  see  her  shot,  and  had  to 
is  into  an  alehouse  on  the  road.  I  don't 
kaow  vbat  her  caaoase  sold  for.  It  wasn't 
nnhL 

**  Michael  and  me  then  parted  at  Chester, 
Hd  ha  want  home  rich  to  Italy,  taking  his 
Mtaksj  aiMl  dofa  vith  him,  I  believe. 


**  He  lived  very  careful,  chiefly  on  rice  and 
cabbage,  and  a  veiy  little  meat  with  it,  which 
he  called '  manesta.'  He  was  a  very  old  man. 
I  had  '  manesta '  sometimes,  but  I  didn't  like 
it  much.  I  drummed  and  piped  my  way 
from  Chester  to  London,  and  there  took  up 
with  another  forei^er,  named  Green,  in  the 
dock-work-flgure  hne. 

*<  The  figures  were  a  Turk  called  Blue- 
beard, a  sailor,  a  lady  called  Lady  Catarina, 
and  Neptune's  car,  which  we  called  Nelson's  car 
as  well ;  but  it  wjjts  Neptune's  car  by  rights. 

**  These  figures  danced  on  a  table,  when 
taken  out  of  a  box.  Each  had  its  own  dance 
when  wound  up. 

^  First  came  my  Lady  Catarina.  She,  and 
the  others  of  tliem,  were  full  two  feet  high. 
She  had  a  cork  body,  and  a  very  handsome 
silk  dress,  or  muslin,  according  to  the  fashion^ 
or  the  season.  Black  in  Lent,  according  ta 
what  the  nobility  wore. 

"  Lady  Catarina,  when  wound  up,  danced  a 
reel  for  seven  minutes,  the  sailor  a  hornpipe,, 
and  Bluebeard  shook  his  head,  rolled  his 
eyes,  and  moved  his  sword,  just  as  natural  as 
life.  Neptune's  car  went  either  straight  or 
round  Uie  table,  as  it  was  set. 

"  We  often  showed  our  performances  in  the 
houses  of  the  nobility,  and  would  get  ten  or 
twelve  shillings  at  a  good  house,  where  there 
were  children. 

**I  had  a  third  share,  and  in  town  and 
country  we  cleared  fifty  shilliugs  a- week,  at 
least,  every  week,  among  the  three  of  us,  after 
all  our  keep  and  expenses  were  paid. 

*^  At  Doncaster  races  we  have  taken  three 
pounds  in  a-day,  and  four  pounds  at  Linooln 
races. 

^*  Country,  in  stmimer,  is  better  than  town. 
There's  now  no  such  exhibition,  barring  the 
one  I  have ;  but  that's  pledged.  It  cost  twenty 
pounds  at  Mr. 's  for  the  four  figures  with- 
out dress.  I  saved  money,  which  went  in  an 
illness  of  rheumatic  gout.  There's  no  bears 
at  all  allowed  now.  Times  are  changed,  and 
all  for  the  worser.  I  stuck  to  the  olock-work 
concern  sixteen  years,  and  knows  all  parts  of 
the  country — Ireland,  Scotland,  Guernsey, 
Jersey,  and  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

**  A  month  before  Christmas  we  used  to  put 
the  figures  by,  for  the  weather  didn't  suit; 
and  then  we  went  with  a  galantee  show  of  a 
magic  lantern.  We  showed  it  on  a  white 
sheet,  or  on  the  ceiling,  big  or  little,  in  the 
houses  of  the  gentlefolk,  and  the  schools 
where  there  was  a  brouking-up.  It  was  shown 
by  way  of  a  treat  to  the  scholars.  There  was 
Harlequin,  and  Billy  Button,  and  such-like. 
We  had  ten  and  sixpence  and  fifteen  shillings 
for  each  performance,  and  did  very  well  in- 
deed. I  have  that  galantee  show  now,  but 
it  brings  in  very  little. 

^  Green's  dead,  aud  all  in  the  line's  dead, 
but  me.  The  gaUmtee  show  don't  answer, 
because  magic  lanterns  are  so  cheap  in  the 
shops.    When  we   started,  magio   lanterns 


74 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


wasn't  so  common ;  but  '^c  can*t  keep  hold  of 
a  good  thing  in  these  times.  It  was  a  reg'lar 
thmg  for  Christmas  once  —  the  galantee 
shows* 

*'I  can  make,  in  a  holiday  time,  twenty 
fihillings  a-week;  but  thafs  only  at  holiday 
times,  and  is  just  a  mere  casualty  a  few  times 
a  year. 

"  I  do  other  jobs,  when  I  can  get  'em — at 
other  times,  I  delivers  bills,  carries  boards,  and 
helps  at  funerals.** 

The  Chinese  Shades. 

'*  The  proper  name  of  my  exhibition,**  said  a 
showman  of  this  class  to  me,  **  is  Lez  HombreSf 
or  the  shades ;  that's  the  proper  name  for  it, 
for  Baron  Rothschild  told  me  so  when  I  per- 
formed before  him.  We  calls  it  the  Chinese 
galantee  show.  It  was  invented  over  there 
with  the  Chinese,  and  some  travellers  went 
over  there  and  see  them  doing  it,  and  they 
come  over  here  and  tell  us  about  it.  They 
didn't  do  it  as  we  do,  you  know.  As  for  doing 
pieces,  we  lick  them  out  of  the  field.  Them  only 
did  the  shadows,  we  do  a  piece  with  'em. 

**  I  should  say,  sir, — let  me  calculate — it  is 
about  twenty-six  years  since  the  ombres  first 
come  out.  Keduce  it  if  you  like,  but  that's  the 
time.  Thomas  Paris  was  the  first  as  come 
out  with  them.  Then  Jim  Macklin,  and  Paul 
Herring  the  celebrated  clown,  and  the  best 
showman  of  Punch  in  the  world  for  pantomime 
tricks — comic  business,  you  know,  but  not  for 
showing  in  a  gentleman's  house — ^was  the  next 
that  ever  come  out  in  the  streets  with  the 
Chinese  galantee  show.  I  think  it  was  his  own 
ingenuity  that  first  gave  him  the  notion.  It 
was  thoughts  of  mind,  you  know, — ^you  form 
the  opinion  in  your  own  mind,  you  know,  by 
taking  it  Arom  the  Chinese.  They  met  a 
fHend  of  theirs  who  had  come  from  China,  and 
he  told  him  of  the  shadows.  One  word  is  as 
good  as  fifty,  if  it's  a  little  grammatical — sound 
judgment.  When  it  first  come  out,  he  began 
with  the  scene  called '  Mr.  Jobson  the  Cobbler,* 
and  that  scene  has  continued  to  be  popular  to 
the  present  day,  and  the  best  scene  out.  He 
did  it  just  equaUy  the  same  as  they  doHt  now, 
in  a  Punch-and-Judy  frame,  with  a  piece  of 
calico  stretched  in  front,  and  a  light  behind  to 
throw  the  shadows  on  the  sheet. 

"  Paul  Herring  did  excellent  well  with  it — 
nothing  less  than  30«.  or  21.  a-night.  He 
didn't  stop  long  at  it,  because  he  is  a  stage 
clown,  and  had  other  business  to  attend  to. 
I  saw  him  the  first  time  he  performed.  It 
was  in  the  Waterloo-road,  and  the  next  night 
I  were  out  with  one  of  my  own.  I  only  require 
to  see  a  thing  once  to  be  able  to  do  it ;  but  you 
must  have  ingenuity,  or  it's  no  use  whatsum- 
diver.  Every  one  who  had  a  Punch-and-Judy 
firame  took  to  it ;  doing  the  regular  business  in 
the  day  and  at  night  turning  to  the  shadows. 
In  less  than  a  week  there  were  two  others  out, 
and  then  Paul  Hening  cut  it    He  only  done 


it  for  a  lark.    He  was  hard  up  for  mone 
got  it 

'*!  was  the  first  that  ever  had  a  T^ 
piece  acted  in  his  show.  I  believe  t 
nobody  else  as  did,  but  only  them  that's  < 
me.  They  come  and  follow  me,  you  t 
stand,  and  copied  me.  I  am  the  aiitl 
'Cobbler  Jobson,' and  *  Kitty biling  the  I 
the  Woodchopper's  Frolic*  There's 
Button's  journey  to  Brentford  on  hors< 
and  his  favorite  servant,  Jeremiah  Stitch< 
want  of  a  situation.*  I'm  the  author  ol 
too.  It*8  adapted  firom  the  equestrian 
brought  out  at  Astley's.  I  don't  knon 
composed  '  the  Broken  Bridge.'  Ifs^  U 
gone  by  to  trace  who  the  first  author  is, 
was  adapted  firom  the  piece  brought  o\ 
merly  at  Drury-lane  Theatre.  Old  ai 
gentlemen  has  told  mo  so  who  saw  it,  wl 
was  first  brought  out,  and  they're  old  ei 
to  be  my  grandfather.    I've  new  revised 

"We  in  general  goes  out  about  7  o' 
because  we  geti}  away  from  the  noisy  ch 
—they  place  them  to  bed,  and  we  ge 
spectable  audiences.  We  choose  our  ] 
for  pitching :  Leicester-square  is  a  very 
place,  and  so  is  Islington,  but  Regent-stJ 
about  the  principal.  There's  only  two 
about  now,  for  it's  dying  away.  When 
mind  to  show  I  can  show,  and  no  mistal 
I'm  better  now  than  I  was  twenty  years 

"  *  Kitty  biling  the  Pot,  or  the  Woodcho 
Frolic,'  is  this.  The  shadow  of  the  firep] 
seen  with  the  fire  alight,  and  the  stxu 
made  to  go  up  by  mechanism.  The 
chopper  comes  in  very  hungry  and  wan 
supper.  He  calls  his  wife  to  ask  if  the  '. 
mutton  is  done.  He  speaks  in  a  gruff 
He  says,  *  My  wife  is  very  lazy,  and  I 
think  my  supper's  done.  I've  been  chc 
wood  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  I  "w 
bullock's  head  and  a  sack  of  potatoes.* 
wife  comes  t3  him  and  speaks  in  a  squc 
voice,  and  she  tells  him  to  go  and  chop 
more  wood,  and  in  half-an-hour  it  w 
ready.  Exaunt.  Then  the  wife  call 
daughter  Kitty,  and  tells  her  to  see  thi 
pot  don't  boil  over ;  and  above  all  to  be 
and  see  that  the  cat  don't  steal  the  n 
out  of  the  pot.  Kitty  says,  *  Yes,  moiht 
take  particular  care  that  the  mutton  don^ 
the  cat  out  of  the  pot.'  Cross-question 
see — comic  business.  Then  mother 
*  Kitty,  bring  up  the  broom  to  sweep  u 
room,'  and  Kitty  replies,  *Yes,  mumm 
bring  up  the  room  to  sweep  up  the  bi 
Exaunt  again.  It's  regular  stage  businei 
cross -questions.  She  brings  up  the  t 
and  the  cat's  introduced  whilst  she  is  sw& 
The  cat  goes  Meaw !  meaw  !  meaw !  and 
gives  it  a  crack  with  the  broom.  Then 
gets  the  bellows  and  blows  up  the  fire, 
beautiful  representation,  for  you  see  her 
ing  the  bellows,  and  the  fire  get  up,  an 
sparks  fly  up  the  chimney.  She  says, 
don't  make  haste  the  mutton  will  be  v\ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


76 


\  the  cat  out  of  the  pot'  She  blows  the 
right  out,  and  says,  •  Why,  the  fire's  blowed 
bellows  out !  but  I  dont  mind,  I  shall  go 
play  at  shuttlecock.'  Child  hke,  yon  see. 
1  the  cat  comes  in  again,  and  says,  Meaw ! 
ir!  and  then  gets  up  and  steals  the 
on.  You  see  her  drag  it  out  by  the  claw, 
she  bums  herself  and  goes,  spit !  spit ! 
1  the  mother  comes  in  and  sees  the  fire 
and  says, '  Where  my  daughter  ?  Here's 
lie  out,  and  my  husband's  coming  home, 
there  isn't  a  bit  of  mutton  to  eat! '  She 
'  Kitty,  Kitty ! '  and  when  she  comes,  asks 
■e  ahe's  been.  'I've  been  playing  at 
tleeock.'  The  mother  asks, '  A^  you  sure 
eat  hasn't  stolen  the  mutton.'  *  Oh,  no, 
iiK>ther,'  and  exaunt  again.  Then  the 
ler  goes  to  the  pot.  She's  represented 
a  aquint,  so  she  has  one  eye  up  the 
mey  and  another  in  the  pot.  She  calls 
'  Where's  the  mutton  ?  It  must  be  down 
le  bottom,  or  it  has  boiled  away.'  Then 
child  comes  in  and  says,  'Oh!  mother, 
ler,  here's  a  great  he-she-tom  cat  been  and 
!  off  with  the  mutton.'  Then  the  mother 
down,  and  calls  out,  *I  shall  faint,  I 
.faint!  Oh!  bring  me  a  pail  of  gin.'  Then 
leriTes,  and  goes  and  looks  in  the  pot 
1.  Irs  regular  stage  business,  and  if  it 
only  done  on  a  large  scale  would  be 
ler^nL  Then  comes  the  correction  scene, 
r  comes  to  her,  and  her  mother  says, 
ere  have  you  been  ? '  and  Kitty  says,  *  Flay- 
■t  shuttlecock,  mummy;*  and  then  the 
ler  says,  '  I'll  give  you  some  shuttlecock 
the  gridiron,'  and  exaunt,  and  comes 
with  the  gridiron ;  and  then  you  see  her 
Ae  child  on  her  knee  correcting  of  her. 
&  the  woodchopper  comes  in  and  wants 
I9l»er,  after  chopping  wood  all  the  days 
s  life.  '  Wliere's  supper  ?'  *  Oh,  a  nasty 
he-the-tom  cat  has  been  and  stole  the 
!0Q  out  of  the  pot.'  'Wliat?'  passionate 
:tjj,  you  see.  'Then  she  says, '  You  must 
up  with  bread  and  cheese.*  He  answers. 
It  don't  suit  some  people,'  and  then  comes 
ihL  Then  Spring-heeled  Jack  is  intro- 
4,  and  he  carries  off  the  fireplace  an(|  pot 
iIL  Exaunt  That's  the  end  of  the  piece, 
a  TCiy  good  one  it  was.  I  took  it  from 
s»  and  improyed  on  it  Paris  had  no 
c^ile  figures.  It  was  yery  inferior.  He 
no  fire.  It's  a  dangerous  concern  the  fire 
IF  it's  done  with  a  httle  bit  of  the  snufi*  of 
ndle,  and  if  you  don't  mind  you  go  alight, 
ft  beautiful  performance. 
Oar  exhibition  generally  begins  with  a 
w  doing  a  hornpipe,  and  then  the  tight 
I  dancing,  and  auer  that  the  Scotch  hom- 
i  dancing.  The  little  figures  regularly 
•  their  legs  as  if  dancing,  Uie  same  as  on 
•tage,  onfy  it's  more  cleverer,  for  they're 
la  to  do  it  by  ingenuity.  Then  comes  the 
e  called '  Cobbler  Jobson.'  We  call  it  *  the 
dialile,  eomic,  and  interesting  scene  of  old 
EtfJohaon,  the  London  cobbler ;  or,  the  old 


Lady  disappointed  of  her  Slipper.'  I  am  in 
front,  doing  the  speaking  and  playing  the  music 
on  the  pandanean  pipe.  That's  the  real  word 
for  the  pipe,  from  the  Bomans,  when  they 
first  invaded  England.  That's  the  first  music 
ever  introduced  into  England,  when  the 
Romans  first  invaded  it.  I  have  to  do  the 
dialogue  in  four  difiierent  voices.  There  is 
the  child,  the  woman,  the  countryman,  and 
myself,  and  there's  not  many  as  can  do  it 
besides  me  and  another. 

**  The  piece  called  Cobbler  Jobson  is  this.  It 
opens  wkh  the  shadow  of  a  cottage  on  one  side 
of  the  sheet,  and  a  cobbler's  stall  on  the  other. 
There  are  boots  and  shoes  hanging  up  in  the 
windows  of  the  cobbler's  stall.  Cobbler  Jobson 
is  supposed  at  work  inside,  and  heard  singing : 

'An  old  cobbler  I  am. 

And  lire  in  mv  stall ; 
It  tonres  me  for  nouse. 

Pariour,  kitchen,  and  alL 
No  coin  in  my  pocket, 

No  care  in  my  pate, 
I  dt  down  at  my  eaae^ 
And  get  drunk  when  I  pleaae. 
Hi  down,  hi  deny  down. 

**  Then  he  sings  again : 

*La8t  niffht  I  took  a  wife, 
And  when  I  first  did  woo  heiv 

I  vowed  I'd  stick  through  life 
Like  cobblers'  wax  \mto  her. 

Hi  down,  denry  down  down  down.' 

"Then  the  figure  of  a  little  girl  comes  in 
and  raps  at  the  door:  'Mr.  Jobson,  is  my 
mamma's  slipper  done?'  *No,  miss,  it's  not 
done ;  but  if  you'll  call  in  half-an-hour  it  shall 
be  well  done,  for  I've  taken  the  soles  off  and 
put  the  upper  leathers  in  a  pail  to  soak.' 
'What,  in  a  pail?'  'Yes,  my  dear,  without 
fail.'  '  Then  you  won't  disappint'  •  No,  my 
dear,  I'd  sooner  a  pot  than  a  pint'  '  Then  I 
may  depend?'  'Yes,  and  you  won't  have  it' 
He  says  this  aside,  so  the  girl  don't  hear  him. 
Then  Jobson  begins  to  sing  again.  He  comes 
in  froui  and  works.  You  see  his  lapstone  and 
the  hammer  going.    He  begins  to  sing : 

'  Tother  morning  for  broakfiMt  on  baoon  and  spin- 

nag«. 
Says  I  to  my  wife,  '  I'm  going  to  Greenwich  ;' 
Says  she,  '  Dicky  Hall,  then  111  go  too  I ' 
Says  I,  '  BiiB.  Hall,  VM  be  dished  if  you  do. 
Hi  down,  hi  deny  down.' 

**  Then  the  little  girl  comes  in  again  to 
know  if  the  slipper  is  done,  and  as  it  isn't  it's 
'  My  dear,  you  must  go  without  it'  Then 
she  gets  impertinent,  and  says,  '  I  shan't  go 
with  it,  you  nasty  old  waxy,  waxy,  waxy,  waxy, 
waxy !  Oh,  you  nasty  old  ball  of  bristles  and 
bunch  of  wax ! '  Then  he  tries  to  hit  her,  and 
she  runs  into  the  house,  and  as  soon  as  he's 
at  work  she  comes  out  again :  *  Ah,  you 
nasty  cobbler !  who's  got  a  lump  of  wax  on  his 
breeches  ?  who  sold  his  wife's  shirt  to  buy  a 
ha'porth  of  gin  ?  Then  the  cobbler  is  regu- 
larly  vexed,  and  he  tries  to  coax  her  into  Uie 
staU  to  larmp  her.    'Here,  my  dear,  hero's  a 


76 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


lump  of  pudden  and  a  farden.'  '  Oh,  yes,  yon 
nasty  old  cobbler!  you  only  want  to  give  me 
a  lump  of  pudden  on  mv  back.'  *  Here's  a 
penny,  my  dear,  if  you'll  fetch  it,'  'Chuck 
it  here,  and  111  fetch  it'  At  last  she  goes 
into  the  stall,  and  she  gets  a  hiding  with  the 
hammer.  She  cries  out,  *You  nasty  old 
cobbler  waxy !  waxy,  waxy !  Ill  go  and  tell  my 
mother  all  about  it*  That's  what  we  cuU 
the  aggriwating  scene;  and  next  comes  the 
passionate  scene. 

**  He  begins  singing  one  of  his  songs.  He 
thinks  he's  all  right  now  he's  got  rid  of  the 
girl. 

**  Then  comes  in  the  old  lady,  shaking  with 
rage.  *  How  dare  you  to  strike  my  child  in 
this  here  kind  of  a  manner !  Come  out  of  Uie 
stall,  or  m  pull  you  out  neck  and  crop ! ' 
Then  Jobson  is  in  a  funk,  and  expects  a 
hiding.  '  Oh,  mum !  Fm  very  sorry,  but  your 
child  said,  I  skinned  a  cat  for  ninepence,  and 
called  me  cobbler  waxpr,  waxy,  waxy.'  *  I  won't 
believe  a  word  of  it,  Mr.  Jobson.'  '  Yos,  mum, 
your  child's  very  insaultang.'  *  How  daro  you 
strike  the  chick  ?  You  nasty  old  villain !  Ill 
tear  the  eyes  out  of  you.' 

"  A  fight  then  commences  between  theta, 
and  the  old  lady  gets  the  worst  of  it.  Then 
they  moke  it  up,  and  theyll  have  some  gin. 

*  rU  be  a  penny  to  your  tlu^epence,'  says  the 
cobbler;  and  th6  old  lady  says,  *  Oh,  I  can 
always  treat  myself.*  Then  tliere's  another 
fight,  for  there's  two  fights  in  it.  The  old 
lady  gets  the  worst  of  it,  and  runs  into  the 
cottage,  and  then  old  Jobson  cries,  *  I'd  better 
be  otf^  stall  and  all,  for  fear  she  should  come 
back  with  the  kitchen  poker.'  That  finishes 
up  the  scene,  don't  you  see,  for  ho  carries  oflT 
the  stall  with  him. 

**  Cobbler  Jobson  is  up  to  the  door,  I  think. 
It's  first  mte;  it  only  wants  elaborating.  *  Billy 
Button'  is  a  very  laughable  thing,  and  equally 
up  to  the  door.    There's  another  piece,  called 

*  Billy  Waters,  the  celebrated  London  Beggar; ' 
and  that's  a  great  lilt.  There's  the  '  Bull- 
baiting.'  That's  all  the  scenes  I  know  of.  I 
believe  I  am  the  only  man  that  knows  the 
words  all  through.  *  Kitty  biling  the  pot' 
is  one  of  the  most  beautifullest  scenes  in  the 
world.  It  wants  expounding,  you  know  ;  for 
you  could  open  it  the  whole  length  of  the 
theatre.  I  wanted  to  take  Ramsgate  Theatre, 
and  do  it  there ;  but  they  wanted  2/.  a-night, 
and  that  was  too  much  for  me.  I  should 
have  put  a  sheet  up,  and  acted  it  with  real 
figures,  as  large  as  life. 

*•  When  I  was  down  at  Brighton,  acting 
with  the  Chinese  galantee  show,  I  was  forced 
to  drop  performing  of  them.  Oh  dear!  oh 
dear!  don't  mention  it  You'd  have  thought 
the  town  was  on  fire.  You  never  saw  such 
an  uproar  as  it  made ;  put  the  town  in  such 
an  agitation,  that  the  town  authorities  forced 
me  to  desist  I  filled  the  whole  of  North- 
street,  and  the  people  was  pressing  upon  me 
so,  that  I  was  obliged  to  ran  away.    I  was 


lodging  at  the  Clarence  Hotel  in  North-street, 
at  the  time.  I  rail  off  down  a  side-street 
The  next  day  the  police  oome  up  to  me  and 
tell  me  that  I  mustn't  exhiUt  that  ]>6iform- 
ance  again. 

*'  I  shall  calculate  it  at  5«.  a-night,  when  I 
exhibit  with  the  ombres.  We  don't  go  out 
every  night  for  ifs  according  to  the  weather; 
but  when  wo  do,  the  calculation  is  5».  eveiy 
night.  Sometimes  it  is  10«.,  or  it  may  be  only 
'U,  Od;  but  5f.  is  a  fair  balanee.  Take  it 
all  the  year  round,  it  would  come  to  Oj. 
a-week,  taking  the  good  weather  in  the  bad. 
It's  no  use  to  exaggerate,  for  the  shoe  is  sore 
to  pinch  somewhere  if  you  do. 

'*  We  go  out  two  men  together,  one  to  play 
the  pipes  and  speak  the  parts,  and  the  other 
to  work  the  figures.  I  always  do  the  speaking 
and  the  music,  for  tliat's  what  is  the  most  par- 
ticular. >Vhen  we  do  a  jhill  performance,  such 
as  at  juvenile  parties,  it  takes  one  about  one 
hour  and  a  quarter.  For  attending  parties 
we  generally  gets  a  pound,  and,  perhaps,  we 
may  get  three  or  four  during  the  Christmas 
holiday-time,  or  perhaps  a  dozen,  for  it's  ac- 
cording to  the  recommendation  from  one  to 
another.  If  you  goes  to  a  gentleman's  hoose, 
it's  according  to  whether  you  behave  yourself 
in  a  superior  sort  of  a  manner;  but  if  you 
have  any  vulgarity  about  you  you  must  exannt, 
and  there's  no  recommendation. 

"  Tom  Paris,  the  first  man  that  brought  out 
the  ombres  in  tlie  streets,  was  a  short  stout 
man,  and  very  old.  He  kept  at  it  for  four  or 
five  J  ears,  I  beUeve,  and  he  made  a  very  com- 
fortable li>'iiig  at  it,  but  ho  died  poor ;  what 
became  of  him  I  do  not  know.  Jim  Macklin 
I've  very  little  knowledge  of.  He  was  a  stage 
performer,  but  I'm  not  aware  what  ho  did 
do.  I  don't  know  when  he  died,  but  he's 
dead  and  gone ;  all  the  old  school  is  dead 
and  gone — all  the  old  ancient  performers. 
Paul  Herring  is  the  only  one  that's  alive  now, 
and  he  does  the  down.  He's  a  capital  clown 
for  tricks ;  he  works  his  own  tricks :  that's 
the  beauty  of  him. 

"  When  we  are  performing  of  an  evening, 
the  boys  and  children  will  annoy  us  avrfttl. 
They  follow  us  so  that  we  are  obliged  to  go 
miles  to  get  awuy  froni  them.  They  will  have 
the  best  places ;  they  give  each  other  raps  on 
the  head  if  they  don't  get  out  of  each  other's 
way.  I'm  obliged  to  get  fighting  myself,  and 
give  it  them  with  the  drumsticks.  Theyll 
throw  a  stone  or  two,  and  then  you  have  to 
run  after  them,  and  swear  you're  going  to  kill 
them.  There's  the  most  boys  down  at  Spital- 
fields,  and  St  Luke's,  and  at  Islington  ;  that's 
where  there's  the  worst  boys,  and  the  most 
audaciousest  I  dare  not  go  into  St.  Luke's ; 
they  spile  their  own  amusement  by  maldng 
a  noise  and  disturbance.  Quietness  is  every- 
thing; they  haven't  the  sense  to  know  that 
If  they  give  us  any  money  it's  very  trifling, 
only,  perhaps,  a  farden  or  a  halfpenny,  and 
then  it's  only  one  out  of  a  fifty  or  a  htmdred. 


ZONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOE. 


11 


The  gn^at  bnnness  is  to  keep  them  quiet. 
No;  girU  ain't  better  behaved  than  bo>*8 ;  they 
•nas  much  was,  I'd  sooner  have  fifty  boys 
lound  me  than  four  girls.  The  impertioence 
of  them  is  above  bearing.  They  come  carry- 
ing babie^ii,  and  poshing,  and  crowding,  and 
tconug  one  another  to  pieces.  '  You're  albre 
me—I  was  fast — No  you  wasn't — Yes  I  was' — 
aod  that's  the  way  they  go  on.  If  a  big  man 
comes  in  front  I'm  obliged  to  ask  liim  to 
go  backwards,  to  let  the  little  children  to  see. 
If  they're  drunk,  perhaps  they  won't,  and 
then  there's  a  row,  and  all  tho  children  will 
j«ia  in.     Ob,  it's  dreadful  erksome ! 

"  I  was  once  performing  on  Islington-green, 
aotl  some  drunken  people,  whilst  I  was  col- 
letting  my  money,  knocked  over  the  concern 
fiom  wanton  mischief.  They  said  to  mo, 
'We  haven't  seen  nothing,  master.'  I  said, 
•lean  see  yon;  and  haven't  you  got  a  brown?' 
Then  they  begun  laughing,  and  I  tiuiied 
round,  and  there  was  the  show  in  a  blaze, 
and  my  mate  inside  a  kicking.  I  think  it  was 
tvo  or  three  dnmken  men  did  it,  to  injure  a 
poor  man  finom  gaining  his  livelihood  £i*om 
the  sweat  of  his  brow.  That's  eighteen  years 
•go. 

**  I  was  tip  at  Islington  last  week,  and  I 
vu  really  obliged  to  give  over  on  accotmt  of 
the  children.  Tho  moment  I  put  it  down 
there  was  thousands  round  me.  They  was 
MTCT  and  impertment.  There  was  a  good 
eciUection  of  people,  too.  But  on  account  of 
the  theatrical  business  we  want  quiet,  aud 
they're  so  noisy  there's  no  l)eing  heard.  It's 
monls  is  ererjthiug.  It's  shameful  how  pa- 
Tents  lets  their  children  run  about  the  streets. 
As  soon  as  they  All  ihoir  bellies  off  they  are, 
tiU  they  are  hungry  again. 

**  The  higher  class  of  society  is  those  who 
give  OS  the  most  money.  The  working  man 
19  good  for  his  penny  or  halfpenny,  but  the 
bi^b^r  class  supports  the  exhibiticm.  The 
siieU«  in  JUegent-street  ain't  very  good.  They 
cooes  and  looks  on  for  a  momeut,  and  then 
go  on,  or  sometimes  they  exempt  themselves 
with  •  I'm  sorry,  but  I've  got  no  pence.'  Tho 
best  is  the  gentlemen ;  I  can  tell  them  in  a 
■iaute  by  their  tqipearance. 

**  When  we  ore  out  performing,  we  in  ge- 
neraUy  bom  three  candles  at  once  behind 
the  Gortain.  One  is  of  no  utility,  for  it  wants 
expansion,  don't  you  sec.  I  don't  like  naplitha 
or  oil-lamps,  'oos  we're  confined  there,  aud  it's 
very  unhealthy.  It's  very  warm  as  it  is,  and 
yea  most  huve  a  eye  like  a  hawk  to  watcli  it, 
or  it  won't  throw  the  shadows.  A  brilliant 
light  and  a  clean  sheet  is  a  great  attraction, 
md  it's  the  attraction  is  everything.  In  the 
coorse  of  the  evening  we'll  bum  six  penny 
eaodles ;  we  generally  use  the  patent  one,  'cos 
it  tbrovs  ft  clear  light.  We  cut  them  in  half. 
Vk'hm  we  use  the  others  I  have  to  keep  a 
look^mt,  and  teU  my  mate  to  snuff  the  can- 
dles when  the  shadows  get  dim.    I  usually 

■Vi*  Snuff  the  eandles!'  oat  loud,  because 


that's  a  word  for  the  outside  and  the  inside 
too,  'oos  it  let  the  company  know  it  isn't  all 
over,  aud  leads  them  to  expect  another  scene 
or  two." 

Exhibitor  op  Mechanical  Figures. 

*'  I  AM  the  only  man  in  London — and  in 
England,  I  think — ^who  is  exhibiting  the  figuer 
of  meehanique ;  that  is  to  say,  leetle  figuers, 
that  move  their  limbs  by  wheels  and  springs, 
as  if  they  was  de  living  crotures.  I  am  a 
native  of  Parma  in  Italy,  where  I  was  bom ; 
that  is,  you  understand,  I  was  bom  in  the 
Duchy  of  Pamift,  not  in  the  town  of  Forma — 
in  the  campagne,  where  my  father  is  a  fanner ; 
not  a  large  fanner,  but  a  little  famior,  with 
just  enough  land  for  living.  I  used  to  work 
for  my  father  in  his  fields.  I  was  married 
when  I  have  20  years  of  age,  and  I  have  a 
cliild  a;?ed  U)  years.  I  have  only  30  years  of 
n^'o,  thougli  1  have  tho  air  of  40.  Pardon ,  Mon- 
sieur !  all  my  friends  soy  I  have  tho  air  of 
40,  and  you  say  that  to  make  me  pleasure. 

"  When  I  am  with  my  father,  I  save  up  all 
the  money  that  I  can,  for  there  is  very  leetlo 
business  to  be  done  in  the  campagnc  of  Parma, 
and  I  determine  myself  to  come  to  Londres, 
where  there  is  affair  to  be  done.  I  like  Londres 
much  better  than  the  campagne  of  Parma, 
because  there  is  so  much  aflairs  to  be  done.  I 
save  uj)  all  my  money.  I  become  very  econo- 
mique.  I  live  f»f  very  leetle,  and  when  I  havo 
a  leetle  money,  I  say  adieu  to  my  father  and  I 
commence  my  voyages. 

**  At  Paris  I  buy  a  box  of  music.  They  ore 
mode  at  tJenfeve  these  box  of  music.  When  I 
come  to  Lontlrcs,  I  go  to  the  public-hoase — 
the  palois  de  gin,  you  understand — and  there 
I  show  my  box  of  music — yes,  musical  box  you 
call  it — and  when  I  get  some  money  I  live 
very  economiquc,  and  then  when  it  become 
moire  money  I  buy  another  machine,  which  I 
buy  in  Paris.  It  was  a  box  of  music,  and  on 
the  tf»p  it  had  leetle  figuers,  which  do  move 
their  eyes  and  their  limbs  when  I  mounts  tho 
spring  with  the  key.  And  then  there  is  music 
inside  the  box  at  the  some  time.  I  have  three 
leetle  figuers  to  this  box:  one  was  Jmlith 
cutting  the  head  of  the  infidel  chief — what 
you  call  him? — Holeferones.  She  lift  her 
arm  witli  the  sword,  and  she  roll  her  eyes,  and 
then  the  other  hand  is  on  his  head,  which  it 
lifts.  It  does  this  all  the  time  the  music  play, 
until  I  put  on  another  figuer  of  the  soldat 
which  mounts  the  guoni — yes,  which  is  on 
duty.  The  soldat  goes  to  sleep,  and  his  head 
falls  on  his  bosom.  Then  he  wake  aj;ain  and 
lift  his  lance  and  roll  his  eyes.  Then  he  goes 
to  sleep  again,  so  long  until  I  put  on  the  other 
figuer  of  the  lady  with  the  plate  in  the  hand, 
and  she  make  salutation  to  the  company  for  to 
ask  some  money,  and  she  continue  to  do  this 
so  long  as  anybody  givo  her  money.  All  the 
time  the  music  in  the  box  continues  to  play. 

**  I  take  a  great  quantity  of  money  irith  these 


78 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


figaers,  3«.  a-day,  and  I  live  veiy  ^conomiqae 
imdl  I  pat  aside  a  sum  large  enough  to  buj 
the  flgners  which  I  exhibit  now. 

^  Mj  most  aged  child  is  at  Parma,  with  my 
father  in  the  campagne,  but  my  wife  and  my 
other  child,  which  has  only  18  months  of  age, 
are  with  me  in  Londres. 

"  It  is  two  months  since  I  have  my  new 
figuers.  I  did  have  them  sent  from  Germany 
to  me.  They  have  cost  a  great  deal  of  money 
to  me ;  as  much  as  85/.  without  duty.  They 
have  been  made  in  Gerraanyi  and  are  very 
clever  figures.  I  wiQ  show  them  to  you.  They 
perform  on  the  round  table,  which  must  be 
level  or  they  will  not  turn  round.  This  is  the 
Imp^ratrice  of  the  French — Eugenie — at 
least  I  call  her  so,  for  it  is  not  like  her,  because 
her  cheveleure  is  not  arranged  in  the  style  of 
the  Imp^atrice.  The  infants  like  better  to 
see  the  Imphtttrice  than  a  common  lady,  that 
is  why  I  caJl  her  the  Imperatrice.  She  holds 
one  arm  in  the  air,  and  you  will  see  she  turns 
round  like  a  person  waltzing.  The  noise  you 
hear  is  from  the  wheels  of  the  m6chanique, 
which  is  under  her  petticoats.  You  shall  notice 
her  eyes  do  move  as  she  waltz.  The  next 
figure  is  the  carnage  of  the  Emperor  of  the 
French,  with  tiie  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  and 
the  King  de  Sardaigne  inside.  It  will  run 
round  the  table,  and  Uie  horses  wHL  move  as  if 
they  gallop.  It  is  a  very  clever  mtehaniqne. 
I  attache  this  wire  from  Uie  front  wheel  to  the 
centre  of  the  table,  or  it  would  not  make  the 
round  of  the  table,  but  it  would  run  off  the 
side  and  break  itself.  My  most  clever  m^- 
chanique  is  the  elephant  It  does  move  its 
trunk,  and  its  tail,  and  its  legs,  as  if  walking, 
and  all  the  time  it  roll  its  eyes  from  side  to 
side  like  a  real  elephant  It  is  the  cleverest 
elephant  of  m^dianique  in  the  world.  The 
leetle  Indian  on  the  neck,  who  is  the  driver, 
lift  his  arm,  and  in  the  pavilion  on  the  back 
the  chieftain  of  the  Indians  lift  his  bow  and 
arrow  to  take  aim,  and  put  it  down  again. 
Thatmtehanique  cost  me  very  much  money. 
The  elephant  is  worth  much  more  than  the 
Imperatrice  of  the  French.  I  could  buy  two — 
three — Imperatrice  for  my  elephant  I  would 
like  sooner  lose  the  Imperatrice  than  any 
malheur  arrive  to  my  elephant  There  are 
plenty  more  Imperatrice,  but  the  elephant  is 
veiy  rare.  I  have  also  a  figuer  of  Tyrolese 
peasant  She  go  round  the  table  a  short  dis- 
tance and  then  turn,  like  a  dancer.  I  mu^t 
get  her  repaired.  She  is  so  weak  in  her  wheels 
and  springs,  which  wind  up  under  her  petticoats, 
like  the  Imperatrice.  She  has  been  cleaned 
twice,  and  yet  her  m^chanique  is  very  bad. 
Oh,  I  have  oiled  her ;  but  it  is  no  good,  she 
must  be  taken  to  pieces. 

*•  When  I  sent  to  Germany  to  get  these 
mechanique  made  for  me,  I  told  the  mechan- 
ician what  I  desired,  and  he  made  them  for 
me.  I  invented  the  figuers  out  of  my  own 
head,  and  he  did  the  mechanique.  I  have 
voyaged  in  Holland,   and  there  I  see  some 


mechanique,  and  I  noticed  them,  and  then  I 
gave  the  order  to  do  so  and  so.  My  elephant 
is  the  best  of  my  leetle  figures ;  there  is  more 
complication. 

*'  I  first  come  to  England  eighteen  years  a- 
go,  before  I  was  married,  and  I  stop  here 
seven  years ;  then  I  go  back  again  to  Parma, 
and  then  I  come  back  again  to  England  four 
years  ago,  and  here  I  stop  ever  since. 

"  I  exhibit  my  leetle  figiures  in  the  street 
The  leetle  children  like  to  see  my  figuers  me- 
chanique dance  round  the  table,  and  the  car- 
riage, with  the  horses  which  gallop ;  but  over 
all  they  like  my  elephant,  with  the  trunk 
which  curls  up  in  front,  like  those  in  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  or  what  you  call  it 
Zoological  Gardens. 

♦*  When  I  am  in  the  street  I  have  two  men 
beside  myself,  one  plays  the  organ,  and  the 
other  carry  the  box  with  the  mechanique  fi- 
guers inside,  and  I  carry  the  table.  The  box 
with  the  mechanique  is  in  weight  about  80  lbs. 
English,  and  there  are  straps  at  the  back  for 
the  arms  to  go  through.  It  is  as  large  as  a 
chest  of  drawers,  for  the  leetle  figures  are 
eighteen  inches  high,  and  each  has  a  com- 
partment to  itself.  I  pay  my  men  II.  a-month, 
besides  lodge,  clean,  and  grub  him. 

"  The  organ  for  the  music  is  mine.  I  have 
another  organ,  with  a  horse  to  draw  it,  which 
I  want  to  sell;  for  the  horse,  and  ihe  two 
men  to  play  it,  destroy  all  the  profits. 

"  When  I  make  my  figuers  to  play  in  the 
street  I  must  make  the  table  levd,  for  they 
will  not  mount  up  a  hill,  because  the  mecha- 
nique is  not  sufficiently  strong  for  that  I  go 
to  the  West-end  to  show  my  leetle  figures  to 
the  genUemans  and  ladies,  and  their  flunilies ; 
and  I  go  to  the  East-end  to  the  families  of  tho 
work-people.  I  also  go  to  Bzixton  and  Hox- 
ton,  where  they  are  severe  for  religion.  They 
like  my  figures  because  they  are  moral,  and 
their  children  can  see  them  without  sinning. 
But  everywhere  my  figures  have  much  suc- 
cess. Of  all  the  places,  I  prefer,  rather,  Re« 
gent-street,  and  there  I  go  to  the  leetle  streets, 
in  the  comers,  close  by  the  big  street  If  I 
calcule  how  much  money  I  receive  for  all 
the  year, — but  I  have  only  had  them  two 
months, — it  is  six  shillings  by  day  regularly. 
Sometime  I  take  ten  shillings,  and  some* 
times  four  shillings,  but  it  settles  itself  to  six 
shillings  a-day.  After  paying  for  my  men,  and 
to  clean,  lodge,  and  grub  them,  I  have  three 
shillings  for  myself. 

"  In  wet  weather,  when  it  makes  rain,  or 
when  thero  is  fog,  I  cannot  quit  my  house  to 
show  my  figures,  for  the  humidity  attack  the 
springs  and  wheels  of  the  mechanique :  be- 
sides, when  it  falls  rain  the  dresses  of  my 
figuers  are  spoiled  ;  and  the  robes  of  the  Im- 
peratrice and  the  Tyrolese  peasant  are  of 
silk  and  velvet  bodies,  with  spangles,  and 
they  soon  spoil.  They  cost  me  much  money 
to  repair  their  springs, — never  less  than  eight 
shillings  for  each  time :  my  peasant  has  beex> 


STBEET  TELESCOPE  EXHIBITOK. 

[Fnm  a  PhdograpK.} 


LOyDOy  LABOUR  AND  TJTE  LONDON  POOM. 


70 


•mnged  twiee  in  her  ajirings.  It  ttas  a  watoh- 
inftk<»r  who  arranged  her,  and  he  had  to  take 
oU  lier  inside  out ;  and  yon  know  what  those 
kind  of  pe^lo  charge  for  their  time. 

••  Somi^times,  when  I  am  out  with  my  fi- 
(■ners,  the  ladies  ask  me  to  perform  my  iipruers 
before  their  windows,  to  show  them  to  their 
/aniilies.  The  leetle  children  look  throuprh 
rhe  window,  and  then  they  cannot  hear  the 
movemont  of  the  mechaniquc,  and  the  ti^^ers 
Ifiok  like  living.  AVhen  the  organ  pluy  a 
valtz  to  the  Imperatrice,  he  has  to  turn  the 
banUe  quick  at  the  commencement,  wlien  tho 
!^nicr  is  strong  in  the  meclianique,  find  slu.^ 
tnm  quick ;  and  to  make  the  music  slow  when 
she  turn  less  often,  when  the  spring  get  weak 
«  the  end.  This  makes  it  have  the  look  of 
being  true  to  one  living,^ as  if  she  danced  to 
the  music,  although  the  organ  play  to  her 
dancing.  I  always  mount  the  Bgures  with 
ihe  key  myself. 

*•  I  have  never  performed  to  a  school  of  young 
schrilrirs,  but  I  have  visited  evening-parties  of 
children  with  my  m^chanique.  For  that  tliey 
frive  me  sometimes  8*.,  sometimes  10».,  just  as 
they  are  generous.  My  mcchanique  require 
nearly  one  hour  to  see  them  to  perfection. 
The  imperatrice  of  the  French  is  what  they 
admire  more  than  the  paysanne  of  Tyrol.  The 
dn.'^s  of  the  Imperatrice  has  a  long  white  veil 
iiehin<l  her  hairs,  but  her  costume  is  not  so 
st.'ignre  as  the  peasant's,  for  she  has  no 
spaiiirles ;  but  they  like  to  see  tlie  Imperatrice 
oi  the  French,  and  they  excuse  her  toilet  be- 
crtuse  slie  is  noble.  My  elephant  is  the  greatest 
(Ir'ji/ht  for  them,  because  it  is  more  compli- 
cated in  its  mechanique.  I  have  always  to 
mount  with  the  key  the  springs  in  its  inside 
at  I<«ast  three  times  before  they  are  fatigued 
with  admiring  it. 

**  I  never  perform  in  the  streets  during  the 
T\\q\\t,  because  the  eir  is  damp,  and  it  causes 
injares  to  my  mechauique ;  besides,  I  must 
have  lights  to  show  off  the  costume  of  my 
fismers,  and  my  table  is  not  large  enough. 

*•  It  is  not  only  the  leetle  children  tiat  ad- 
mire my  mechauique,  but  pci-sons  of  a  ripe 
i2ti.  I  often  have  gentlemen  nnd  ladies  stand 
r'»m»d  my  table,  and  tlu-y  say  *  Very  clever !  *  to 
see  the  lady  flguors  valtz,  but  pbove  all  when 
TUT  elephant  lift  his  trunk.  The  leetle  children 
viil  follow  me  a  long  way  to  see  my  figuers, 
for  they  know  we  cannot  carry  the  box  far 
without  exhibiting,  on  account  of  its  weight. 
Bni  my  table  is  too  hicfh  for  them,  unless  they 
are  at  a  distance  to  see  tlie  figuers  perform.  If 
my  table  was  not 'high,  the  leetle  children 
Tfoold  want  to  take  hold  of  my  figuers.  I 
always  cany  a  small  stick  with  me ;  and  when 
the  leetle  children,  who  are  being  carried  by 
ether  leetle  children,  put  their  hand  to  my 
ftsnen,  I  touch  them  with  stick,  not  for  to  hurt 
ihem,  but  to  make  them  take  their  hand  away 
uid  prevent  them  from  doing  hurt  to  my 
luechaniqne. 

''When  tho  costume  of  my  Imperatrice  is 


destroyed  by  tims  and  wear,  my  wife  xnalies 
new  clothes  for  her.  Yes,  as  you  say,  she  is 
the  dress-maker  of  the  ImpeniUice  of  the 
French,  but  it  is  not  the  EmpeiH>r  who  pays 
the  bill,  but  myself.  The  Iraptratrice— the 
one  I  have,  not  that  of  tho  Emperor— <ioes  not 
wjmt  more  than  half  a  yard  of  silk  for  a  petti- 
coat. In  the  present  style  of  fashion  I  make 
her  petticoat  very  large  and  fUll,  not  for  the 
style,  but  to  hido  the  mcchanifiue  in  her  in- 
side." 

The  Trlbscope  Exhibitor. 

"  It  must  bo  aboat  eight  years  since  I  first 
exhibit^>d  the  telescope.  I  have  three  tele- 
scopes now,  and  their  powers  vary  firom  about 
36  to  300.  The  instruments  of  the  higher 
power  are  seldom  used  in  the  streets,  because 
the  velocity  of  tlie  planets  is  so  great  that 
they  almost  escapt?  the  eye  before  it  can  fix  it. 
The  opening  is  so  very  small,  that  though 
I  can  pass  my  eye  on  a  star  in  a  minute,  an 
ordiiiarj'  observer  would  have  the  orb  pass 
away  before  he  could  accustom  his  eye  to  the 
in««trument.  High  power  is  all  very  well  for 
si^parating  stars,  nnd  so  forth ;  but  I'm  like 
Dr.  Kitchener,  I  prefer  a  low  power  for  street 
ptirposes.  A  street-passer  likes  to  se<'  plenty 
of  margin  n»und  a  star.  If  it  fills  \\\i  tho 
opj'ning  he  don't  like  it. 

"  My  business  is  a  tailor.  I  follow  that 
business  now.  The  exhibiting  don't  interfere 
with  my  trade.  I  work  by  day  at  tailoring, 
and  thru,  at  this  tim<»i  of  the  year  (ilHth  Oct. 
ISriO),  I  go  out  with  tho  instrument  about  six 
o'clock.  You  see  I  can,  with  a  low  powrr, 
see  Jupiter  rise.  It  is  visi)»le  at  about  half- 
past  five,  but  it  gets  above  the  horizon,  out  of 
the  smoke,  about  a  quarter  past  six.  Saturn 
rises  about  ten. 

"  From  a  boy  I  was  fond  of  philosophical 
instruments.  I  was  left  an  orphan  when  I  was 
ten  years  of  afje ;  indeed,  I  haven't  a  relation 
in  the  world  that  I'm  aware  of,  only  excepting 
my  wife's  family.  My  mother  died  the  same 
year  as  the  Princes  Charlotte  (1818)  for  I  can 
remember  her  being  in  mourning  for  Iht. 
My  name  is  a  very  peculiar  one — ^it  is  Tregent. 
This  will  show  yt)u  that  it  is.  I  some  time 
ago  advertised  an  instrument  for  sale,  and  I 
had  a  letter  ftT»m  gentleman  li^-ing  in  Liver- 
pool. He  said  that  he  was  sitting  down  to 
lunch  and  he  took  up  the  paper,  and  cried 
out, '  Oood  God !  here's  my  name.'  He  sent 
for  paper  and  i)ens  and  wrote  off  at  once.  He 
asked  whether  I  was  a  relation  of  Tregent, 
the  great  chronometer  maker.  He  said  he 
always  thought  he  was  the  only  Tregent  in 
England.  He  said  he  was  a  bachelor,  and 
hoped  I  was  too.*  Perhaps  he  wanted  the 
name  to  die  out.  His  father,  he  told  me, 
kept  a  paper-mill.  We  corresponded  a  long 
time,  till  I  was  tired,  and  then  one  day  a  fViend 
of  mine  said,  *  liet  me  write  to  him,  and  I'll 
tell  him  that  if  he  wants  any  more  informa- 
ation  he  must  pay  your  expenses  down  to 


eo 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


liyerpool,  and  youll  pay  him  a  yisit  This 
letter  was  sent,  and  by  and  by  comes  an 
answer,  telling  me  that  I  was  no  gentleman 
to  make  such  a  proposition,  and  then  the 
matter  dropped. 

^  When  I  was  six  years  old  I  was  brought 
up  to  tailoring.  1  was  kept  very  close  to 
work — always  on  the  board,  working.  I  even 
took  my  meals  there.  I  don't  consider  it 
was  hard,  for  it  was  done  for  my  own  benefit. 
If  there  was  no  work  going  on  I  used  to  be 
made  to  learn  verses  out  of  the  Bible.  I 
highly  respected  my  master,  for  I  consider 
this  was  done  for  my  benefit.  He  died  in 
the  country,  and  I  was  sorry  for  it ;  for  if  I 
hiffiL  known  it,  I  would  have  gone  anywhere 
to  see  him  buried — ay,  even  if  it  had  been  a 
hundred  miles  oflf.  I  stopped  with  this  party 
till  I  was  ten  years  old. 

"  The  next  party  I  was  with  I  was  'prenticed 
to,  but  he  failed  when  I  had  been  with  him 
tfajree  or  four  years,  and  then  I  had  more  the 
keeping  of  him  than  he  of  me ;  I  had  that 
resolve  in  me  even  at  that  young  age. 

'*  After  I  finished  my  'prentice  articles  I 
went  with  my  society  card  on  the  tramp.  I 
went  all  through  Yorkshire,  going  to  the 
tailors'  houses  of  call,  where  the  dubs  are 
held,  and  a  certain  sum  of  money  subscribed 
weekly,  to  relieve  what  are  called  tramps.  In 
some  towns  I  worked  for  months — such  as 
Leeds.  What  is  called  *  a  tramp '  by  tailors, 
means  a  man  searching  for  work  about  the 
country.  After  I  got  back  to  London  I  went 
to  my  trade  again,  and  I  was  particularly 
fortunate  in  getting  good  situations.  When- 
ever I  was  out  of  work  I'd  start  off  to  the 
country  again.  I  was  three  years  in  Brighton, 
doing  well,  and  I  had  six  men  under  me. 

"  It's  about  eight  years  ago  that  I  first 
exhibited  in  the  streets.  It  was  through  a 
Mend  of  mine  that  I  did  this.  Me  and  my 
wife  was  at  Oreenwich-hill  one  Sunday.  I 
was  looking  through  a  pocket-telescope  of 
mine,  and  he  says, '  Look  through  mine.'  I 
did  so,  and  it  was  a  very  good  one ;  and  then 
he  says,  *•  Ah,  you  should  see  one  I've  got 
at  home ;  it's  an  astronomical  one,  and  this 
is  terrestrial.'  I  did  so,  and  went  and  saw 
it.  The  first  planet  I  saw  was  Venus.  She 
was  in  her  horns  then,  like  the  moon. 
She  exhibits  the  same  phases  as  the  moon, 
as  does  also  Mercury;  sometimes  horns, 
sometimes  half  a  sphere,  and  so  on;  but 
they're  the  only  two  planets  that's  known 
that  does  so.  When  I  saw  this,  I  said, '  Well, 
I  must  have  something  of  this  sort'  I  went 
to  a  telescope^maker  up  at  Islington,  and  I 
made  a  bargain  with  him,  and  he  was  to  make 
me  a  day-and-night  telescope  for  five  suits  of 
clothes.  Well,  I  bought  the  doth,  and  raised 
all  the  money  to  complete  my  part  of  the 
contract,  and  then,  when  the  telescope  was 

finished,  it  wasnt  worth  a  d .    You  might 

as  well  have  looked  through  a  blacking-botde. 
When  I  told  him  of  it  he  said  he  couldn't 


help  it  It  was  worth  something  to  look  aV 
but  not  to  look  through.  I  pawned  it  for  151. 
and  sold  the  ticket  for  5/.  The  gentleman  who 
bought  it  was  highly  satisfied  with  it  till  he 
found  it  out  I  took  this  one  out  in  the 
streets  to  exhibit  with,  but  it  was  quite  use- 
less, and  showed  nothing ;  you  could  see  the 
planetary  bodies,  but  it  defined  nothing.  The 
stars  was  all  manner  of  colours  and  forics. 
The  bodies  look  just  like  a  drawing  in  chalk 
smudged  out  The  people  who  looked  through 
complained,  and  wouldn't  come  and  look  again, 
and  that's  why  I  got  rid  of  it 

"  The  next  telescope  I  had  made  was  by  the 
manufacturer  who  made  the  one  my  friend 
first  showed  me.  That  maker  has  taken  some 
hundred  of  pounds  of  me  since  then ;  indeed, 
I*ve  had  deven  five  or  six  feet  telescopes  of  him, 
and  his  name  is'  Mr.  Mull«  of  13  Albion-place, 
Clerkenwdl,  and  the  value  of  each  of  the 
object-glasses  was,  on  the  average,  30/.,  though 
he  charged  mo  only  trade-price,  so  I  got  them 
for  less. 

"  The  first  telescope  that  was  of  any  good 
that  I  exhibited  with  in  the  streets  was  worth 
to  me  26/.  If  you  was  to  go  to  DoUond  he 
would  have  charged  103/.  on  a  common  tripod 
stand.  I  had  it  done  under  my  own  direc- 
tion, and  by  working  myself  at  it,  I  got  it  very 
cheap.  It  wasn't  good  enough  for  me,  so  I 
got  rid  of  it  I've  got  so  mce  about  object 
glasses  and  their  distinct  vision,  and  the  power 
Uiey  bear,  that  I  have  never  rested  content 
until  I  have  a  telescope  that  would  suit  ih^ 
first  astronomer. 

"  Tve  got  one  now  that  will  bear  a  magni- 
fying power  300  times,  and  has  an  object-glass 
4}  inches  diameter,  with  a  focal  length  of 
5  feet  6  inches.  The  stand  is  made  of  about 
250  pieces  of  brass-work,  and  has  ratchet 
action,  with  vertical  and  horizontal  move- 
ment. It  cost  me  80/.  and  Ross,  Featherstone- 
buildings,  would  charge  250/.  for  it  I'm  so  ini- 
tiated into  the  sort  of  thing,  that  I  generally 
get  all  my  patterns  made,  and  then  I  get  the 
castings  made,  and  then  have  them  x>oli8hed. 
The  price  of  the  object-glass  is  30/.  I'm 
going  to  take  that  one  out  next  week.  It  will 
weigh  about  1|  cwt.  My  present  one  is  a 
very  fine  instrument  indeed.  I've  nothing  but 
what  is  excellent  You  can  see  Jupiter  and 
his  sateUites,  and  Saturn  and  his  bdt  This 
is  a  test  for  it  Supposing  I  want  to  see 
Polaris — that's  the  smaU  star  that  revolves 
once  in  180  years  round  the  pole.  It  isn't 
the  pole  star.  It  isn't  visible  to  the  naked 
eye.  It's  one  of  the  tests  for  a  tdescope.  My 
instrument  gives  it  as  small  as  a  pin's  point 
There's  no  magnifying  power  with  a  telescope 
upon  stars.  Of  course  they  make  them  more 
brilliant,  and  give  some  that  are  not  visible  to 
the  naked  eye,  for  hundreds  and  thousands  will 
pass  through  the  field  in  about  an  hour.  They 
also  separate  double  stars,  and  penetrate  into 
space,  nebula,  and  so  on ;  but  they  don't  increase 
the  size  of  stars,  for  the  distance  is  too  great 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


HI 


^^IVe  woriMd  about  five  years  with  this 
kat  one  tluit  Pve  now.  It  weighs,  with  the 
btand,  about  1  cwt,  and  I  have  to  get  some- 
body to  help  me  along  with  it  One  of  my 
boys  in  general  goes  along  with  mc. 

*"  It  depends  greatly  upon  the  weather  as 
to  what  business  I  do.  I've  known  the  moon 
for  a  month  not  to  be  yisible  for  twenty  days 
oat  of  the  lunation.  I've  known  that  for  three 
moons  together,  the  atmosphere  is  so  bad 
in  London.  When  I  do  get  a  good  night 
I  have  taken  3tVs. ;  but  then  I've  taken  out 
two  instruments,  and  my  boy  has  minded 
ooe.  I  only  charge  a  penny  a  pec-p.  Satur- 
dsTs,  and  Mondays,  and  Sundays,  are  the 
best  nights  in  my  neighbourhood,  and  tlien  I 
can  mostly  reckon  on  taking  20«.  The  other 
nights  it  may  be  7s.  or  8s.,  or  even  only  2j.  ijd, 
S<imetimes  I  put  up  the  instrument  when  it's 
vviy  ftne,  and  then  it'll  como  cloudy,  and  I 
have  to  take  it  down  again  and  go  home. 
Taking  the  year  round,  I  should  think  I  make 
lay.  a-year  by  the  telescope.  You  see  my 
buHine^i,  as  a  tailor,  keeps  me  in  of  a  day,  or 
I  might  {JTO  out  in  the  day  and  show  the  sun. 
Nr»w  to-day  the  sun  was  very  fine,  and  the 
spots  showed  remarkably  well,  and  if  I'd  been 
oat  I  might  have  done  well.  I  sold  an  in- 
strument of  mine  once  to  a  fireman  who  had 
nothing  to  do  in  the  day,  and  thought  he 
could  make  some  money  exhibiting  the  tele- 
scope. He  made  8«.  or  lOs.  of  an  afternoon 
on  Blackfriar's-bridge,  showing  the  dome  of 
Su  Paul's  at  the  time  they  were  repairing  it. 

**  When  the  instrument  is  equatoreally 
mounted  and  set  to  time,  you  can  pick  out 
the  stars  in  the  day-time,  and  they  look  like 
Uack  specs.    I  could  show  them. 

**  People  can't  stop  looking  through  the 
telescope  for  long  at  a  time,  because  the 
object  IS  soon  out  of  the  field,  because  of  the 
Vflocity  of  the  earth's  motion  and  the  rapidity 
at  which  the  planets  travel  round  the  sun. 
Jnpitcr,  for  instance,  2(5,000  n^esan  hour,  and 
Sat  am  29,000,  soon  removes  tliem  from  the 
flelil  of  tlie  telescope.  I  have  to  adjust  the 
telescope  before  each  person  looks  Uirough. 
It  has,  I  fancy,  hurt  my  eyes  very  much.  My 
eyesight  has  got  very  weak  through  looking 
at  the  moon,  for  on  a  brilliant  night  it's  like  a 
plate  of  silver,  and  dazzles.  It  makes  a  great 
impression  on  the  retina  of  the  eye.  I've 
Ken  when  looking  through  the  telescope  a 
Uack  sx>ec,  just  as  if  you  had  dropped  a  blot  of 
ink  on  a  piece  of  paper.  I've  often  had 
dancing  lights  before  my  eyes,  too— very  often. 
I  find  a  homceopathic  globule  of  belladonna 
Tny  excellent  for  that 

**  When  I  exhibit,  I  in  general  give  a  short 
lecture  ^whilst  they  are  looking  through. 
When  I* am  not  busy  I  make  them  give  me  a 
description,  for  this  reason :  others  are  listen- 
ing, and  they  would  sooner  take  the  word  of 
the  observer  than  mine.  Suppose  I'm  ex- 
hibiting Jupiter,  and  I  want  to  draw  cus- 
tomers^  I'll  say, '  How  many  moons  do  you  see? ' 


They'll  answer, '  Three  on  the  right,  and  one  on 
the  left,'  as  they  may  be  at  that  time.  Periiaps 
a  rough  standing  by  will  say,  '  Three  moons ! 
that's  a  lie !  there's  only  one,  everybody 
knows.'  Then,  when  they  hear  the  observer 
state  what  lie  sees,  they'll  want  to  have  a  peep. 

"  When  I'm  busy,  I  do  a  lecture  like  this. 
We'll  suppose  I'm  exhibiting  Saturn.  Perhaps 
wo  had  better  begin  with  Jupiter,  for  the  orbit 
of  Saturn's  satellites  is  so  extensive  that  you 
can  never  see  them  all  without  shifting  the 
glass :  indeed  it's  only  in  very  fine  climates, 
such  as  Cincinnati,  where  the  eight  may  be 
observed,  and  indeed  up  to  a  late  period  it  was 
believed  there  were  only  seven. 

"  When  the  observer  sees  Jupiter,  I  begin : 
*  Do  you  see  the  planet,  sir?  *  Yes,'  *  I  intro- 
duce to  you  Jupiter  with  all  his  four  satellites. 
It  is  distant  600  millions  of  miles  irom  the 
sun,  and  its  diameter  is  about  7000  miles.  It 
travels  round  the  sun  at  about  27,000  miles  an 
hour,  and  its  orbit  is  over  four  years,  and  of 
course  its  seasons  are  four  times  the  length  of 
oiurs,  the  summer  lasting  for  a  year  instead  of 
three  months.'  One  night  an  Irishman,  who 
was  quite  the  gentleman,  came  to  me  rather 
groggy»  *nd  he  says, — '  Old  boy,  what  are  you 
looMng  at?*  *  Jupiter,'  says  I.  'What's  that?* 
says  he.  '  A  planet  you  may  call  it,  sir.'  says 
I ;  *and  the  price  is  one  penny.'  He  paid  me 
and  had  a  look,  and  then  ho  cries  out,  *  What 

a  deception  is  this!  By  J it's  a  moon,  and 

you  cidl  it  a  star ! '  '  There  are  four  moons,' 
said  I.  '  You're  another,'  said  he ;  *  there's  a 
moon  and  four  stars.  You  ought  to  be  took 
up  for  deception.'  After  a  time  ho  had 
another  look,  and  then  he  was  very  pleased, 
and  would  bring  out  gin  from,  a  neighbouring 
public-house,  and  if  he  brought  one,  he 
brought  seven. 

**  Another  time,  a  man  was  looking  through; 
and  I  had  a  tripod  stand  then,  and  one  of  tho 
legs  was  out,  and  he  pushed  the  tube  and 
down  it  came  right  in  his  eye.  He  gave  a 
scream  and  shouted  out, '  My  God !  there's  a 
star  hit  me  slap  in  the  eye  I ' 

**  Another  night  an  old  woman  came  up  to 
me,  and  she  says, '  God  bless  ^ou,  sir ;  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you.  I've  been  lookmg  for  you  ever 
such  a  time.  You  charge  a  penny,  don't  you? 
I'm  a  charwoman,  sir,  and  would  you  believe 
it,  I've  never  had  a  penny  to  spare.  What  are 
you  looking  at  ?  The  moon  ?  Well,  I  must 
see  it'  I  told  her  she  should  see  it  for 
nothing,  and  up  she  mounted  the  steps.  She 
was  a  heavy  lusty  woman,  and  I  had  to  shove 
her  up  with  my  shoulder  to  get  up  the  steps. 
When  she  saw  the  moon  she  kept  on  saying, 
'Oh,  that's  beautiful!  well,  it  is  beautiftd! 
And  that's  the  moon,  is  it?  Now,  do  tell  me 
all  about  it'  I  told  her  all  about  Mount 
Tycho,  and  about  the  light  of  the  sun  being 
seen  on  the  mountain  tops,  and  so  on.  When 
she'd  looked  for  a  time,  she  said,  *  WeU,  your 
instrument  is  a  finer  one  than  my  masters, 
but  it  don't  show  so  much  as  his,  for  he  says 


62 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  fOOM* 


he  can  see  the  men  fighting  in  iC  This  made 
me  Uugh  so,  I  veiy  nearly  let  her  tumble  by 
taking  my  ehonlder  away  from  mider  her. 
But  when  she  came  down  the  steps,  she  said 
something  quits  moved  me.  She  threw  her 
hands  up  and  eried, '  If  this  moon  is  so  bean- 
tiftil  ana  woaderfol,  what  must  that  God  be 
like  who  made  it  ? '  And  off  she  went.  It  was 
yezy  fine,  waan't  it? 

'*  Sometimes  when  I'm  exhibiting  there  is 
quite  a  crowd  eoUeets.  I've  seen  them 
sitting  down  on  the  curb  smoking  and  drinking, 
whilst  they  are  waiting  for  their  turns  to  have 
a  peep.  They'll  send  to  the  public-house  for 
beer,  and  then  they'll  stop  for  hours.  Indeed, 
I'tc  had  my  business  quite  interfered  with  by 
the  mob,  for  they  don't  go  away  after  having 
their  look.  I  seldom  stop  out  sdfter  X^  o'clock 
at  night. 

"  Sometimes  when  I  have  been  exhibiting, 
the  parties  have  ssid  it  was  all  nonsense  and 
adcccption^  for  the  stars  was  pointed  on 
the  gloHs.  If  the  party  has  been  anything 
agreeable,  I've  taken  the  trouble  to  persuade| 
him.  I've,  for  instance,  placed  tlie  star  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  glass,  and  then  they've 
seen  it  travel  right  across  the  field ;  and  as  I've 
told  them,  if  it  was  painted  it  couldn't  move 
and  disappear  from  the  lens. 

^  Most  of  tlie  spectators  go  away  quite  sur- 
prised and  impressed  ^Hth  what  they  have 
seen.  Some  will  thank  me  a  dozen  times  over. 
Some  will  say,  *  Well,  my  penny  is  well  laid 
out  I  shouldn't  have  credited  it  with  my  own 
eyes.'  Others,  but  there  are  very  few  of  them, 
won't  believe  wlien  they  have  looked.  Some, 
when  I  can  see  the  moon  on  their  eye  as  they 
look  in,  swear  Uiey  don't  see  it.  Those  I  let 
go  on  and  don't  take  their  money,  for  the 
penny  is  no  object.  When  I  tell  the  people 
what  the  wonders  of  the  heavens  are,  and  how 
each  of  these  planets  is  a  world,  tJicy  go  away 
wonderfully  grateful  and  impresse^l. 

*'I  went  down  to  PortKmouth  with  my 
telescope  at  the  time  thb  fleet  sailed  under  Sir 
Charles  Napier,  and  the  Queen  led  them  out 
in  her  yuclit.  I  took  a  great  deal  of  money 
tlicre.  X  didn't  exhibit  in  the  day-time:  I 
didn't  trouble  myself.  I  took  two  guineas 
showing  the  yacht  the  day  she  sailed,  and  at 
night  with  the  moon.  The  other  ni^ts,  with 
the  moon  and  planets  only,  I  took  from  12«.  to 
14«.  I  refoscd  1&«.  for  one  hour,  for  this 
reason.  A  lady  sent  her  Ber>'ant  to  ask  me  to 
go  to  her  house,  and  my  price  is  one  guinea 
for  to  go  out,  whether  for  an  hour,  or  two,  or 
three ;  but  she  first  oiEered  me  I0«.,  and  then 
the  next  night  Vbs.  Then  I  found  I  should 
have  to  carry  my  instrument,  weighing  one 
cwt.,  two  miles  into  the  county',  and  up  hill  all 
the  way ;  so,  as  I  was  sure  of  taldng  more  than 
10«.  where  I  was,  I  wouldn't  for  an  extra 
shilling  give  myself  the  labour.  I  took  I2f .  M. 
as  it  was.  At  Portsmouth  a  couple  of  sailors 
came  up,  and  one  had  a  look,  and  the  other 
said  *  What  is  there  to  see  ? '    X  told  him  the 


moon,  and  he  asked  the  prioe.  When  I  said 
*•  One  penny,'  he  says,  *  X  vnt  got  a  penny,  but 
hare's  three  hali^enoe,  if  that's  the  same  to 
you ; '  and  he  gives  it,  and  when  X  expected  he 
was  about  to  peep,  he  turns  round  and  siqrs, 
'  I'll  be  smothereid  if  I'm  going  to  look  down 
that  gallows  long  chimney  I  YoaVe  got  your 
money,  and  that's  all  your  business.'  So  you  see 
there  are  some  people  who  are  quite  iudiflBBient 
to  sdentifio  exhibitions. 

**  There  are,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge, 
about  four  men  besides  myself^  going  about 
with  telescopes.  X  dont  know  of  any  more. 
Of  Uiese  there's  only  one  of  any  account. 
I've  seen  through  them  all,  so  I  may  safely  s^y 
it.  I  consider  mine  the  best  in  London  ex- 
hibiting. Mine  is  a  very  expensive  instrument. 
Everything  depends  upon  the  object-glass. 
There's  glasses  on  some  which  have  been 
thrown  aodo  as  valueless,  and  may  have  been 
bouglit  fbr  two  or  tlireo  pounds. 

'*  The  capital  required  to  start  a  telescope  in 
the  streets  nil  depends  upon  the  quantity  of 
the  object-glass,  from  3/.  to  00/.  for  the  ol^jeoU 
glass  alone. 

**  Nobody,  who  is  not  seqiiainted  with 
telescopes,  knows  the  value  of  object-glasses. 
I've  known  this  offer  to  be  made — that  the 
'object-glass  should  be  placed  in  one  seals 
and  gold  in  the  other  to  weigh  it  down,  and 
then  they  wouldn't.  The  rough  glass  from 
Birmingliam  ^before  it  is  worked — only 
12  inches  in  diameter,  will  cost  06/.  Ghonoe, 
at  Birmingham,  is  the  principal  maker  of  the 
crown  and  flint  fbr  optical  purposes.  The 
Swiss  used  formerly  to  be  the  only  makers  of 
optical  metal  of  any  account,  and  now  Bir- 
mingham has  knocked  them  out  of  the  field : 
indeed  tliey  have  got  the  Swiss  woridng  for 
them  at  Chance's. 

"You  may  take  a  couple  of  plates  of  the 
rough  glass  to  persons  ignorant  of  their  value, 
and  they  are  only  twelve  inches  in  diameter, 
and  he  would  tl^ink  one  shilling  dear  fbr  them, 
for  they  only  look  like  the  bits  you  see  in  the 
streets  to  let  hght  through  the  pavement. 
These  glasses  are  half  flint  and  half  crown,  the 
flint  for  the  concave,  and  the  crown  fbr  the  con- 
vex side.  Their  beauty  consists  in  their  being 
pure  metal  and  quite  transparent,  and  not 
stringy.  Under  the  high  magnifying  power 
we  use  you  see  this  directly,  and  it  makes  the 
object  smudgy  and  distorts  the  vision. 

*' After  getting  the  rough  metal  it  takes 
years  to  fimsh  tlie  olject-glass.  Thoy  polish 
it  with  satin  and  putty.  The  c<»vex  has  to  be 
done  so  correctly,  that  if  the  lens  is  the 
lOOth  part  of  an  inch  out  its  value  is  destroyed. 

**The  well-known  object-glass  which  was 
shown  in  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  was  in 
Mr.  Boss's  hands  (of  Featherstone-buildings, 
Holbom,)  for  four  years  befbrs  it  was  finished. 
It  was  very  good,  and  done  him  great  credit. 
He  is  supposed  to  have  lost  by  the  job,  for  the 
price  is  all  eat  up  by  wages  pretty  near. 

"  The  observatory  on  Wandsworth-oommon 


LOSLON  LABOUR  AXD  THE  LOXDON  POOR. 


83 


is  a  complete  fiBdliire,  owing  to  the  object-glass 
being  A  bed  one.  It  belongs  to  tlie  Kev.  Mr. 
Czagg.  The  tube  is  72  feet  long,  I  believe, 
and  shaped  like  a  dgar,  bulging  at  the  sides. 
He  wanted  to  have  a  new  object-glass  put  in, 
and  what  do  yoa  think  they  asked  him  at 
Binnisgham  for  the  rough  metal  alone? — 
2Q0QLI  It  id  24  inches  in  diameter.  Mr. 
Sots  asks  6000/.,  I  was  told,  to  make  a  now 
one — finished  for  him. 

"  The  making  of  objeet-glas.<)e9  is  dreadfVil 
and  tedious  labour.  Men  havo  been  known 
to  go  and  throw  their  heads  under  waggon 
wheelst  and  have  them  smashed,  from  being 
DBgida]^  worn  out  with  working  an  object- 
^flos,  and  not  being  able  to  get  the  convex 
light.  I  was  told  by  a  party  that  one  object- 
l^ass  was  in  hand  for  14  years. 

**  The  night  of  the  eclipse  of  the  moon,  (the 
13th  October,  1850,)  when  it  was  so  well  seen 
in  London,  I  took  1/.  Id.  at  Id.  each.  I 
night  as  well  have  took  21.  by  charging  2d.y 
bat  being  so  well  known  then  1  didL't  moke 
no  extra  charge.  They  were  forty  deep,  for 
eveiybody  wished  to  see.  I  had  to  put  two 
lads  under  the  stand  to  prevent  their  being 
trod  to  death.  They  had  to  stay  there  for  two 
houra  before  they  could  get  a  peep,  and  bo 
indeed  had  many  others  to  do  the  same.  A 
fiiend  of  mine  lUdn't  look  at  all,  for  I  couldn't 
get  him  near.  They  kept  calling  to  the  one 
wAing  through  the  tube,  '  Now,  tlien,  make 


you  there.'  They  nearly  fought  for 
their  turns.  They  got  pushing  and  fight- 
ing, one  cxying,  *  I  was  first,'  and,  *  Now  it's 
my  torn.*  I  was  glad  when  it  was  over,  I  can 
aaaue  you.  The  buttons  to  my  braces  were 
dn^ed  off  my  bock  by  the  pressure  behind, 
and!  had  to  hold  up  my  breeches  with  my 
hand.  The  eclipse  lasted  firom  21  minutes 
past  0  to  25  minutes  past  13,  and  in  that  time 
247  persons  hod  a  peep.  The  police  were 
then  to  keep  order,  but  they  didn't  interfere 
with  me.  They  are  generally  very  good  to 
me,  and  they  seem  toUiink  that  my  exhibition 
improrres  the  minds  of  the  public,  and  so  pro- 
tect me. 

*■  When  I  went  to  Portsmouth,  I  applied  to 
Mr.  Uyera  the  goldsmith,  a  very  opulent  and 
zieh  man  there,  and  chairman  of  the  Espla- 
nade Committee  at  Southsea,  and  he  instantly 
pve  me  pexmission  to  place  my  stand  there. 
Likewise  the  mayor  and  magistrates  of  Ports- 
Aoathf  to  exhibit  in  the  streets." 

EXHZBITOB  OF  THB  MiCBOSCOFE. 

"  I  T-rT^TPr»*  with  a  microscope  that  I  wouldn't 
take  fifty  guineas  for,  because  it  suits  my  pur- 
pQtt,  and  it  is  of  the  finest  quality.  I  earn 
ay  living  with  it.  If  I  were  to  sell  it,  it 
wonldn^t  fetch  more  than  15^  It  was  presented 
tome  by  n^  dear  sister,  who  went  to  America 
and  died  there.  I'll  show  you  that  it  is  a 
TalnaUe  instrument.  I'll  tell  you  that  one  of 
the  best  lens-makers  in   the   trade  looked 


through  it,  and  so  he  said, '  I  think  I  con  im- 
prove it  for  you ;'  and  he  made  me  a  present  of 
a  lens,  of  extreme  high  power,  and  the  largest 
aperture  of  Diagnilying  power  that  has  ever 
been  exhibited.  I  didnt  know  him  at  the 
time.  He  did  it  by  kindness.  Ho  said,  after 
looking  through,  *  It's  very  good  for  what  it 
professes,  but  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  a  lens 
made  out  of  the  best  Swiss  metal.'  And  he 
did  so  from  the  interest  he  felt  in  seeing  such 
kinds  of  exhibitions  in  the  streets.  With  the 
glass  he  gave  me  I  can  see  oheese-mites  as 
distinctly  as  possible,  with  their  eight  legs  and 
transparent  bodies,  and  heads  shai>ed  like  a 
hedgehog's.  I  see  their  jaw  moving  as  they  eat 
their  food,  and  can  see  them  lay  their  eggs, 
which  are  as  perfect  as  any  fowl's,  but  of  a 
bright  bUie  colour ;  and  I  can  also  see  them 
perform  the  duties  of  nature.  I  cnn  also  see 
them  carr>'  their  youn^  on  their  bocks,  showing 
that  they  have  afiection  for  their  ol&pring. 
They  lay  their  eggs  through  their  ribs,  and 
you  can  tell  when  they  are  going  to  lay  for 
tliere  is  a  bulging  out  just  by  the  hips.  They 
don't  sit  on  their  eggs,  but  they  roll  them 
about  in  action  till  they  bring  forth  their  ob- 
ject. A  million  of  these  mites  can  walk  across 
a  flea's  bock,  for  by  Lanlner's  micrometer  the 
surface  of  a  flea's  back  measures  ^4  inches  fVom 
the  proboscis  to  the  iwstcrior.  The  micrometer 
is  an  instrument  used  for  determining  micro- 
I  scopic  power,  and  it  is  all  graduated  to  a  scale. 
By  Lanlner's  micrometer  the  mite  looks  about 
the  size  of  a  large  black-beetle,  and  then  it  is 
magnified  100,000  times.  This  will  give  yoa 
some  idea  of  the  powor  and  value  of  my  in- 
strument. Three  hundred  gentlemen  have 
\iewed  through  it  in  one  week,  and  each  one 
delighti'd ;  so  much  so,  that  many  have  given 
double  the  money  I  have  asked  (which  was  a 
penny),  suc%  was  the  satisfaction  my  instru- 
ment gave. 

"  ^ly  father  was  a  minister  and  local 
preacher  in  the  Wesleyan  Methodists.  He 
died,  poor  fellow,  at  27  years  of  age,  therefore 
I  never  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  him. 
Ho  was  a  boot  and  shoe  maker.  Such  was  the 
talent  which  he  possessed,  that,  had  it  not 
been  for  his  being  lamed  of  one  foot  (from  a 
fall  off  a  horse),  he  would  have  been  made  a 
travelling  minister.  He  was  a  wonderful 
clever  man,  and  begun  preaching  when  he  was 
21.  Ho  was  the  minister  who  nreached  on  the 
occasion  of  laying  the  foundation-stone  of 
Hoxton  Chapel,  and  he  drew  thousands  of 
people.  I  was  only  two  years  old  when  he  died, 
and  my  mother  was  left  with  five  of  us  to  bring 
up.  She  was  a  visitor  of  the  sick  and  thu 
dying  for  the  Strangers*  Benevolent  Fund, 
and  much  respected  for  her  labours.  After 
my  father's  death  she  was  enabled  to  support 
her  family  of  one  son  and  four  daughters  by 
shoe-binding.  She  was  married  twice  after  my 
father's  death,  but  she  married  persons  of 
quite  opposite  principles  and  opinions  to  her 
own,  and  slie  was  not  comfortable  with  them. 


84 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


but  left  them,  and  always  found  shelter  under 
her  son's  roof^  where  she  died  triumphantly 

'*  I  was  apprenticed  when  I  was  13  years  of 
age  to  a  shoemaker,  who  was  a  profound 
philosopher,  and  very  fond  of  making  experi. 
ments  and  of  lecturing  on  various  branches  of 
science.  I  could  produce  bills — I  have  them  at 
home— such  as  that  at  the  Friar's-mount 
Sunday-school,  some  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
where  it  states  that  William  Knock,  minister 
and  lecturer,  will  lecture  on  zoology  and 
natural  histoiy.  He's  about  70  now.  Elec- 
tricity is  his  favourite  science.  Whilst  I  was 
his  apprentice,  he  had  an  observatory  built  at 
the  top  of  his  house  in  Underwood-street, 
Spitaliields,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  astro- 
nomical observations.  My  being  in  his  house, 
and  seeing  him  so  busy  with  his  instruments, 
gave  me  a  great  taste  for  science.  I  was  his 
assistant  when  he  wont  lecturing.  I  was  i^. 
prenticed  with  him  for  five  years.  He  was  a 
kind  and  good  master,  and  very  affectionate. 
He  encouraged  mo  in  my  scientific  studies,  and 
gave  me  access  to  his  library,  which  was  im- 
mense, and  consisted  of  3000  volumes. 
Amongst  other  employment  I  used  to  copy 
out  sermons  for  him,  and  he  gave  me  a  penny 
each,  which  by  saving  up  enabled  me  to  buy  a 
wateh  of  him  for  5/.  5«.  He  was  a  shoemaker 
and  manufacturer  of  ladies  and  children's 
boots  and  shoes,  so  that  he  might  have  made 
from  his  2/.  to  3/.  a-week,  for  he  was  not  a 
Journeyman,  but  an  employer. 

"  Afier  I  was  out  of  my  time  I  went  to  Mr. 
Children,  a  bootmaker  of  Bethnal-green-road, 
well  known  in  that  locality.  My  master  had 
not  sufficient  employment  for  me.  One  night 
this  Mr.  Children  went  to  hear  a  lecture  on 
astronomy  by  Dr.  Bird,  and  when  he  came 
home  he  was  so  delighted  with  what  he  had 
seen,  that  he  began  telling  his  wife  all  about 
it.  He  said,  *  I  cannot  better  explain  to  you 
the  solar  system,  than  with  a  mop,'  and  he 
took  the  mop  and  dipped  it  into  a  pail  of  water, 
and  began  to  twirl  it  round  in  the  air,  till  the 
wet  flew  off  it  Then  he  said,  *  This  mop  is 
the  sun,  and  the  spiral  motion  of  the  water 
^ves  the  revolutions  of  tlie  planets  in  their 
orbits.'  Then,  after  a  time,  ho  criod  out,  *  If 
this  Dr.  Bird  can  do  this,  why  shouldn't  I?' 
He  threw  over  his  business  directly,  to  carry 
out  the  grand  object  of  his  mind.  He  was 
making  from  3/.  to  4/.  a-week,  and  his  wife 
said,  *  Robert  you're  mad ! '  He  asked  me  if  I 
knew  anything  of  astronomy,  and  I  said,  *  Sir, 
my  old  master  was  an  astronomer  and  philo- 
sopher.' Then  I  got  books  for  him,  and  I 
taught  him  all  I  knew  of  the  science  of 
astronomy.  Then  he  got  a  magic-lantern 
with  astronomical  slides.  The  bull's-eye  was 
six  inches  in  diameter,  so  they  were  veiy 
large,  so  that  they  gave  a  fi^^ure  of  twelve  feet 
For  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  he  had  twelve 
separate  small  lanterns,  with  the  large  one  in 
the  centre  to  show  the  diverging  rays  of  the 


sun's  light  He  began  with  many  difficulties  in 
his  way,  for  he  was  a  very  illiterate  man,  and  had 
a  vast  deal  to  contend  with,  but  he  succeeded 
through  all.  He  wrote  to  his  father  and  got 
500/.,  which  was  his  share  of  the  property  whieh 
would  have  been  left  him  on  his  parent's 
death.  At  his  first  lecture  he  made  many  mi^ 
takes,  such  as,  *  Now,  gentlemen,  I  shall  pre- 
sent to  your  notice  the  amatemation$^' eX  whieh 
expression  the  company  cried,  *  Hear,  hear,* 
and  one  said,  *  We  are  all  in  a  constematioQ 
here,  for  your  lamp  wants  oil.*  Yet  he  faeed 
all  this  out  I  was  his  assistant  I  taught 
him  ever3rthing.  When  I  told  him  of  his  mis- 
take he'd  say,  *  Never  mind,  I'll  overcome  iJl 
that'  He  accumulated  the  vast  sum  of  OOOCK. 
by  lecturing,  and  became  a  most  popular  man. 
He  educated  himself,  and  became  qualified. 
When,  he  went  into  the  country  he  had  Ardi- 
bishops  and  Bishops,  and  the  highest  of  the 
clergy,  to  give  their  sanction  and  become 
patrons  of  bis  lectures.  He's  now  in  America, 
and  become  a  great  farmer. 

*'  After  I  left  Mr.  Children,  I  connected  my- 
self with  a  Young  Men's  Improvement  Meet- 
ing. Previous  to  that,  I  had  founded  a  Simdaj- 
school  in  the  New  Kent-road.  Deverell-street 
Sabbath-schools  were  founded  by  me,  and  I 
was  for  fourteen  years  manager  of  it,  as  well  as 
performer  of  the  funeral  service  in  that  place; 
for  there  was  a  chapel,  and  burying,  groimd 
and  vaults,  attached  to  the  schools,  nod  I  be- 
came the  officiating  minister  for  the  f^eral 
service.  Three  thousand  children  have  been 
educated  at  these  schools,  and  for  fourteen 
years  I  lectured  to  them  every  Sunday  on 
religious  subjects.  With  the  tutors  and  the 
eldest  scholars  I  formed  a  Young  Men's  Im- 
provement Meeting.  I  became  the  president 
of  that  meeting,  and  their  lecturer.  I  leetnved 
on  the  following  subjects, — Natural  Hista^Ti 
Electricity,  Astronomy,  and  Phrenology. 

**  At  this  time  I  was  a  mnst^r-shoemaker, 
and  doing  a  business  of  fifty  guineas  a>week, 
of  which  ten  were  profit  I  built  large  work- 
shops at  the  back  of  my  house,  which  cost  ma 
300/.  Unfortunately,  I  lent  my  name  to  a 
friend  for  a  very  large  amount,  and  became 
involved  in  his  difficidties,  and  then  necesdtj 
compelled  me  to  have  recourse  to  stzeei* 
exhibitions  for  a  living.  When  I  was  in 
affluent  circumstances  I  had  a  libnuy  of  300 
volumes,  on  scientific  subjects  mostly,  and  frnm 
them  I  have  gleaned  sufficient  information  to 
qualify  me  for  streetexhibition,  and  thereby 
enable  me  to  earn  more  money  than  mosS 
individuals  in  such  circumstances. 

"  I  began  my  street-life  with  exhibiting  a 
telescope,  and  here  is  the  origin  of  my  dcang 
ao.  I  had  a  sister  living  at  the  west-end  of 
the  town  who  was  a  professed  cook,  and  I  used 
to  visit  her  three  times  a-week.  One  night  I 
saw  a  man  in  the  Begent-circus  exhibiting  a 
telescope.  I  went  up  to  him,  and  I  said,  *  Sir. 
what  is  the  object  to-night?'  And  he  told 
me  it  was  Jupiter.    I  was  veiy  mudi  interested 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


80 


tith  looking  at  Jupiter,  and  I  stopped  with 
tint  man  for  two  hours,  conversing  with  him, 
nd  I  saw  exactly  how  much  he  took.  Then 
I  thought,  'Why  shouldn't  I  da  this?'  So  I 
note  to  my  brother-in-law,  and  I  told  him  this 
mm  was  taking  at  the  rate  of  Id.  per  minute, 
•nd  I  offered,  if  he  would  provide  me  with  a 
ttilescope,  that  I  should  be  very  happy  and 
contented  to  take  half  of  the  receipts  as  my 
shire,  and  g^ve  him  the  other  for  the  use  of 
his  instrument.  He  did  so,  and  bought  a  tele- 
leope  which  cost  him  14/.  I  took  up  my  stand 
OD  LoDdon>bridge,  and  did  very  well,  taking 
on  the  average  6«.  a-night  I  gave  up  the 
telescope  for  this  reason, — my  brother-in-law 
viB  going  to  America,  and  was  anxious  to  call 
in  aU  his  money.  The  telescope  was  sold, 
tad  my  sister,  the  professed  cook,  fearing 
thit  I  should  be  left  without  a  means  of  living, 
bought  for  me  a  microscope  out  of  her  own 
etmings,  which  cost  her  0/.  She  said  to  me, 
*  The  microscope  is  better  than  the  telescope, 
for  the  nights  are  so  uncertain.'  She  was 
qmte  right,  for  when  the  telescopes  have  been 
idle  for  three  months  at  a  time,  I  can  exhibit 
mj  microscope  day  and  night  She  gave  it 
to  mo  as  a  mark  of  her  respect.  She  died  in 
America,  jast  after  she  arrived.  That  instru- 
nent  has  enabled  mo  to  support  an  afflicted 
nd  aged  mother,  and  to  biuy  her  comfortably 
vhen  she  died. 

**  My  microscope  contains  six  objects,  which 
ire  piaced  on  a  wheel  at  the  back,  which  I 
torn  round  in  succession.  The  objects  are  in 
cell-boxes  of  glass.  The  objects  are  all  of  ^ 
them  fiimiliar  to  the  public,  and  are  as  fol- 
lows:—!. The  flea.  2.  The  himian  hair,  or 
the  hair  of  the  head.  3.  A  section  of  the  old 
otk  tree.  4.  The  animalculie  in  water. 
A.  Gheose-mites.  And  6.  The  transverse  section 
of  eane  used  by  schoolmasters  for  the  coiTec- 
tion  of  boys. 

"  I  always  take  up  my  stand  in  the  day-time 
in  Whitechapel,  facing  the  London  Hospital, 
hetoff  a  laige  open  space,  and  favourable 
Cor  the  solar  rays — for  I  hght  up  the  instru- 
nent  by  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun.  At  night- 
tirae  I  am  mostly  to  be  found  on  Westminster- 
Indge,  and  then  I  light  up  with  the  best  sperm 
oil  ^re  is.  I  am  never  interfered  with  by 
the  police ;  on  the  contrary,  they  come  and 
have  a  look,  and  admire  and  recommend,  such 
ii  the  interest  excited. 

**  The  first  I  exhibit  is  the  flea,  and  I  com- 
aeace  a  short  lecture  as  follows : — *  Gentle- 
flMD,'  I  says,  *  the  first  object  I  have  to  present 
to  jour  notice  is  that  of  a  flea.  I  wish  to  direct 
ym  attention  especially  to  the  head  of  this 
object  Here  you  may  distinctly  perceive  its 
pmboscis  or  dart.  It  is  that  which  perforates 
the  cuticle  or  human  skin,  after  which  the 
Uood  ascends  by  suction  ih>m  our  body  into 
that  of  the  flea.  Thousands  of  persons  in 
Londoo  have  seen  a  flea,  have  felt  a  flea,  but 
bare  never  yet  been  able  by  the  hiunan  eye  to 
dbiover  that  instrument  which  made  them 


sensible  of  the  flea  about  their  person, 
although  they  could  not  catch  the  old  gen- 
tleman. This  flea,  gentlemen,  by  Dr.  Lard- 
ner  s  micrometer,  measures  accurate  iU  inches 
in  length,  and  11  across  the  back.  My  instru- 
ment, mark  you,  being  of  high  magnifying 
power,  will  not  show  you  the  whole  of  the  ob- 
ject at  on<!e.  Mark  you,  gentlemen,  this  is  not 
the  flea  of  the  dog  or  the  cat,  but  the  human 
flea,  for  each  differ  in  tlieir  formation,  as  clearly 
proved  by  this  powerful  instrument.  For  they 
all  dilTor  in  their  form  and  shape,  and  will  only 
feed  upon  tlie  animal  on  which  they  are  bred. 
Having  shown  you  the  head  and  shoulders, 
witli  its  dart,  I  shall  now  proceed  to  show  you 
the  posterior  view  of  this  object,  in  which  you 
may  clearly  discover  everj-  artery,  vein,  muscle 
and  ner>-e,  exact  like  a  lobster  in  shape,  and 
quite  as  large  as  one  at  '2s,  Od,'  That  pleases 
them,  you  know;  and  sometimes  I  odd,  to 
amuse  them,  *An  object  of  that  size  would 
make  an  excellent  supper  for  half-a-dozen  per- 
sons.'   That  pleases  tliem. 

"  One  Irishwoman,  after  seeing  the  flea, 
threw  up   her  arms   and  screamed  out,  *  O 

J !  and  I've  had  hundreds  of  them  in  my 

bed  at  once.'  She  got  me  a  great  many  cus- 
tomers from  her  exclamations.  You  see,  my 
lectm-e  entices  those  Ustening  to  have  a  look. 
Many  listeners  say,  *  Ain't  tliat  true,  and  phi- 
losophical, and  correct?"  I've  had  many  give 
me  Gd.  and  say,  *  Never  mind  the  change,  your 
lecture  is  alone  worth  the  money.' 

"  I'll  now  proceed  to  No.  2.  *  The  next  ob- 
ject I  have  to  present  to  your  notice,  gentle- 
men, is  that  of  the  hair  of  the  human  head. 
You  perceive  that  it  is  nearly  as  large  as  yonder 
scaffolding  poles  of  the  House  of  Lords.'  I 
say  this  when  I  am  on  Westminster-bridge, 
because  it  refers  to  the  locality,  and  is  a 
striking  figure,  and  excites  the  hsteners.  *  But 
mark  you,  it  is  not,  like  them,  solid  matter, 
through  which  no  ray  of  Ught  con  pass.'  That's 
where  I  please  the  gentlemen,  you  know,  for 
they  say,  *How  philosophical!'  *You  can 
readily  perceive,  mark  you,  that  they  are  all 
tubes,  hke  tubes  of  glass ;  a  proof  of  which 
fact  you  have  before  you,  from  the  light  of  the 
lamp  shining  direct  through  the  body  of  the 
object,  and  that  light  direct  portrayed  in  the 
lens  of  your  eye,called  the  retina,  on  which  all 
external  objects  are  painted.'  'Beautiful!' 
says  a  gentleman.  *  Now,  if  the  hair  of  the 
head  be  a  hollow  tube,  as  you  perceive  it  is, 
then  what  caution  you  ought  to  exercise  when 
you  place  your  head  in  the  hands  of  tlie  hair- 
dresser, by  keeping  your  hat  on.  or  else  you 
may  be  susceptible  to  catch  c^ld  ;  for  that 
which  we  breathe,  the  atmosphere,  passing 
down  these  tubes,  suddenly  shuts  to  the  doors, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  such  an  expression,  or,  in 
other  words,  closes  the  pores  of  the  skin  and 
thereby  checks  the  msensible  perspiration,  and 
colds  are  the  result  Powdering  the  head  is 
quite  out  of  date  now,  but  if  a  little  was 
used  on  those  occasions  referred  to,  cold  in 


60 


LOSDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  head  wonld  not  he  so  frequent.'  "What 
do  yon  think  of  that?  I  never  hod  an  indi- 
vidual complain  of  my  lecture  yet. 

"  Now  comes  No.  3.  *  This,  gentlemen,  is 
the  brave  old  oak,  a  Rection  of  it  not  larger 
than  the  head  of  a  pin.  Looking  at  it  through 
thifl  powerful  instrument,  you  may  acctirately 
perceive  millions  of  perforations,  or  pores, 
through  which  the  moisture  of  the  earth  rises, 
in  order  to  aid  its  growth.  Of  all  the  trees  of  the 
forest,  none  is  so  splendid  as  the  brave  old  oak. 
This  is  the  tree  that  braves  the  battle  and 
the  breeze,  and  is  said  to  be  in  its  perfcrtion 
at  100  j-ears.  "Who  that  looks  at  it  would  not 
exclaim,  in  the  language  of  the  song,  *  Wood- 
man,  spare  that  tree,  and  cut  it  not  down  ? ' 
Such  is  the  analogy  existing  between  vegetable 
and  animal  physiology',  that  a  small  portion  of 
the  cuticle  or  human  skin  would  present  the 
same  appearance,  for  there  ore  millions  of 
pores  in  the  human  skin  which  a  groin  of 
sand  is  said  to  cover ;  and  here  are  millions 
of  perforations  through  which  the  moisture  of 
the  earth  is  said  to  rise  to  aid  the  growtli  of 
the  tree.  See  the  similitude  between  the 
vegetable  and  animal  physiology.  Here  is  the 
exhibition  of  nature — see  how  it  surpasses 
that  of  art.  See  the  ladies  at  the  Great  Ex- 
hibition admiring  the  shawls  that  came  from 
India  :  yet  they,  though  truly  desening,  could 
not  compare  with  this  bit  of  bark  from  the 
brave  old  ouk.  Here  is  a  pattern  richer  and 
more  desening  than  any  on  any  shawl,  how 
ever  wonderful.  Where  is  the  linondraper  in 
this  locality  that  can  produce  anything  so 
beautiful  as  that  on  this  bit  of  bark  ?  Such 
are  the  works  of  art  as  compared  with  those  of 
nature.' 

"  No.  4  is  the  animalculiE  in  water.  *  Gen- 
tlemen, the  object  now  before  you  is  a  drop  of 
water,  that  may  be  suspended  on  a  needle's 
point,  teeming  with  miUions  of  linng  objrcts. 
This  one  drop  of  water  contains  mon;  inhabit- 
ants than  the  globe  on  which  I  stand.  See 
the  velocity  of  their  motion,  the  action  of 
their  stomachs !  tho  vertebraB  is  elegantly 
marked,  like  the  boa-constrictor  in  the  Zoo- 
logical Gardens.  They  are  all  moring  with 
perfect  ease  in  this  one  drop,  like  the  mighty 
monsters  of  the  vast  deep.' 

•'  On  one  occasiim  a  gentleman  from  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital  dLspute<l  my  statement  about 
it's  being  only  one  drop  of  water,  so  I  said  to  the 
gent;  *  If  you  will  accompany  me  to  some; 
coffee-house  tho  drop  of  water  shall  be  re- 
moved, and  perhaps  what  you  see  you  may 
believe/  which  he  did,  and  ho  paid  me  1«.  for 
my  experiment.  He  told  me  he  was  a  doctor, 
and  I  told  him  I  was  surprised  thot  he  wns 
not  better  acquainted  witii  tho  instrument;  ior^ 
said  I,  *  how  can  you  tell  the  effects  of  inocu- 
lation on  the  cuticle,  or  the  disease  called  the 
itch,  unless  you  arc  acquainted  with  such  an 
instrument?'  He  was  quite  ashamed  as  he 
paid  me  for  my  trouble.  I  tell  this  anecdote 
on  the  bridge,  and  I  always  conclude  with, 


'  Now,  gentlemen,  whilst  I  was  paid  It.  hf 
the  faculty  for  showing  one  object  alone,  I  am 
only  charging  you  Irf.  for  the  whole  six.*  Then 
I  mldrt'ss  myself  to  the  i>erBon  looking  into 
the  microscope,  and  say,  •  What  do  you  think 
of  this  one  throp  of  water,  sir  ? '  and  he  says, 

*  Splendid !'  Then  I  add,  *  Few  persons  would 
pass  and  re-pass  this  instrument  without 
baring  a  glance  into  it,  if  th«*y  knew  the  won- 
ders I  exhibit;'   and  tlie  one  looking  says, 

*  That's  true,  very  true.' 

"  The  next  object  is  the  cheese-mite — No.  5. 
I  always  begin  in  this  way, — *  Those  who 
are  imocquaintril  with  tlie  study  of  ento- 
mology declai'e  that  these  mites  are  beetles, 
and  not  mites ;  but  could  I  procure  a  beetle 
with  eight  legs,  I  should  present  it  to  the 
BritLsli  Museum  as  a  ciuiosity.*  This  is  the 
way  I  clench  up  the  mouths  of  those  sceptics 
who  would  try  to  ridicule  me,  by  showing  that  I 
am  i>liilosophic.  *  Just  look  at  thom.  Notice, 
for  instance,  their  head,  how  it  represents 
the  form  of  an  hedg<3]»og.  The  bo»ly  pre- 
sents that  of  the  beetle  shape.  They  have 
eight  legs  and  eight  joints.  They  have  four 
legs  fonvard  and  four  legs  back ;  and  they  can 
move  with  the  same  velocity  forwards  as  they 
can  back,  such  is  their  construction.  They 
are  said  to  be  moring  with  the  velocity  of  five 
hundred  steps  in  one  minute.     BeadBlair^ 

*  l*r«Jceptor,'  where  you  may  see  a  drawing  of 
the  mite  acciuratoly  given,  as  well  as  read  the 
descript-'on  just  givt?n.'  A  cheesemonger  in 
WhrU.»chapel  brouicrht  mo  a  few  of  these  ob- 
jects for  me  to  place  in  my  mici-oscope.  He 
inrit<jd  liis  friends,  which  were  tiking  supper 
with  him,  to  come  out  and  have  a  glan(*e  at 
the  same  objects.  He  gave  me  sixjjcnce  for 
exhibiting  them  to  him,  ond  was  highly  grsd- 
'fied  at  the  sight  of  them.  I  asked  him  bow 
he  could  have  the;  impudence  to  sell  them  for 
a  lady's  supi>cr  ut  lOrf.  a-ponnd.  The  answer 
he  gave  me  was, — *  Wliat  the  pye  cannot  see 
the  heart  never  grieves.'  Then  I  go  on,— 
'  Whilst  this  lady  is  extending  her  hand  to  the 
poor,  and  doing  all  the  relief  in  her  power, 
she  is  slaring  more  liring  creatures  with  her 
jaw-bone  than  ever  Sumson  did  with  his.*  If 
it's  a  boy  looking  through.  I  say, '  Now,  Jack, 
wlien  you  are  eating  broad  and  cheese  don*t 
let  it  be  said  that  you  slay  tho  mites  with  the 
jaw-bone  of  an  ass.  Cultivate  the  intellectual 
and  moral  powers  superior  to  the  passions, 
and  then  you  will  rise  superior  to  tliat  animal 
in  intellect.'  *  Good,"  saj's  a  gentleman,  •  good; 
here's  sLxpence  for  you;'    and  another  savH, 

*  Here's  twopence  for  you,  and  I'm  blessed  ii* I 
want  to  see  anything  after  hearing  your  lecture/ 
Then  I  continues  to  point  out  the  oSfTection  of  the 
mite  for  its  young.  *  You  see  fathers  looking 
after  their  (laughters,  and  mothers  after  their 
sons,  wh«»n  they  are  taking  their  walks ;  and 
such  is  their  love  for  their  young,  that  when 
the  young  ones  are  fatigued  with  their  journey 
the  parents  take  them  up  on  their  backs.  Do 
you  not  see  it  ?•    And  then  some  will  say,  *  111 


I 


LOKDOy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDOX  POOR. 


87 


,    life  A  penny  to  nee  that;'  and  I'vo  Imd  four 
poinies  put  in   my  bsnd  at  once  to  see  it. 
£xcitomont  is  everything  in  this  world,  sir. 
*'  Next  comes  the  cane — No.  G.    *  The  ob- 

,   jwt  before  yon.  gentlemen,  is  a  IninsverHO 

I    MctioDof  cane, — common  cane, — Kuch,  mark 

I  joKL  AS  is  iiKed  by  Bchoolmabters  fur  the  cor- 
wet'hm  of  boys  who  neglect  their   tasks,  or 

■  pliiT  ihc  wag.'  I  make  it  comic,  you  know. 
*  Thi->  I  coll  die  tree  of  knowledge,  for  it  has 

,  diiue  uuTm  for  to  learn  ns  the  rules  of  arith- 
Dciio  than  all  the  vegetable  kingdom  com- 
bintMl.  To  it  we  may  attribute  the  rule  of 
three,  from  its  influence  on  the  mind,' — 
that  always  canses  a  smiln, — 'just  look  at  it 

I    lac  one  moment.     Notice,  in  the  !irst  ]ilac(>,  its 

i  putbrations.  >Mierc  the  human  hand  has 
iail(.d  to  construct  a  micromrtter  for  micro- 
scof'icor  telescopic  purposes,  the  spider  has 
Init  its  wli  in  one  case,  and  tlie  cnne  in  the 

'  ochtT.  Throut^h  the  instrumentality  of  its 
jKTliiriilionR,  w^e  may  accurately  infer  ih<5  map;- 
nifnu:;  jjower  of  oth(;r  objects,  slKuving  the 
Ihw  iif  iinnloin-.  The  perforations  of  thi>  cnni', 
apart  frDm  this  instrument,  would  lutnlly  adinit 
a  opcdlo'R  point,  but  seem  now  lar«?e  eiuiu^^'h 
t»  yoor  arm  to  enter.  This  cane  somewlint 
npiv-si-ntA  a  telescopic  view  of  the  moon  at 
Ifae  full,  when  in  conjunction  with  the  sun, 
for  in)«t4Uice.  Here  I  could  represent  in- 
Ttfrted  rocks  and  mountains.  You  iiiny  per- 
ceive them  yonrself,  just  as  they  would  hv  re- 

I  pttsscnted  in  the  moon's  disc  through  a 
jiowerfnl  telescope  of  2.^)  times,  such  as  I  have 

'  exbibitt^l  to  a  thousand  peraons  in  St.  Paul's 
ChurchyanL  On  the  right  of  this  piece  of 
cane,  if'  you  are  acquainted  witli  tlie  scienee 
of  tt^tronomy,  you  may  dejiicture  vctv  accu- 
ntely  Monnt  Tycho,  for  instance,  representing 
abenntiful  burning  moimtain,  like  Mount  Ve- 
SQTins  or  Etany,  near  the  fields  of  Naples. 
Yoo  might  discover  accurately  all  the  divcrg- 
ioj;  streaks  of  hght  emanating  from  the  crater. 
Fnxtlior  on  to  the  right  you  may  |>erceive 
MooDi  St.  Catherine,  like  the  blaze  of  a  candle 
raihing  through  the  atmosphere.  On  the 
left  yon  may  discover  Mount  Ptolemy.  Such 
i*  aViniilar'  oppearanc^  of  the  moon's  moun- 
tainous aapect.  I  ask  you,  if  the  school-boy  had 
bm  an  opportunity  of  glancing  at  so  splendid 
an  object  as  the  cane,  sliould  he  ever  be  seen 
to  fiherl  a  tear  at  its  weight  ?' 

•*  This  shows  that  I  am  scientific,  and  know 
tklTDnoniy.  The  last  part  makes  them  hiujrh. 
•*  This  is  the  mode  in  which  I  exhibit  my  in- 
tuument,  and  such  is  the  interest  been  excited 
in  the  puhhc  mind,  tliat  though  a  ])enny  is 
the  small  charge  which  I  make,  th:>t  amount 
bis  l»een  doubled  and  trebled  by  gentlemen 
vfao  have  viewed  the  instrument ;  and  on  on<i 
occaaion  a  clergyman  in  the  Gommcrcial-road 
presented  me  with  holf-a-sovereign,  for  the 
interest  he  felt  at  my  description,  as  well  as 
tlie  objects  presented  to  his  view.  It  has 
given  universal  satisfaction. 
**  I  dontgo  oat  c^-ery  niglit  with  my  instru- 


ment. I  always  go  on  the  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  and  Saturday,  for  those  are  the 
nights  when  I  take  most  money,  especially  on 
the  Monday  and  Saturday.  The  Monday  and 
Saturday  are  generally  0«.,  Tne^days  about  Os., 
and  Wednesdays  about  2«.  did.  Then  the  Thurs- 
day averages  Is.  bd.,  and  the  Fridays,  in  some 
localities,  when*  the  men  are  paid  on  that 
night,  are  equal  to  Saturday.  Kucli  are  the 
benefits  arising  from  night  exhibition.  In  the 
day  it  comes  to  rjitlier  more.  I've  been  to 
Greenwich, and  on  the  One-tree  Hilll've  done 
more  with  the  sun  light  than  the  night  light. 
Taking  the  ehuuffes  of  weather,  such  as  rain 
and  cold  bleak  nights,  and  such  weather  as 
isn't  suitable  to  such  an  exhibition,  I  may  say 
safely  that  my  income  amounts  to  80/.  a-year. 
The  capital  required  for  such  a  busine^w  a- 
mounts  to  from  10/.  to  20/.  My  instnmiont 
only  cost  5/. ;  but  it  was  parted  with  to  raise 
money ; — and  I  woidihi't  take  50/.  for  it.  It 
was  my  sister's  son-in-law  who  sold  it.  It 
was  a  gift  more  than  a  sale.  You  can  buy  a 
very  good  microscope  for  10/.,  but  a  gi-eat  deal, 
of  course,  is  required  in  choosing  it;  for 
you  may  buy  a  thing  not  worth  iiOs.  Y'ou'd 
have  an  achromatic  mi«Toscopo  for  :iO/.  It 
costs  mo  about  4c/.  a- week  for  oil.  the  best 
sporm,  at  I5.  4</.  the  pint ;  and  a  quarter  of  a 
pint  will  last  me  the  week.  I  get  my  sjjeci- 
mens  in  Lomlon.  I  prepare  them  jUI  myself, 
and  always  keep  a  stock  by  me.  For  the  sake 
of  any  gentleman  who  may  have  any  micro- 
scope, and  wish  to  procure  excellent  living 
specimens  of  mites  and  animalculrp  in  water, 
may  ilo  so  in  tliis  way.  (This  is  a  secret  which 
1  give  from  a  desire  which  I  feel  to  aflbnl  plea- 
sure to  gentlemen  of  a  scientific  mind.)  Get 
mites  from  a  cheesemonger.  Mites  ditf.T  in 
their  shape  and  form,  acconling  to  the  chiH»Re 
Ihey  are  tjiken  from.  The  Stilton-cheesi^  «litfers 
from  the  Dutcli-cheese  mite,  and  so  does  that  of 
the  aristix-i-ntic  Cheshire,  as  I  call  it.  In  or- 
der to  rise  them  clear  and  transparent,  take  a 
wooden  box,  of  *Z\  inches  deep  and  2  J  inches 
in  diameter,  with  a  thick  screw -hd,  ami  let  the 
lid  take  otl*  half-way  down.  Place  the  dust  in 
the  bottom  of  the  box,  damp  the  thread  of  the 
scrow-lid,  to  make  it  air-tight.  The  mites 
will  ascend  to  the  lid  of  the  box.  Fom:  or  five 
hours  af^er^'ards  unscrew  the  lid  gently,  and, 
removing  it,  let  it  fall  gently  on  a  piece  of 
writing  paper.  The  mit<^  crawl  up  to  the  lid, 
and  by  this  way  you  get  them  free  from  dust 
and  clean.  To  make  the  animalculaei  water, 
I  draw  from  the  bottom  of  the  water-tub  a 
small  quantity  of  water,  and  I  put  about  a  hnnd- 
ful  of  new  hay  in  that  water.  I  expose  it  to 
the  influence  of  *>e  solar  light,  or  some  gentle 
heat,  for  three  i/v  four  hours.  Skim  oft'  its 
surface.  After  washing  your  hands,  take  your 
finger  and  let  one  drop  of  the  hay-water  fall 
on  the  gloss,  and  then  add  to  it  another  drop 
of  pure  water  to  make  it  more  transparent. 
This  inform  Uion  took  mo  some  years  of  ex- 
perience to  discover.    I  never  read  it  or  leomt 


Xo.  LX. 


88 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


it  from  any  one,  but  found  it  out  myself;  but 
all  liberal  scientific  men  like  to  share  their  in- 
formation. 

*'  It's  impossible  for  me  to  say  how  many 
people  have  looked  through  my  instrument, 
but  they  must  be  coimted  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands. I  have  had  160  looking  through  in 
one  night,  or  ld«.  4</.  worth.  This  was  on  a 
peculiar  occasion.  They  average  about  6«. 
worth.  If  1  could  get  out  every  night  I 
should  do  well.  As  it  is,  I  am  obliged  to  work 
at  my  trade  of  shoemaking  to  keep  myself: 
for  you  must  take  it  into  consideration,  that 
there  are  some  nights  when  I  cannot  show  my 
exhibition.  Very  often  I  have  a  shilling  or 
sixpence  given  to  me  as  a  present  by  my  ad- 
mirers.   Many  a  half-crown  I've  had  as  well. 

^  One  night  I  was  showing  over  at  the  Ele- 
phant and  Castle,  and  I  saw  a  Quaker  gentle- 
man coming  along,  and  ho  said  to  me,  *  What 
art  thee  showing  to  night,  friend  ? '  So  I  told 
him ;  and  he  says,  *  And  what  doth  thee  charge, 
friend  t '  I  answered,  '  To  the  working  man, 
sir,  I  am  determined  to  charge  no  more  than 
a  penny;  but  to  a  gentleman,  I  always 
leave  it  to  their  liberality. '  So  he  said,  *  TVell, 
I  like  that,  friend;  I'U  give  thee  all  I  have.' 
And  he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  he 
pulled  out  five  penny  pieces.  You  see  that  is 
what  I  always  do;  and  it  meets  with  its  re- 
ward." 

Peep-Shows. 

CoMCEBKiNa  these,  I  received  the  subjoined 
narrative  from  a  man  of  considerable  expe- 
rience in  the  **  profession  :** — 

"  Being  a  cripple,  I  am  obliged' to  exhibit  a 
small  peep-show.  I  lost  the  use  of  this  arm 
ever  sinc«  I  was  three  months  old.  My 
mother  died  when  I  was  ten  years  old,  and 
after  that  my  father  took  up  with  an  Irish- 
woman, and  turned  nie  aud  my  youngest 
sister  (she  was  two  years  younger  than  me) 
out  into  Uie  streets.  My  father  had  originally 
been  a  dyer,  but  was  working  at  the  fiddle- 
string  business  then.  My  youngest  sister  got 
employment  at  my  father's  trade,  but  I  couldn't 
get  no  work,  because  of  my  crippled  arms.  I 
walked  about  till  I  fell  down  in  the  streets  for 
want.  At  last  a  man,  who  had  a  sweetmeat- 
shop,  took  pity  on  mo.  His  wife  made  the 
sweetmeats,  and  minded  the  shop  while  he 
went  out  a-juggling  in  the  streets,  in  the 
Bamo  Samee  line.  He  told  me  as  how,  if  I 
would  go  round  the  country  with  him,  and 
sell  prints  while  he  was  a«juggling  in  the 
public-houses,  he'd  find  me  in  wittles  and 
pay  my  lodging.  I  joined  him«  and  stopped 
with  him  two  or  three  year.  After  that,  I 
went  to  work  fpr  a  werry  large  waste-paper 
dealer.  He  used  to  buy  up  all  the  old  back 
numbers  of  the  cheap  periodicals  and  penny 
publications,  and  send  me  out  with  them  to 
sell  at  a  farden  a-piece.  He  used  to  give  me 
fourpence  out  of  every  shilling,  and  I  done 
very  well  with  that,  till  the  periodicals  came 


so  low,  and  so  many  on  'em,  that  they  wouldn't 
sell  at  all.  Sometimes  I  could  make  15«.  on 
a  Saturday  night  and  a  Sunday  morning,  a- 
selling  the  odd  numbers  of  periodicals,  su&  as 

*  Tales  of  the  Wars,'  *  Lives  of  the  Pirates,*^ 

*  Lives  of  the  Highwaymen,*  &c  I've  often 
sold  as  many  as  2000  numbers  on  a  Saturday 
night  in  the  New  Cut,  and  the  most  of  them 
was  works  about  thieves,  and  highwaymen^ 
and  pirates.  Besides  me  there  was  three 
others  at  the  same  business.  Altogether,  I 
dare  say,  m^  master  alone  used  to  get  rid  of 
10,000  copies  of  such  works  on  a  Saturday 
night  and  Sunday  morning.  Our  principal 
customers  was  young  men.  My  master  made 
a  good  bit  of  money  at  it.  He  had  been 
about  18  years  in  the  business,  and  had  begun 
with  2m.  Od.  I  was  with  him  15  year  on  and 
off,  and  at  the  best  time  I  used  to  earn  my 
3()«.  a- week  full  at  that  tame.  But  then  I  was 
foolish,  and  didn't  take  care  of  my  money. 
When  I  was  at  tlie  *  odd-number  business,'  I 
bought  a  peep-show.  I  gave  2/.  10«.  for  it. 
I  had  it  second-hand.  I  was  persuaded  to 
buy  it.  A  person  as  has  got  only  one  hand» 
you  see,  isn't  like  other  folks,  and  the  people 
said  it  would  always  bring  me  a  meal  of 
victuals,  and  keep  me  from  starving.  The 
peep-shows  was  a-doing  very  well  then  (that'e 
about  five  or  six  years  back),  when  the  theaytres 
was  all  a  shilling  to  go  into  them  whole  priee, 
but  now  there's  many  at  Sd,  and  Ud,^  and  a 
good  lot  at  a  penny.  Before  the  theaytres 
lowered,  a  peep-showman  could  make  Ss.  or  4f. 
a-day,  at  the  least,  in  fine  weather,  and  on  a 
Saturday  night  about  double  that  money.  At 
a  fair  he  could  take  his  15<.  to  I/,  a-day. 
Then  there  was  about  nine  or  ten  peep-shows 
in  London.  These  were  all  back-shows.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  peep-shows,  which  we  caH 

*  back-shows '  and '  caravan-shows.'  The  cam* 
van-shows  are  much  larger  than  the  others, 
and  are  drawn  by  a  horse  or  a  donkey.  Th^ 
have  a  green-baize  curtain  at  the  back,  whien 
shuts  out  them  as  don't  pay.  The  showmen 
usually  lives  in  these  caravans  with  thdr 
families.  Often  there  will  be  a  man,  his  wi£% 
and  three  or  four  children,  living  in  one  of 
these  shows.  These  caravans  mostly  go  into 
the  countiy,  and  very  seldom  are  seen  in  town. 
They  exhibit  principally  at  fairs  and  feasts,  or 
wakes,  in  country  villages.  They  generally 
go  out  of  London  between  March  and  April* 
because  some  fairs  begin  at  that  time,  but 
many  wait  for  the  fairs  at  M ay.  Then  they  work 
their  way  right  round,  from  village  to  town. 
They  teU  one  another  what  part  they're  a- 
going  to,  and  Uiey  never  interfere  with  one 
another's  rounds.  If  a  new  hand  comes  into 
the  business,  they're  werry  civil,  and  tells  him 
what  places  to  work.  The  carawans  comes  to 
London  about  October,  after  the  fairs  is  over. 
The  scenes  of  them  carawan  shows  is  mostly 
upon  recent  battles  and  murders.  Anything 
in  that  way,  of  late  occurrence,  suits  them* 
Theatrical  plays  ain't  no  good  for  conntiy 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


SO 


(ovxis,  'cause  they  don't  understand  such 
things  there.  People  is  weny  fond  of  the 
battles  in  the  country,  but  a  murder  wot  is 
¥611  known  is  worth  more  than  all  the  fights. 
There  was  more  took  witli  Rush's  murder  than 
theie  has  been  even  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 
itself.  Snnic  of  the  carawan-shows  does  werry 
well.  Their  averupre  taking  is  iJUs.  a-week  for 
the  snmroer  months.  At  some  fairs  they'll 
take  5/.  in  the  three  days.  They  have  been 
about  town  as  long  as  we  can  recollect.  I 
ihould  say  there  is  full  50  of  these  carawan- 
thows  throughout  the  country.  Some  never 
€omes  into  Loudon  at  all.  There  is  about  a 
dozen  that  comes  to  London  regular  every 
winter.  The  business  in  general  goes  from 
family  to  family.  The  cost  of  a  carawan- 
show,  second-hand,  is  40/. ;  that's  without  the 
glasses,  and  them  runs  from  10s.  to  1/.  a- 
piece,  because  they're  lai'ge.  Why,  I've  knowed 
the  front  of  a  peep-show,  with  the  glasses, 
eost  00/. ;  the  front  was  mahogany,  and  had 
*UJ  glasses,  with  gilt  caned  mouldings  round 
«ach  on  'em.  The  scenes  will  cost  about  6/. 
if  done  by  the  best  artist,  and  3/.  if  done  by 
a  common  hand.  The  back-sho^vs  are  peep- 
tbows  that  stand  upon  trussels,  and  arc  so 
anall  as  to  admit  of  being  carried  on  tlie  back. 
The  scenery  is  about  18  inches  to  2  foot  in 
l^gth,  and  about  15  inches  high.  They  have 
beoi  introduced  about  ftfteeu  or  sixteen  years. 
The  man  as  first  brought  'em  up  was  named 

BiUy  T ;  he  was  lame  of  one  leg,  and 

nsed  to  exhibit  little  automaton  figures  in  the 
Keir  Cut.  On  their  first  coming  out,  the  oldest 
Wck-showman  as  I  know  on  told  me  they 
«mld  take  155.  a-day.  But  now  we  can't  do 
more  than  Is.  a-week,  run  Saturday  and  all 
the  other  days  together,  —  and  that's  through 
the  theayters  being  so  low.  It's  a  regular 
starring  life  now.  We  has  to  put  up  with  the 
lunsults  of  people  so.  The  back-shows  gene- 
Tilly  exhibits  plays  of  different  kinds  wot's 
been  performed  at  the  tlieayters  lately.  I've 
got  many  ditferent  plays  to  my  show.  I  only 
exhibit  one  at  a  time.  There's  '  Halonzer  the 
Brmvo  and  the  Fair  Himogen ; '  *•  The  Dog  of 
Hontargis  and  the  Forest  of  Bondy  ;*  '  Hyder 
Hsiley,  or  the  Lions  of  Mysore ;  *  '  The  Forty 
Thieves*  (that  never  done  no  good  to  me); 
'  The  DevU  and  Dr.  Faustus ; '  and  at  Christ- 
Bss  time  we  exhibit  pantomimes.  I  has  some 
ether  scenes  as  well.  I've  *  Napoleon's  Return 
ftom  Helba,'  •  Napoleon  at  Waterloo,*  *  The 
Death  of  Lord  Nelson,'  and  also  '  The  Queen 
embarking  to  start  for  Scotland,  from  the 
Dockyard  at  Voolich.'  W^e  takes  more  from 
children  than  grown  people  in  London,  and 
more  from  grown  people  than  children  in  the 
eotmtry.  You  see,  grown  people  has  such  re- 
marks made  upon  them  when  they're  a-peep- 
ing  dirough  in  Ix)ndon,  as  to  make  it  bad  for 
us  here.  Lately  I  have  been  hardly  able  to  get 
a  living,  you  may  say.  Some  days  I've  taken 
6^  others  8</.,  and  sometimes  Is. — that's  what 
I  call  a  good  day  for  any  of  tlie  week-days.  On 


a  Saturday  it  runs  fh)m  2«.  to  2^.  OJ.  Of  the 
week-days,  Monday  or  Tuesday  is  the  best. 
If  there's  a  fair  on  near  London,  such  as 
Greenwich,  we  can  go  and  take  3^.,  and  4s.,  or 
5ji.  a-day,  so  long  as  it  lasts.  But  after  that, 
we  comes  back  to  the  old  business,  and  that's 
bad  enough ;  for,  after  you've  paid  Is.  6i/, 
a-week  rent,  and  0</.  a-week  stand  for  your 
peep-show,  and  come  to  buy  a  bit  of  coal,  why 
all  one  can  get  is  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  cup  <n 
tea  to  live  upon.  As  for  meat,  we  don't  see  it 
from  one  month's  end  to  the  other.  My  old 
woman,  when  she  is  at  work,  only  gets  five 
fardens  a-pair  for  making  a  pair  of  drawers 
to  send  out  for  the  convicts,  and  three  half- 
pence for  a  shirt ;  and  out  of  that  she  has  to 
find  her  own  thread.  There  are  from  six  to 
eight  scenes  in  each  of  the  plays  that  I  shows; 
and  if  the  scenes  are  a  bit  short,  why  I  puts 
in  a  couple  of  battle-scenes ;  or  I  makes  up  a 
pannerammer  for  'em.  The  children  will  have 
so  much  for  their  money  now.  I  charge  a 
halfpenny  for  a  hactive  performance.  There 
is  characters  and  all  —  and  I  explains  what 
they  are  supposed  to  be  a-talking  about. 
There's  about  six  back-shows  in  London.  I 
don't  think  there's  more.  It  don't  pay  now  to 
get  up  a  new  play.  We  works  the  old  ones 
over  and  over  again,  and  sometimes  we  buys 
a  fresh  one  of  another  showman,  if  we  can 
rise  the  money  —  the  price  is  2s.  and  2s.  Orf. 
I've  been  obligated  to  get  rid  on  about  twelve 
of  ray  plays,  to  get  a  bit  of  victuals  at  home. 
Formerly  we  used  to  give  a  hartist  Is.  to  go  in 
the  pit  and  sketch  off  the  scenes  and  figures 
of  any  new  play  that  was  a-doing  well,  and  we 
thought  'ud  taJce,  and  arter  tliat  we  used  to 
give  him  from  Is.  6rf.  to  2s.  for  drawing  and 
painting  each  scene,  and  "id.  and  \\d,  each  for 
the  figures,  according  to  the  size.  Fiach  play 
costs  us  from  15s.  to  1/.  for  the  inside  scenes 
and  figures,  and  the  outside  painting  as  well. 
The  outside  painting  in  general  consists  of 
the  most  attractive  part  of  the  performance. 
The  New-Cut  is  no  good  at  all  now  on  a  Satur- 
day night;  that's  through  the  cheap  penny 
hexhibitions  there.  Tottenham-court-road  ain't 
much  account  either.  The  streetmarkets  is 
the  best  of  a  Saturday  night.  I'm  often 
obliged  to  take  bottles  instead  of  money,  and 
they  don't  fetch  more  than  threepence  a 
dozen.  Sometimes  I  take  four  dozen  of  bottles 
in  a  day.  I  lets  'em  see  a  play  for  a  bottle, 
and  often  two  wants  to  see  for  one  large 
bottle.  The  children  is  dreadful  for  cheap- 
ening things  down.  In  the  summer  I  goes 
out  of  London  for  a  month  at  a  stretch.  In 
the  country  I  works  my  battle-pieces.  They're 
most  pleased  there  with  my  Lord  Nelson's 
death  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  *  That  there 
is,'  I  tell  'em,  *  a  fine  painting,  representing 
Lord  Nelson  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.'  In  the 
centre  is  Lord  Nelson  in  his  last  dying  mo- 
ments, supported  by  Capt.  Hardy  and  the  chap- 
lain. On  the  left  is  the  h  explosion  of  one  of  the 
enemy's  ships  by  fire.    That  represents  a  fine 


IIU 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB. 


paintiDg,  representiDg  the  death  of  Lord  Nel- 
8011  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  wot  was  foaght 
on  the  r2th  of  October,  1806.  I've  got  five 
glasses,  they  cost  about  d«.  apiece  when  new, 
and  is  about  8)  inches  across,  with  a  3-foot 
focas.'* 

ACBOBAT,   OS  STBSXT-PoSTTnUUt. 

jft  VAN  who,  as  he  said,  **  had  all  his  life  been 
engaged  in  the  profeHsion  of  Acrobat,"  volun- 
teered to  give  me  some  details  of  the  life  led 
flid  the  earnings  made  by  this  class  of  stroet- 
performers. 

He  at  the  present  moment  belongs  to  a 
•«  school "  of  five,  who  are  dressed  up  in  fanci- 
faX  and  tight-fitting  costumes  of  white  calico, 
with  blue  or  red  trimmings ;  and  who  are  often 
seen  in  the  quiet  by-streeU  going  through 
their  gymnastic  performances,  mounted  on 
each  other's  shoulders,  or  throwing  somer- 
■aults  in  the  air. 

He  was  a  short,  wiry-built  man,  with  a 
broad  chest,  which  somehow  or  onotlier  seem- 
ed unnatural,  for  the  bones  appeared  to  have 
been  forced  forward  and  dislocated.  His  ge- 
neral build  did  not  betoken  the  great  nniscu- 
lar  strength  which  must  be  necessnrj'  for  the 
various  feats  which  he  has  to  perform ;  and 
his  walk  was  rather  slovenly  nnd  loutish  than 
brisk  and  springj',  as  one  would  have  expected. 
He  wore  die  same  brown  Chesterfield  coat 
which  we  have  all  seen  him  slip  ovor  his  pro- 
fessional dress  in  the  street,  when  moving  off 
after  an  exhibition. 

His  yellow  hair  reached  nearly  to  his  shoul- 
ders, and  not  being  confined  by  tlie  ribbon  he 
usually  wears  across  his  forehead  in  the  pub- 
lic thoroughfare,  it  kept  stragjfling  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  had  to  toss  it  ba<!k  with  a  jerk, 
after  the  fashion  of  a  horse  with  his  nose-bog. 

He  was  a  simple,  "good-natured"  fellow, 
and  told  his  story  in  a  straightforward  man- 
ner, which  was  the  more  extraordintti7,  as  he 
prefaced  his  statement  with  a  remark,  **  that 
•U  in  his  *  school,'  (the  professional  term  for 
a  gang  or  troop,)  were  terribly  against  his 
coming ;  but  that  as  all  he  was  going  to  say 
was  nothing  but  the  trutli,  he  didn't  care  a  fig  i 
for  any  of  'em."  | 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  this  man  spoke  j 
fluently  both  the  French  and  German  lan- 
guages ;  and,  as  will  be  seen  in  his  statement, 
he  has  passed  many  years  of  his  life  abroad, 
performing  in  several  circuses,  or  "  pitching  " 
(exhibiting  in  the  streets)  in  the  various  large 
towns  of  Sweden,  Denmark,  Prussia,  Switzer- 
land, and  France. 

The  following  is  the  history  of  his  life,  from 
his  earliest  remembrance, — from  two  years 
old,  indeed, — doMm  to  his  present  age,  thirty. 
six: — 

"I  am  what  is  known  as  a  street-posturer,  or 
acrobat.  I  belong  to  a  school  of  five,  and  we 
go  about  the  streets  doing  pyramids,  bending, 
juggling,  and  la  perche. 


"  I've  been  at  acrobating  for  these  thirlgr-flve 
years,  in  London  and  all  parts  of  En^and, 
as  well  as  on  the  Continent,  in  France  and 
Germany,  as  well  as  in  Denmark  and  Sweden ; 
but  only  in  the  principal  towns,  such  as  Co- 
peuhagen  and  Stockholm ;  but  only  a  Iktle^ 
for  we  come  back  by  sea  almost  directly.  ]tf  j 
fatlier  was  a  tumbler,  and  in  his  da>^  very 
great,  and  used  to  be  at  tlie  theatres  and  in 
Richanlson's  show.  He  's  acted  along  with 
Joe  Grimaldi.  I  don't  remember  the  play  it 
was  in,  but  I  know  he's  acted  along  with  him 
at  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  at  tlie  time  there  was 
real  water  there.  I  have  heard  him  talk  about 
it.  He  brought  me  regular  up  to  the  profes- 
sion, and  when  I  first  came  out  I  wasn't  above 
two  years  old,  and  father  used  to  dance  me  on 
my  hands  in  Risley's  style,  but  not  like  Bisley. 
I  con  just  recollect  being  danced  in  his  hands, 
but  I  can't  remember  much  about  it,  only  he 
used  to  throw  me  a  somersault  with  his  hand. 
The  first  time  I  ever  come  out  by  myself  was 
in  a  piece  called  '  Snowball, '  when  I  was  in^ 
troduced  in  a  snowball ;  and  I  had  to  do  the 
spUts  and  strides.  When  father  first  trained 
me,  it  hurt  my  back  awfully.  He  used  to  take 
my  legs  and  stretch  them,  and  work  them 
round  in  their  sockets,  and  put  them  up 
straight  by  my  side.  That  is  what  they  called 
being  *  cricked,'  and  it's  in  general  done  be- 
fore you  eat  anything  in  the  morning.  0,  yes, 
I  can  remember  being  cricked,  and  it  hurt  me 
terrible.  He  put  my  breast  to  his  breast,  and 
then  pulled  my  legs  up  to  my  head,  and 
knocked  'em  against  my  head  and  cheeks  a- 
bout  a  dozen  times.  It  seems  like  as  if  your 
body  was  broken  in  two,  and  all  your  muscles 
being  pulled  out  like  India-rubber. 

"  i  worked  for  my  father  till  I  was  twelve 
years  of  ap:e,  then  I  was  sold  for  two  years  to 
a  man  of  the  name  of  Tagg,  another  showman^ 
who  took  me  to  France.  He  had  to  pay  father 
Tj/.  a-year,  and  keep  me  respectable.  I  used 
to  do  the  same  business  witli  him  as  with 
father, — splits,  and  such-like, — and  we  acted 
in  a  piece  that  was  \^Tote  for  us  in  PariSy 
called  *'  Les  deux  Clowns  anglais,"  which  was 
produced  at  the  Porte  St.  Antoine.  That 
must  have  been  about  the  year  1830.  We 
were  dressed  up  like  two  English  downs, 
with  our  faces  painted  and  all ;  and  we  were 
very  successful,  and  had  plenty  of  flowers 
thrown  to  us.  There  was  one  Bomet  Burns, 
who  was  showing  in  the  Boulevards,  and 
colled  the  New  Zealcnid  Chief,  who  was  tat- 
tooed all  over  his  body.  He  was  very  kind  to 
me,  and  mode  me  a  good  many  presents,  aad 
some  of  the  laiiies  were  kind  to  me.  I  knew 
this  Bamet  Bums  pretty  well,  becaose  my 
master  was  drunk  all  day  pretty  well,  and  he 
was  the  only  Englishman  I  had  to  speak  tOy 
for  I  diiln't  know  French. 

"  I  ran  away  from  Tagg  in  Paris,  and  I  went 
with  the  *  Freres  de  Bouchett,'  rope-dancers, 
two  brothers  who  were  so  called,  and  I  hod 
to  clown  to  the  rope.    I  stopped,  with  them 


J 


LOIfVON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


01 


tfafiee  retn,  and  we  went  throagh  Belgium 
aod  Holland,  and  done  vety  well  with  them. 
The^  was  my  masters,  and  had  a  large  booth 
of  their  own,  and  would  engage  paraders  to 
itndouiidfle  the  show  to  draw  &e  people ;  bat 
thej  did  all  the  perfbrmanoes  themselves,  and 
it  wis  mostly  ac  the  fairs. 

**  From  them  I  came  to  England,  and  began 
pitebing  in  the  street.  I  didn't  much  like  it, 
liter  being  a  regular  performer,  and  looked 
ipon  it  as  a  drop.  I  travelled  right  down  by 
myself  to  Glasgow  fair.  I  kept  company  with 
Wombwell's  show, —  only  working  for  myself. 
loa  see  they  used  to  stop  in  the  towns,  and 
drtv  plenty  of  people,  and  then  I'd  begin 
IRfiohing  to  the  crowd.  I  wasn't  lonely  because 
I  knew  plenty  of  the  wild-beast  chaps,  and, 
beades,  I've  done  pretty  well,  taking  two  or 
tlvee  shillings  a  day,  and  on  a  Saturday  and 
Monday  generally  five  or  six.  I  had  a  suit  of 
tights,  and  a  pair  of  twacks,  with  a  few  span . 
gles  on,  and  as  soon  as  the  people  came  round 
me  I  began  to  work. 

"At  Glasgow  I  got  a  pound  a  clay,  for  I  went 
vith  Mr.  Mumford,  who  had  some  dancioi^  dulls 
showing  at  the  bottom  of  the  Stone  buildings. 
The  fiur  is  a  week.  And  after  that  one  of 
oar  chaps  wrote  to  me  that  there  w&s  a  job 
fer  me,  if  I  liked  to  go  over  to  Ireland  and 
join  Hr.  Batty,  who  had  a  circus  there.  They 
QKd  to  build  wooden  circuses  in  them  days, 
tod  hadn't  tents  as  now.  I  stopped  a  twelve- 
moDth  with  him,  and  we  only  went  to  four 
towns,  and  the  troupe  did  wonders.  Mr. 
Hughes  was  the  manager  for  Mr.  Batty.  There 
VBs  Herr  Hengler,  the  great  rope-dancer 
moDg  the  troupe,  and  his  brother  Alfred,  the 
ftest  rider,  as  is  dead  now,  for  a  horse  kicked 
\m.  at  Bnstol,  and  broke  his  arm,  and  he 
wouldn't  have  it  cut  off,  and  it  mortified,  and 
he  died. 

"When  I  left  Ireland  I  went  back  to  Glas- 
gow, and  Mr.  Band  Miller  gave  the  school  I 
hid  joined  an  engagement  for  three  montlis. 
We  had  61.  Srweek  between  four  of  us,  besides 
ft  heneflt,  which  brought  us  2/.  each  more. 
IGDer  had  a  large  penny  booth,  and  had  taken 
•bottt  \ULoT  14/.  a-night.  There  was  acting, 
ad  oar  performances.  Alexander,  the  lessee  of 
the  Theatre  Royal,  prevented  him,  for  having 
■eted,  as  he  also  did  Anderson  the  Wizard  of  the 
Korth,  who  had  the  Circus,  and  acted  as  well, 
and  Mumford ;  but  they  won  the  day. 

"  I  left  Glasgow  with  another  chap,  and  wo 
iwit  first  to  Edinburgh  and  then  to  Hara- 
Voigh,  and  then  we  played  at  the  Tivoli  Gar- 
4ni.  I  stopped  abroad  for  fourteen  years, 
pvfonmng  at  difierent  places  through  France 
■id  Switzerland,  either  along  with  regular 
companies  or  else  by  ourselves,  for  there  was 
foar  on  us,  in  schools.  After  Hamburgh,  we 
vent  to  Copenhagen,  and  then  ^e  joined  the 
hiother  Prioes,  or,  as  they  call  'em  there, 
J*wce.  We  <mly  did  tumbling  and  jumping 
op  on  each  other's  shoulders,  and  dancing  the 
^  pole  on  our  foet,  what  is  called  in  French 


*trankr.'  From  there  we  joined  the  brothers 
Layman, — both  Russians  they  was, — who  was 
very  clever,  and  used  to  do  the  *pierrot;'  the 
French  clown,  dressed  all  in  white, —  for  their 
clown  is  not  like  our  clown, — and  they  danced 
the  rope  and  all.  The  troupe  was  called  the 
Russian  ptmtomimists.  There  we  met  Herr 
Hengler  again,  as  well  as  Deulan  the  dancer, 
who  was  (lancing  at  the  Eagle  and  at  the 
theatres  as  Harlekin ;  and  Anderson,  who  was 
one  of  the  first  clowns  of  the  day,  and  a  good 
comic  singer,  and  on  excellent  companion,  for 
he  could  make  puns  and  make  poems  on  every 
body  in  the  room.  He  did,  you  may  recollect, 
some  few  years  ago,  throw  himself  out  of 
winder,  and  killed  himself.  I  read  it  in  the 
newspapers,  and  a  mate  of  mine  afterwards 
told  me  he  was  crazy,  and  thought  he  was 
performing,  and  said,  **  Hulloa,  old  feller !  I'm 
coming!"  and  threw  himself  out,  the  same  as 
if  he'd  been  on  the  stage. 

*'  In  Paris  and  all  over  Switzerland  wc  per« 
formed  at  the  fairs,  when  we  had  no  engage^ 
ments  at  the  regular  theatres,  or  we'd  pitch  in 
the  streets,  just  according.     In  Paiis  we  was 

regular  stars.    There  was  only  rae  and  R , 

and  we  was  engaged  for  tliree  months  with 
Mr.  Le  Compte,  at  his  theatre  in  the  Passage 
Choiseul.  It's  all  children  that  acts  there; 
and  he  trains  young  octoi-s.  He's  called  the 
'Physician  to  the  King;'  indeed,  he  is  tha 
king's  conjurer. 

"Im  very  fond  ot'  France;  indeed,  I  first 
went  to  school  there,  when  I  was  alonpj  with 
Tagg.  You  see  I  never  liad  no  schooling  in 
Loudon,  for  I  was  so  busy  that  I  hadn't  no 
time  for  learning.  I  also  married  in  France. 
My  wife  was  a  groat  bender  (used  to  throw 
herself  backwards  on  her  hands  and  make  the 
body  in  a  harch).  I  think  slie  killed  herself 
at  it ;  indeed,  as  the  doctors  tolled  me,  it  was 
notliing  else  but  that.  She  would  keep  on 
doing  it  when  she  was  in  the  family  way. 
I've  many  a  time  ordered  her  to  give  over,  but 
she  wouldn't ;  she  was  so  fond  of  it ;  for  she 
took  a  deal  of  money.  She  died  in  childbed 
nt  St.  Malo,  poor  thing ! 

"  In  France  we  take  a  deal  more  money 
than  in  England.  You  see  they  all  give;  even 
a  child  will  give  its  mite ;  and  another  thing, 
anybody  on  a  Sunday  may  take  as  much 
money  as  will  keep  him  all  the  week,  if  they 
like  to  work.  The  most  money  I  ever  took  in 
all  ray  life  was  at  Calais,  the  first  Sunday 
cavalcade  after  I^ent:  that  is  the  Sunday  after 
Mardi-gras.  They  go  out  in  a  cavalcade, 
dressed  up  in  carnival  costume,  and  beg  for 

the  poor.    There  was  me,  Dick  S ,  and 

Jim  C and  his  wife,  as  danced  the  High- 
land fling,  and  a  chap  they  calls  Polka,  who 
did  it  when  it  first  came  up.  We  pitched  about 
the  streets,  and  wc  took  700  fi:ancs  all  in  half- 
pence—  that  is,  28/.  —  on  one  Sunday:  and 
you  mustn't  work  till  after  twelve  o'clock,  tliat 
is  grand  mass.  There  were  liards  and  cen- 
times, and  half-sons,  and  all  kinds  of  copper 


02 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


moiiry,  but  very  little  silver,  for  the  French- 
men Vnn't  afford  it;  but  all  copper  money 
change  into  five-frnno  pieces,  and  it's  the  same 
to  nie.  The  other  chaps  didn't  like  the  liards, 
so  I  bought  '01  ji  all  up.  They're  like  button- 
ho:i(N,  and  such-like ;  and  they  said  they 
-nouldn't  Imve  that  bad  money,  so  I  got  more 
than  my  share:  for  after  we  had  shared  I 
bought  the  heap  of  liards,  and  gave  ten  iVancs 
for  the  heap,  and  I  think  it  brought  me  in 
sixty  francH ;  but  then  I  had  to  run  about  to 
all  tlio  little  shops  to  get  five-franc  pieces. 
Yon  sne,  I  was  the  only  chap  that  spoke 
French ;  ko,  you  see,  I'm  worth  a  double  share. 
I  always  ttU  the  chaps,  when  they  come  to 
mc,  that  I  don't  want  nothink  but  my  share ; 
but  then  I  says,  *  You're  single  men,  and  I'm 
married,  and  I  must  support  my  children;' 
and  so  I  gets  a  little  out  of  the  h6tel  expenses, 
for  I  charges  them  \s,  M,  a-day,  and  at  the 
K«»coud-rate  h6tels  I  can  keep  them  for  a  shil- 
ling,'. Theres  three  or  four  schools  now  want 
me  to  take  them  over  to  France.  They  calls 
me  *  Fr»^n«'hy,'  because  I  can  talk  French  and 
C'ronjinn  tlnently — that's  the  name  I  goes  by. 

*'  I  used  to  go  to  all  the  fJtes  in  Paris  along 
with  my  troupe.  We  have  been  four  and  we 
have  U'on  five  in  one  troupe,  but  our  general  i 
nunibtT  is  fniu:,  for  we  don't  want  any  more 
than  four ;  for  we  can  do  the  three  high  and 
the  sproiul,  and  that's  the  principal  thing. 
Our  music  is  generally  the  drum  and  pipes. 
We  don't  take  them  over  with  us,  but  gets 
Italian<4  to  do  it.  Sometimes  we  gets  a  German 
band  of  five  to  come  for  a  share,  for  you  see 
tliey  can't  take  money  as  we  can,  for  our  per- 
formance will  cause  children  to  give,  and  with 
them  they  don't  think  about  it,  not  being  so 
partial  to  music. 

"  Posturing  to  this  day  is  called  in  France 
*  Le  Pislocftiion  anglais;'  and  indeed  the 
Knglish  fellows  is  the  best  in  the  world  at 
posturing :  we  can  lick  them  all.  I  think 
they  eat  too  much  bread ;  for  though  meat's 
so  cheap  in  the  south  of  France  {'Zd.  a-lb.), 
yet  they  don't  eat  it.  They  don't  eat  much 
potatoes  I'ither ;  and  in  the  south  they  gives 
them  to  the  pigs,  which  used  to  make  me 
grumble,  I'm  so  f<md  of  them.  Chickens,  too, 
is  Id.  tlie  pair,  and  you  may  drink  wine  at  Id. 
the  horn. 

*'  At  St.  Cloud  f(§te  we  were  called  •  I^s 
Quatre  Freres  anglais,'  and  we  used  to  pitch 
near  the  Cascade,  which  was  a  good  place  for 
us.  We  have  shared  our  30«.  each  a-day  then 
easy ;  and  a  great  deal  of  English  money  we 
got  then,  for  the  English  is  more  generous  out 
of  England.  There  was  the  f(?te  St  Ger- 
main, and  St.  Denis,  and  at  Versailles,  too ; 
and  we've  done  pretty  well  at  each,  as  well  as 
at  the  Champs  Elys^  on  the  1st  of  May,  as 
used  to  be  the  fete  Louis- Philippe.  On  that 
f^te  we  were  paid  by  the  king,  and  we  hail 
fifty  francs  a  man,  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink 
on  that  day;  and  every  poor  man  in  Paris  has 
two  pound  of  sausages  and  two  pounds  of 


bread,  and  two  bottles  of  wine.  But  we  were 
different  firom  that,  you  know.  We  had  a 
d/jeiniy  with  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  a  dinner 
fit  for  a  king,  both  brought  to  us  in  the  Champs 
Elys^es,  and  as  much  as  ever  we  hked  to  drink 
all  day  long — the  best  of  wine.  We  had  to 
perform  every  alternate  half-hour. 

**  I  was  in  Paris  when  Mr.  Macready  come 
to  Paris.  I  was  engaged  with  my  troupe  at 
the  Porte  St.  Martin,  where  we  was  called  the 
Bedouin  Arabs,  and  had  to  brown  our  faces. 
I  went  to  see  him,  for  I  knew  one  of  the 
actors.  He  was  very  good,  and  a  beautiful 
house  there  was — splendid.  All  my  other 
partners  they  paid.  The  price  was  half-a- 
guinea  to  the  lowest  place.  The  French  peo- 
ple said  he  was  very  good,  but  he  was  mostly 
supported  by  the  English  that  was  there. 
An  engagement  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  was 
lUOO  francs  a-week  for  five  of  \is;  bat  of 
course  we  had  to  leave  the  streets  alone  during 
the  four  weeks  we  was  at  the  theatre. 

**  I  was  in  Paris,  too,  at  the  revolntion  in 
1848,  when  Louis-Philippe  had  to  run  ofll 
I  was  in  bed,  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  those  that  began  the  revolntion 
was  coming  round — men  armed;  and  they 
come  into  ever}'body'8  bed-room  and  said,  *  You 
must  get  up,  you're  wanted.'  I  told  them  I 
was  English ;  and  they  said,  *  It  don't  matter; 
you  get  yoiur  living  here,  and  you  must  fight 
the  same  as  we  fight  for  our  liberty.'  They 
took  us — four  English  as  was  in  the  same 
gang  as  I  was  with — to  the  Barri^re  du 
TrOne,  and  made  us  pick  up  paving-stones. 
I  had  to  carry  them ;  and  we  formed  four  bar- 
ricades right  up  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine, 
close  to  the  Bastille.  We  had  sometimes  a 
bit  of  bread  an<l  a  glass  of  \vine,  or  brandy, 
and  we  was  four  nights  and  three  days  work- 
ing. There  was  a  groat  deal  of  chaff  going 
on,  and  they  called  me  *  le  petit  Supplier* 
posturer,  you  know — but  they  was  of  all  coun- 
tries. We  was  put  in  the  back -ground,  and 
didn't  fire  much,  for  we  was  ordered  not  to 
fire  unless  attacked ;  and  we  had  only  to  keep 
ground,  and  if  anything  come,  to  give  warn- 
ing ;  but  we  had  to  supply  them  with  powder 
and  ammunition  of  one  sort  and  another. 
There  was  one  woman — a  very  clever  woman 
—from  Normandy,  who  use<l  to  bring  us 
brandy  round.  She  died  on  the  barricade; 
and  there's  a  song  about  her  now.  I  was 
present  when  part  of  the  throne  was  homed. 
After  that  I  went  for  a  tour  in  Lorraine ;  and 
then  I  was  confined  in  Tours  for  thirty-four 
da^-s,  for  the  Republicans  passed  a  bill  that 
all  foreigners  were  to  be  sent  home  to  their 
own  countries ;  and,  indeed,  several  manufiae- 
tories  where  English  worked  had  to  stop,  for 
the  workmen  was  sent  home. 

"  I  came  back  to  England  in  1852,  and  Txe 
been  pitching  in  the  streets  ever  since.  I've 
changed  gangs  two  or  three  times  since  then ; 
but  there's  five  in  our  gang  now.  There's 
three  high  for  *  pyramids,'  and  *the  Arabs 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


03 


hiDg  down  ; '  that  is,  one  a-top  of  his  shoul- 
ders, and  one  hanging  down  from  his  neck ; 
•od  *  the  spread,'  that^s  one  on  the  shoulders, 
and  one  hanging  from  each  hand ;  and  *  the 
Hercules.'  that  is.  one  on  the  ground,  support- 
ing himself  on  his  hands  and  feet;  whilst 
one  stands  on  his  knees,  another  ou  his 
shoulders,  and  the  other  one  a-top  of  them 
two,  on  their  shoulders.  There's  loads  of 
tiicks  like  them  that  we  do,  that  would 
amoait  fill  up  your  paper  to  put  down.  There's 
one  of  our  gang  dances,  an  Englishman, 
vfailst  the  fifth  plays  the  drum  and  pipes. 
The  dances  are  mostly  comic  dances;  or,  as 
TO  call  them,  *  comic  hops.'  He  throws  his 
legs  about  and  makes  faces,  and  he  dresses 
u  a  clown. 

*  When  it's  not  too  windy,  wc  do  the  perch. 
We  carry  a  long  fir  pole  about  with  us,  twenty- 
four  feet  long,  and  Jim  the  strong  man,  as 
they  calls  me,  that  is  I,  holds  the  pole  up  at 
the  bottom.  The  one  that  runs  up  is  called 
the  sprite.  It's  the  bottom  man  that  holds 
the  pole  that  has  the  dangerous  work  in  la 
perche.  He's  got  all  to  look  to.  Anybody, 
who  has  got  any  courage,  can  nm  up  the 
pole;  but  I  have  to  guide  and  balance  it; 
and  the  pole  weighs  some  20  lbs.,  and  the 
sun  about  d  stone.  When  it's  windy,  it's 
vay  awkward,  and  I  have  to  walk  about  to 
keq)  him  steady  and  balance  him;  but  Im 
asrer  frightened,  I  know  it  so  well.  Tlie 
aan  who  runs  up  it  does  such  feats  as  these ; 
for  instance,  '  the  bottle  position,'  that  is  only 
holding  by  his  feet,  with  his  two  arms  ex- 
tended ;  and  then  '■  the  hanging  down  by  one 
toe,'  with  only  one  foot  on  the  top  of  the  pole, 
and  hanging  down  with  his  aims  out,  swim- 
■ing  on  the  top  on  his  belly ;  and  '  the  hori- 
zontal.' as  it  is  called,  or  supporting  the  body 
out  sideways  by  the  strength  of  the  arms,  and 
sadi.like,  winding  up  with  coming  down  head 
fiist. 

*  The  pole  is  fixed  very  tightly  in  a  socket 
m  my  waistband,  and  it  takes  two  men  to  pull 
it  out,  for  it  gets  jammed  in  with  his  force 
on  a-tup  of  it.  The  danger  is  more  with  the 
bottom  one  than  the  one  a-top,  though  few 
people  would  think  so.  You  see,  if  he  falls 
ofi^  be  is  sure  to  light  on  his  feet  like  a  cat ; 
for  we're  taught  to  tliis  trick ;  and  a  man  can 

,  jnnp  off  a  place  tlitrty  feet  high,  without 

halting  himself,  easy.    Now  if  the  people  was 

to  go  frontwards,  it  would  be  all  up  with  me, 

'  boMOse  with  the  leverage  and  its  being  fixed 

I  to  tight  to  my  stomach,  there's  no  help  for  it, 

I  lor  it  would  be  sure  to  rip  me  up  and  tear  out 

I  aiy  entrails.    I  have  to  keep  my  eyes  about 

I  i&e,  for  if  it  goes  too  fur,  I  could  never  regain 

the  balance  again.   But  it's  easy  enough  when 

jon're  accustomed  to  it. 

*  The  one  that  goes  up  the  pole  can  always 
lee  into  the  drawing-rooms,  and  he'll  tell  us 
vhere  it's  good  to  go  and  get  any  money,  for 
he  can  lee  the  people  peeping  behind  the 
cartains ;  and  they  generally  give  when  they 


find  they  are  discovered.  It's  part  of  his  work 
to  glance  his  eyes  about  him,  and  then  he 
calls  out  whilst  he  is  up, '  to  the  right,'  or  '  the 
left,'  as  it  may  be;  and  although  the  crowd 
don't  understand  him,  we  do. 

"  Our  gang  generally  prefer  performing  in 
the  West-end,  because  there's  more  *  calls' 
there.  Gentlemen  looking  out  of  window  see 
us,  and  call  to  us  to  stop  and  perform;  but 
we  don't  trust  to  them,  even,  but  make  a  col- 
lection when  the  performance  is  half  over ;  and 
if  it's  good  we  continue,  and  make  two  or  three 
collections  during  tlie  exhibition.  What  we 
consider  a  good  collection  is  7*.  or  8«.;  and 
for  that  we  do  the  whole  performance.  And  be- 
sides, we  get  what  we  call  *  ringings '  afterwards; 
that's  halfpence  that  are  thrown  into  the  ring. 
Sometimes  we  get  lOs.  altogether,  and  some- 
times more  and  sometimes  less;  though  it's 
a  very  poor  pitch  if  it's  not  up  to  5*.  I'm 
talking  of  a  big  pitch,  when  wc  go  through  all 
our  *  slang,'  as  we  say.  But  then  we  have  our 
little  pitches,  which  don't  lost  more  tlian  a 
quarter  of  an  hour — our  fiying  pitches,  as  we 
call  them,  and  for  them  O*.  is  an  out-and-outer, 
and  we  are  well  contented  if  we  get  half-a-crown. 
We  usually  reckon  about  twenty  pitches  a-day, 
that's  eight  before  dinner  and  twelve  after.  It 
depends  greatly  upon  the  holidays  as  to  what 
we  makes  in  the  days.  If  there's  any  faii-s  or 
feasts  going  on  we  do  better.  There's  two  days 
in  the  week  wo  reckon  nothing,  that's  Friday 
and  Saturday.  Friday's  little  good  all  day 
long,  and  Saturday's  only  good  after  sLx  o'clock, 
when  wages  have  been  paid.  My  share  may  on 
the  average  come  to  this : — Monday,  about  7«. 
or  85.,  and  the  same  for  Tuesday.  Then  Wed- 
nesday and  Thursday  it  falls  off  again,  per- 
haps 35.  or  4*. ;  and  Friday  ain't  wortli  much ; 
no  more  is  Saturday.  We  used  to  go  to 
Sydenham  on  Saturdays,  and  we  would  find  the 
gents  there;  but  now  it's  getting  too  late,  and 
the  price  to  the  Palace  is  only  2a.  (id.,  when  it 
used  to  be  5s.,  and  that  makes  a  wonderful 
difference  to  us.  And  yet  we  like  the  poor 
people  better  than  the  rich,  for  it's  the  half- 
pence that  tells  up  best  Perhaps  we  might 
take  a  half-sovereign,  but  it's  veiy  rare,  and 
since  1853  I  don't  remember  taking  more  than 
twenty  of  them.  There  was  a  Princess — I'm 
sure  I've  forgotten  her  name,  but  she  was 
German,  and  she  used  to  live  in  Grosvenor- 
square — she  used  to  give  us  half-a-sovereign 
every  Monday  during  three  months  she  was  in 
London.  The  servants  was  ordered  to  tell  us 
to  come  every  Monday  at  three  o'clock,  and  we 
always  did;  and  even  tliough  tliere  was  no. 
body  looking,  we  used  to  play  all  the  same ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  drum  ceased  playing,  there 
was  the  money  brought  out  to  us.  We  con- 
tinued playing  to  her  till  we  was  told  she  had 
gone  away.  We  have  also  had  sovereign  calls. 
When  my  gang  was  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  Lord 

Y has  often  give  us  a  sovereign,  and  plenty 

to  eat  and  drink  as  well. 

^  I  can't  say  but  what  it's   as  good  as   a 


94 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


hundred  a-year  to  me;  but  I  can't  say,  it's  the 
same  with  all  posturew:  for  you  see  I  can 
talk  French,  and  if  there's  any  foreigners  in 
the  crowd  I  can  talk  to  them,  and  they  are  sure 
to  give  something.  But  most  i)08turer8  make 
a  good  living,  and  if  they  look  out  for  it,  there 
are  few  but  make  80».  a- week. 

Posturing  as  it  is  called  (some  people 
call  it  contortionists,  that's  a  new  name; 
a  Chinese  nondescript  —  that's  the  first 
name  it  came  out  as,  although  what  wc 
ealls  posturing  is  a  man  as  can  sit  upon 
nothing;  as,  for  instance,  when  he's  on  the 
back  of  two  chairs  and  does  a  split  with  his 
legs  stretched  out  and  sitting  on  nothing  like) 
— posturing  is  reckoned  the  healthiest  life 
there  is,  because  we  never  get  the  rheumatics ; 
and  another  thing,  we  always  eat  hearty.  We 
often  put  on  wet  dresses,  such  as  at  a  fair, 
when  they've  been  washed  out  clean,  and  we  put 
them  on  before  they're  dry,  and  that's  what  gives 
the  rheumatism ;  but  we  arc  always  in  such  a 
perspiration  that  it  never  affects  us.  It's  very 
violent  exercise,  and  at  night  we  feels  it  in  our 
thighs  more  than  anywhere,  so  that  if  it's  damp 
or  cold  weather  it  hurts  us  to  sit  down.  If  it's 
wet  weather,  or  showery,  we  usually  get  up 
stiff  in  the  morning,  and  then  we  have  to 
•  crick '  each  other  before  we  go  out,  and  prac- 
tise in  our  bed-rooms.  On  the  Sunday  we 
also  go  out  and  practise,  either  in  a  field,  or  at 
the  *  Tan*  in  Bermondsey.  We  used  to  go  to 
the* Hops'  in  Maiden-lfUQO,  but  that's  done 
away  with  now. 

"  When  we  go  out  performing,  we  always 
take  our  dresses  out  with  us,  and  we  have  our 
regular  houses  appointed,  according  to  what 
part  of  the  town  we  play  in,  if  in  London ;  and 
we  have  one  pint  of  beer  a  man,  and  put  on 
our  costume,  and  leave  our  clothes  bebind  us. 
Every  morning  we  put  on  a  clean  dress,  so  we 
are  obliged  to  have  two  of  them,  and  whilst  we 
are  wearing  one  the  other  is  being  washed. 
Some  of  our  men  is  married,  and  their  wives 
wash  for  them,  but  them  as  isn't  give  the  dress 
to  anybody  who  wants  a  job. 

**  Accidents  are  very  rare  with  posturers. 
We  often  put  our  hip-bone  out,  but  that's  soon 
put  right  again,  and  we  are  at  work  in  a  week. 
All  oiir  bones  are  loose  like,  and  wo  can  ptiU 
one  another  in,  without  having  no  pullies. 
One  of  my  gang  bi-oke  his  leg  at  Cbatham 
race-course,  through  the  grass  being  slipper}-, 
and  ho  was  pitched  down  fVom  three  high; 
but  wc  paid  him  his  share,  just  the  same  as 
if  he  was  out  with  us ;  —  it  wouldn't  do  if  we 
didn't,  as  a  person  wouldn't  mount  in  bad 
weather.  That  man  is  getting  on  nicely, — 
he  walks  with  a  crutch  though, — but  he'U  be 
right  in  another  month,  and  then  he'll  only  be 
put  to  light  work  till  he's  strong.  He  ought 
not  to  be  walking  out  yet,  but  he's  so  daring 
there's  no  restraining  him.  I,  too,  once 
broke  my  arm.  I  am  a  hand-jumper;  that  is, 
I  a'most  always  light  on  my  hands  when  I 
jump.    I  was  on  a  chair  on  a  top  of  a  table, 


and  I  had  to  get  into  the  chair  and  do  what* 
we  call  the  fh)g,  and  jump  off  it,  coming  down 
on  my  hands.  Everything  depends  upon  how 
you  hold  your  arms,  and  I  was  careless,  and 
didnt  pay  attention,  and  my  arm  snapped 
just  below  the  elbow.  I  couldn't  work  for 
three  months.  I  was  at  Beauvais,  in  France, 
at  the  time,  but  the  circus  I  was  witli  sup- 
ported me. 

**  My  father's  very  near  seventy-six,  and  he 
has  been  a  timibler  for  fifty  years;  my  children 
are  staying  with  him,  and  he's  angry  tliat  I 
won't  bring  them  up  to  it :  but  I  want  them  to  • 
be  some  trotie  or  another,  because  I  don't  like 
the  life  for  tlicm.  Tliere's  so  much  suffering 
before  they  begin  tumbling,  and  then  there's 
prreat  temptation  to  drink,  and  such-like.  Pd 
sooner  send  them  to  school,  than  let  them  get 
their  liring  out  of  the  streets.  Pve  one  boy 
and  two  girls.  They're  always  at  it  at  home, 
indeed ;  father  and  my  sister-in-law  say  they 
cant  keep  them  firom  it.  The  boy's  very  nimble. 

**  In  the  winter  time  we  generally  goes  to  the 
theatres.  Wc  are  a'most  always  engaged  for 
the  pantomimes,  to  do  the  sprites.  We  always 
reckon  it  a  good  thirtecn-weeks'  job,  but  in 
the  country  it's  only  a  month.  If  we  don't 
apply  for  tlie  job  they  come  after  us.  The 
sprites  in  a  pantomime  is  quite  a  new  style, 
and  we  are  the  only  chaps  that  can  do  it, — 
the  posturers  and  tumblers.  In  some  theatres 
they  find  the  dn*sses.  Last  winter  I  was  at 
Liveri>ool,  and  wore  a  green  dress,  spangled 
all  over,  which  belonged  to  Mr.  Gopcland,  the 
manager.  We  never  speak  in  the  play,  but 
just  merely  rush  on,  and  throw  somersaults, 
and  frogs,  and  such -like,  and  then  rush  off 
again.  Little  Wheeler,  the  greatest  tumbler 
of  the  day,  was  a  posturer  in  the  streets,  and 
now  he's  in  France  doing  his  1(W.  a-weel^ 
engaged  for  three  years." 

The  Street  Bislet. 
There  is  but  one  person  in  London  who  goes 
about  the  street  doing  what  is  termed  "  The 
Kislcy  performance,"  and  even  he  is  rarely  to 
be  met  with. 

Of  all  the  street  professionals  whom  I  hare 
seen,  this  man  certainly  bears  off  the  palm  for 
respectability  of  attire.  He  wore,  when  he 
came  to  me,  a  brown  Chesterfield  coat  and 
Mack  continuations,  and  but  for  the  length  of 
his  hair,  the  immense  size  of  his  hmbs,  and 
the  peculiar  neatness  of  his  movements,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  have  recognized 
in  him  any  of  those  characteristics  which 
usually  distinguish  the  street  performer.  He 
had  a  chest  which,  when  he  chose,  he  could 
force  out  almost  like  a  pouter  pigeon.  The 
upper  part  of  his  body  was  broad  and  weighty- 
looking.  He  asked  me  to  feel  the  muscle  of 
his  arm,  and  doubling  it  up,  a  huge  lump  rose, 
almost  as  if  he  had  a  cocoa-nut  under  his 
sleeve;  in  fact,  it  seemed  as  fuHy  developed  as 
the  gilt  arms  placed  as  signs  over  the  gold- 
beaters' shops. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


05 


Like  most  of  toe  street  professionals,  he 
Tolimtcered  to  exhibit  before  me  some  of  his 
feaU  of  strength  and  agility.  Ho  threw  his 
bfad  back  (his  long  hair  tossing  about  like  an 
Indian  fly- whisk)  until  his  head  touched  his 
heels  and  there  he  stood  bent  backward,  and 
Dearly  dtuible,  like  a  strip  of  whalebone.  Then 
he  promenaded  round  the  room,  walking  on 
his  hands,  his  coat-tails  falling  about  his 
bbi'oldcrs,  and  making  a  rare  jingle  of  lialf- 
penoe  the  while,  and  his  legs  dangling  iu  front 
of  him  as  limp  as  the  lash  of  a  cart- whip.  I 
refused  to  allow  him  to  experiment  upon  me, 
and  politely  declined  his  obliging  offer  to 
raise  me  from  the  ground,  "  and  hold  me  at 
imi'is-length  like  a  babby." 

^Tien  he  spoke  of  his  parents,  and  the 
bruthers  who  performed  with  him,  he  did  so 
m  m^^t  affectionato  terms,  and  his  descriptions 
of  the  straggles  he  had  gone  tlirough  in  his 
fixed  determination  to  be  a  tumbler,  and  how 
he  bad  worked  to  gain  his  parents'  consent, 
had  a  peculiarly  s<.)n'owful  touch  about  them, 
05  if  he  still  blamed  himself  for  the  pain  lie 
had  caused  them.  Farther,  whenever  he 
ZDentioned  his  litUc  brothers,  ho  always 
stopped  for  two  or  three  minutes  to  explain 
to  me  that  they  were  the  cleverest  lads  in 
London,  and  as  true  aud  Idnd-hcartcd  as  they 
Tere  talented. 

He  was  more  minute  in  his  account  of  him- 
»df  than  my  space  will  permit  him  to  be ; 
for  as  he  said,  "  he  had  a  wonderful  rememory- 
ition.  and  could  recollect  imything." 

With  the  omission  of  a  few  interesting  de- 
tails, the  following  is  tlie  account  of  the  poor 
iellow  s  life  : — 

**  My  professional  name  is  Signer  Nelsonio, 
bat  iny  real  one  is  Nelson,  and  my  companions 
know  me  as  'Leu,'  which  is  short  for  Lewis. 
I  can  do  plenty  of  things  beside  tlie  liisley 
business,  fur  it  forms  only  one  part  of  my 
entertainment.  I  am  a  strong  man,  aud  a 
fire-king,  and  a  stone -breaker  by  the  fist,  as 
veil  as  being  sprite,  and  posturer,  and  doing 
•  la  f>erche.* 

Last  Christmas  (1855)  I  was,  along  with  my 
tro  brothers,  engaged  at  the  Theatre  Eoyal, 
Gieltenhani,  to  do  the  si>rites  in  the  panto- 
mime. I  have  brought  the  bill  of  the  per- 
ionnances  with  me  to  show  it  yon.  Here  you 
gee  the  pantomime  is  called  *THE  IMP  OF 
THE  NORTH,  or  The  Golden  Bason; 
nd  Harlequin  aud  the  ^Iillek's  Daugu- 
7EK.'  In  the  pantoiiiimical  transformations 
it  says,  *  SmiTES — by  the  Nelson  Family  :  * 
that's  me  and  my  two  brothers. 

•*  The  reason  why  I  took  to  the  lUsley  busi- 
ness was  this.  When  I  was  a  boy  of  seven  I 
went  to  school,  and  my  father  and  mother 
would  make  me  go ;  but,  unfortunately,  I  was 
stubborn,  and  would  not.  I  said  I  wanted  to 
do  some  work.  *  Well,'  said  they,  *  you  shan't 
do  any  work  not  yet,  till  you're  thiilecn  years 
dd,  and  yoa  shall  go  to  schooL'  Says  I,  *  I 
vmdo  vork.'    Well,  I  wouldn't;  so  I  plays 


the  truant.  Then  I  goei  to  amuse  myselt*,  and 
I  goes  to  Haggerstone-fields  in  tlie  Hackney- 
road,  and  then  I  see  some  boys  learning  to 
tumble  on  some  dung  there.  So  I  began  to 
do  it  too,  and  I  very  soon  picked  up  two  or 
three  tricks.  There  was  a  man  who  was  in 
tlie  profession  as  tumbler  and  acrobat,  who 
came  there  to  practise  his  feats,  and  he  see 
me  tumbling,  and  says  he,  *  My  lad',  will  you 
come  along  with  me,  and  do  the  Eisley  busi- 
ness, and  ill  buy  you  your  clothes,  and  give 
you  a  shilling  a- week  besides?'  I  told  him 
that  perhaps  mother  and  father  wouldn't  let 
me  go  ;  but  says  he,  *  0,  yes  they  will.'  So 
ho  comes  to  our  house ;  aud  says  mother, 
'  WTiat  do  you  want  along  wiUi  my  boy  ?'  and 
he  says,  *  I  want  to  make  a  tumbler  of  him.' 
But  she  wouldn't. 

"  My  father  is  a  tailor,  but  my  uncle  and 
all  the  family  was  good  singers.  My  uncle 
was  leuder  of  the  Druiy-lane  band,  and  Miss 
Nelson,  who  came  out  there,  is  my  cousin. 
Tliey  ore  out  in  Australia  now,  doing  very 
well,  giring  concerts  day  and  night,  and  clear- 
ing by  both  perloniionces  one  hundred  and  • 
titty  pounds,  day  aud  night  (and  sooner,  more 
than  less),  as  advertised  in  the  pa^KT  which 
they  sent  to  us. 

**  One  day,  instead  of  going  to  school,  I  went 
along  with  this  man  into  the  streets,  and  then 
he  did  the  Risley  business,  throwing  me  about 
on  his  hands  and  feet.  I  was  about  thu'teen 
years  old  then.  Mother  asked  me  at  night 
where  I  had  been,  and  when  I  said  I  had  been 
at  school,  she  went  and  asked  tlie  master  and 
found  mo  out  Then  I  brought  home  some 
dresses  once,  and  she  tore  Uiem  uj),  so  I  was 
forced  to  drop  going  out  in  the  streets.  I 
msuie  some  more  dresses,  and  she  tore  those 
up.  Then  I  got  chucking  about,  a  la  Hisley, 
my  htde  brother,  who  was  about  seven 
years  old ;  and  says  mother,  *  Let  that  boy 
alone,  you'll  break  his  neck.'  *  No,  I  shan't,' 
say  I,  and  I  kept  on  doing  till  I  had  leaint 
him  the  tricks. 

"  One  Saturday  night,  father  and  mother 
and  my  eldest  brother  went  to  a  concert-room. 
I  had  no  money,  so  I  couldn't  go.  I  asked  my 
little  brother  to  go  along  with  me  round  some 
tap-rooms,  exhibiting  with  me.  So  I  smuggled 
him  out,  telling  him  I'd  give  him  lots  of  cakes ; 
end  awuy  we  went,  and  we  got  about  seven 
shillings  and  sixpence.  I  got  home  before 
father  and  mother  come  home.  When  they 
returned,  father  says,  *^^^lere  have  you  been?* 
Then  I  showed  the  money  we  had  got ;  he  was 
regular  astonished,  and  says  he  '  How  is  this  ? 
you  can  do  nothing,  you  ain't  clever  I  *  I  says, 
*  Oh,  ain't  I  ?  and  it's  all  my  own  learning :'  so 
tlien  he  told  me,  that  since  he  couldn't  do 
nothing  else  with  me,  I  should  take  to  it  as 
my  profession,  aud  stick  to  it. 

"  Soon  after  I  met  my  old  friend  the  swal- 
lower  again,  in  Eatcliffehighway.  I  was  along 
with  my  little  brotlier,  and  both  dressed  up  in 
tights  and  spangled  trunks.  Says  he, '  Oh,  yon 


96 


«  LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


will  take  to  tumbling  will  you?  Well,  then,  come 
along  with  me,  and  we'll  go  in  the  country.* 
Then  he  took  us  down  to  Norwich  (to  Yar- 
mouth) ;  then  he  beat  me,  and  would  give  me 
no  clothes  or  money,  for  he  spent  it  to  go  and 
get  drunk.  We  not  sending  any  money  home, 
mother  began  to  wonder  what  had  become  of 
me ;  so  one  night,  when  this  man  was  out  with 
a  lot  of  girls  getting  drunk,  I  dipt  away,  and 
walked  thirty  miles  that  night,  and  then  I  began 
I)erforming  at  different  public-houses,  and  so 
worked  my  way  till  I  got  back  to  London 
again.  My  little  brother  was  along  with  me, 
but  I  carried  him  on  my  shoulders.  One  day  it 
came  on  to  rain  awful,  and  we  had  run  away  in 
our  dresses,  and  then  we  was  dripping.  I  was 
frightened  to  see  little  Johnny  so  wet,  and 
thought  he'd  bo  ill.  There  was  no  shed  or 
bam  or  nothing,  and  only  the  country  road, 
so  I  tore  on  tUl  we  came  to  a  roadside  inn, 
and  then  I  wrung  his  clothes  out,  and  I  only 
had  fourpcnce  in  my  pocket,  and  I  ordered 
some  rum'  and  water  hot,  and  made  him 
drink.  *  Drink  it,  it'll  keep  the  cold  out  of 
you.'  When  we  got  out  he  was  quite  giddy,  and 
kept  sa}ing,  *  Oh,  I'm  so  wet  I '  With  all  these 
misfortunes  I  walked,  carrying  the  little  chap 
across  my  shoulders.  One  day  I  only  had  a 
halfpenny,  and  Johnny  was  crying  for  hunger, 
Ko  I  goes  to  a  fellow  in  a  orchard  and  say  I, 
•  Can  you  make  me  a  ha'path  of  apples  ?  *  He 
would  take  the  money,  but  he  gave  a  cap-full 
of  fallings.  I've  walked  thirty-eight  miles  in 
one  day  canying  him,  and  I  was  awfully  tired. 
On  that  same  day,  when  we  got  to  Colchester, 
we  put  up  at  the  Blue  Anchor,  and  I  put 
Johnny  into  bed,  and  I  went  out  myself  and 
went  the  round  of  the  public-houses.  My  feet 
was  blistered,  but  I  had  my  light  tumbling 
slippers  on,  and  I  went  to  wox^  and  got  sixteen 
pence-halfpenny.  This  got  us  bread  and 
cheese  for  supper  and  breakfast,  and  paid 
threepence  each  for  the  bed ;  and  the  next  day 
we  went  on  and  performed  in  a  village  and  got 
three  shillings.  Then,  at  Chelmsford  we  got 
eight  shillings.  I  bought  Johnny  some 
clothes,  for  he  had  only  his  tights  and  little 
trunks,  and  though  it  was  summer  he  was 
cold,  especially  after  rain.  The  nearer  we 
got  to  lK>ndon  the  better  we  got  off,  for  they 
give  US  then  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  we 
did  pretty  well  for  money.  After  I  passed 
Chelmsford  I  never  was  hungry  again.  When 
we  got  to  Romford,  I  waited  two  days  till  it 
was  market-day,  when  we  performed  before 
the  country  people  and  got  plenty  of  money 
and  beer ;  but  I  never  cared  for  the  beer.  We 
took  four  shillings  and  sixpence.  I  wouldn't 
let  Johnny  take  any  beer,  for  Pm  fond  of  him, 
and  he's  eleven  now,  and  the  cleverest  little 
fellow  in  England ;  and  I  learnt  him  every- 
thing he  knows  out  of  my  own  head,  for  he 
never  had  no  master.  We  took  the  train  to 
London  from  Romford  (one  shilling  and  six- 
pence each),  and  then  we  went  home. 
**When  we  got  back,  mother  and  father 


said  they  knew  how  it  would  be,  and  laughed 
at  us.  They  wanted  to  keep  us  at  home,  but 
I  wouldn't,  and  they  was  forced  to  give  way. 
In  London  I  stopped  still  for  a  long  time,  at 
last  got  an  engagement  at  two  shillings  a- 
night  at  a  penny  gaff  in  Shoreditch.  It  was 
Sambo,  a  black  man,  what  went  about  the 
streets  along  with  the  Demon  Brothers—* 
acrobats — that  got  me  the  engagement. 

"  One  night  father  nnd  mother  came  to  see 
me,  and  they  was  frightennd  to  soe  me  chuck- 
ing my  brother  about ;  and  she  calls  out,  *  Oh, 
don't  do  that!  youll  lirenk  his  back.'  The 
people  kept  hollaring  out,  *  Turn  that  woman 
out ! '  but  she  answers,  *  They  are  my  sons  — 
stop  'em !'  When  I  bent  myself  back'ards  she 
calls  out,  <  Lord !  mind  your  bones.' 

"  After  this  I  noticed  that  my  other  brother, 
Sam,  was  a  capital  hand  at  jumping  over  the 
chairs  and  tables.  He  was  as  active  as  a 
monkey ;  indeed  he  plays  monkeys  now  at  the 
different  ballets  that  comes  out  at  the  chief 
theatres.  It  struck  me  he  would  make  a  good 
tumbler,  and  sure  enough  he  is  a  good  one. 
I  asked  him,  and  he  said  he  should  ;  and  then 
he  sec  me  perform,  and  he  declared  he  would 
be  one.  He  was  at  my  uncle's  then,  as  a 
carver  and  gilder.  When  I  told  father,  says  he, 
*  Let  'em  do  as  they  hke,  they'll  get  on.'  I  said 
to  him  one  day,  *  Sam,  let's  see  what  you're  like : 
so  I  stuck  him  up  in  his  chair,  and  stuck  his 
legs  behind  his  head,  and  kept  him  like  that 
for  Ave  minutes.  His  limbs  bent  beautiAil^ 
and  he  didn't  want  no  cricking. 

**I  should  tell  you,  that  before  that  he 
done  this  here.  You've  heard  of  Bdcer,  the 
red  man,  as  was  performing  at  the  Citf  of 
London  Theatre;  well,  Sam  see  the  cut  of 
him  sitting  in  a  chair  with  his  legs  folded* 
just  like  you  fold  your  arms.  So  Sam  pulls 
down  one  of  the  bills  with  the  drawing  on  it» 
and  he  says,  *I  can  do  that,'  and  he  goes 
home  and  practises  fh)m  the  engraving  till 
he  was  perfect.  T^en  he  show^  me,  and 
says  I,  *•  That's  the  style !  it's  beautifVd !  you'll 
do.' 

"  Then  we  had  two  days'  practice  together, 
and  we  worked  the  double-tricks  together. 
Then,  I  learned  him  style  and  grace,  what  I 
knowed  myself;  such  as  coming  before  an 
audience  and  making  the  obedience ;  and  by 
and  by  says  I  to  him,  *  We'll  come  out  at  a 
theatre,  and  make  a  good  bit  of  money.' 

"Well,  we  went  to  another  exhibition,  and 
we  came  out  all  three  together,  and  our  salary 
was  twenty-five  shillings  a- week,  and  we  was 
very  successful.  Then  we  got  outside  Peter's 
Theatre  at  Stepney  fair,  the  last  as  ever 
was,  for  it's  done  away  with  now;  we  did 
very  well  then ;  they  give  us  twelve  shil- 
lings a-day  between  us  for  three  days.  We 
did  the  acrobating  and  Risley  business  out- 
side  the  parade,  and  inside  as  well.  Sam  got 
on  wonderful,  for  his  mind  was  up  to  it,  and 
he  liked  the  work.  I  and  my  brothers  can  da 
as  well  as  any  one  in  this  business,  I  dont 


GAEBET-MASTER;  OE  CHEAP  FUENITUBE  5IAKEE- 

iFroK  a  Stitch.} 


LOXDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


07 


core  who  comes  before  us.  I  can  do  upwards 
!.'♦'  oue  hundred  and  twenty  one  ilifiVrent  tricks 
iu  tumbling,  when  I'm  along  with  those  little 
lrll«»ws.  "VVe  con  do  the  hoops  and  glasses — 
putting  a  glass  of  beer  on  my  forehead,  and 
}:-.ing  throui^h  hoop??  double,  and  lying  down 
»nd  getting  up  again  itithout  spillhig  it.  Thon 
tlieres  the  bottle-sprite,  and  tiie  short  stilts, 
&nd  globo  running  and  globe  dancing,  and 
chair  tricks ;  perform  with  the  chairs ;  and  the 
p.<le  trick — laperche — iiith  two  boys,  not  one 
miDd  you. 

••  We've  been  continuing  ever  since  at  this 
EiJiy  business.  I  lay  dtjwii  on  a  cari)ot,  and 
ilirow  then  summersets  from  feet  to  feet.  I 
tell  vi>u  what  the  music  plnys  to  it, — it's  the 
nilway  overtime,  and  it  begins  now  and  then 
quicker  and  quicker,  till  I  throw  them  fast  as 
bghtniug.  Sam  does  about  fifty-four  or  fifty- 
five  of  these  summersets  one  after  another, 
aailJohny  does  about  twenty-five,  because  he's 
littler.  Then  there's  standing  upright,  and 
staud  'em  one  in  one  hand  and  one  on  the 
other.  Then  I  throws  them  up  iu  summersets, 
and  catch  'em  on  my  pahu,  and  then  I  chuck 
Vm  on  the  grormd. 

-The  art  with  me  lying  on  the  ground  is 
that  it  takes  the  strength,  and  the  sight  to  see 
tiiai  I  catch  'em  properly ;  for  if  I  missed,  they 
mi^ht  break  their  necks.  The  audience  fancies 
that  it's  most  with  them  tumbling,  but  every 
thing  depends  upon  me  catching  them  pro- 
perir.  Every  time  they  jump,  I  have  to  give 
*em  a  jtirk,  and  iwca.  'em  properly.  It's  almost 
as  much  work  as  if  I  was  doing  it  myself. 
When  they  learn  at  first,  they  do  it  on  a  soft 
ground,  to  as  not  to  hurt  theirselvcs.  It  don't 
make  the  blood  come  to  the  head  lying  down 
so  long  on  my  back — only  at  first. 

"  Tve  done  the  Ilisley  business  first  at  peimy 
exhibitions,  an«l  after  that  I  went  to  fairs;  then 
I  went  r«jund  the  country  with  a  booth  —  a 
man  named  ^lanly  it  was  ;  but  we  dropped 
that,  'cos  my  little  brother  was  knocked  up, 
f -r  it  was  too  hard  work  for  the  little  fellow 
building  up  and  taking  down  the  booth  some- 
thnes  twice  in  a-day,  and  then  going  off"  twenty 
miles  further  on  to  another  fair,  and  building 
up  again  the  next  dny.  Then  we  went  pitch- 
ing about  in  the  main  streets  of  the  towns  in 
tic  country.  Then  1  always  had  a  dram  and 
pipes.  As  soon  as  a  ci-owd  collected  I'd  say, 
'Gentlemen,  I'm  from  the  principal  theatres  in 
London,  and  before  1  begin  I  must  have  five 
shillings  in  the  ring.'  Then  we'd  do  some, 
tDii  after  that,  when  half  was  over,  I'd  say, 
'  Now,  gentlemen,  the  better  part  is  to  come, 
anil  if  you  make  it  worth  my  while,  I  go  on 
^'h  this  here  entertainment;'  then,  perhaps, 
thi:-}''d  give  me  two  sliillings  more.  I've  done 
l>ad  and  done  good  in  the  country.  In  one 
day  I've  taken  two  pounds  five  shillings,  and 
itiany  days  we've  not  taken  eight  shillings,  and 
there  was  four  of  us,  me  and  my  two  brothers 
and  the  drummer,  who  had  two-and-sixpence 
a-day,  and  a  pot  of  beer  besides.    Take  one 


week  'R'ith  another  we  took  regular  twopoimds 
five  shillings,  and  out  of  that  I'd  send  from 
twenty  to  thirty  shillings  a-week  home  to  my 
parents.  Oh,  I've  been  very  good  to  my 
parents,  and  I've  never  missed  it.  I've  been 
a  wild  boy  too,  imd  yet  I've  always  takon  care 
of  father  and  mother.  They've  had  twehe  in 
family  and  never  a  stain  on  their  character, 
I  nor  never  a  key  turned  on  them,  but  aio  up- 
right and  honourable  people. 

**  At  a  idace  called  Erenfurd  in  Norfolk — 
where  there's  such  a  lot  of  wild  rabbits — we 
done  so  well,  that  we  took  a  room  and  had  bills 
printed  and  put  out.  We  charged  threepence 
each,  and  the  room  was  crowded,  for  wo  shared 
twenty-five  shillings  between  us.  When  the 
people  see'd  me  and  my  brothers  come  on 
dressed  all  in  red,  and  tumble  about,  they  actu- 
ally swore  we  were  devils,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  place ;  so  tliat,  though  there  was  a  room  fuU, 
there  was  only  two  stopped  to  see  the  perform- 
tmces.  One  old  man  called  out,  *0  wenches' 
' — tlicy  call  their  wives  wenches — 'come  out, 
they  be  devils.'  We  came  out  with  red  faces 
and  horns  and  red  dresses,  and  away  they 
went  screaming.  There  was  one  woman 
.trampled  on  and  a  child  knocked  out  of  her 
arms.  In  some  of  these  country  towns  they're 
shocking  strict,  and  never  having  seen  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  they're  scared  directly. 

"  About  six  months  ago  I  went  to  Woolwich 
with  the  boys,  and  there  was  a  chap  that 
wanted  to  fight  me,  because  I  wouldn't  go 
along  with  him.  So,  I  says,  *We  won't  have  no 
fighting ; '  so  I  went  along  with  him  to  Graves- 
end,  and  then  we  asked  permission  of  the 
mayor,  'cos  in  country  towns  we  often  have  to 
ask  the  mayor  to  let  us  go  performing  in  the 
streets.  There  we  done  very  well,  taking 
twenty-five  shillings  in  the  day.  Then  we 
worked  up  by  Chatham,  and  down  to  Heme- 
bay,  and  Ramsgate;  and  at  Rarasgate  we 
stopped  a  week,  doing  uncommon  well  on  the 
sands,  for  the  peo}de  on  the  chairs  would  give 
sixi>ence  and  a  shilling,  and  say  it  was  very 
clever,  and  too  clever  to  be  in  the  streets.  We 
did  Margate  next,  and  then  Deal,  and  on  to 
Dover  by  the  boaL  At  Dover,  the  mayor 
wouldn't  let  us  perform,  and  snid  if  he  catchcd 
us  in  the  streets  he'd  have  us  took  up.  We 
were  very  hard  up.  So  I  said  to  Sam,  *  You 
must  go  out  one  way  and  I  and  Johnny  the 
other,  and  busk  in  the  public-house.'  Sam  got 
eight  shillings  and  sixpence  and  I  four  shil- 
lings. But  I  had  a  row  with  a  sailor,  and  I 
was  bruised  and  had  to  lay  up.  TVlien  I  was 
better  we  moved  to  Folkestone.  There  was 
the  German  soldiers  there,  and  we  did  very 
weU.  I  went  out  one  day  with  our  carpet  to  a 
village  close  by,  and  some  German  officers 
made  us  perform,  and  gave  us  five  shillings, 
and  then  we  went  the  n)und  of  the  beer-shops, 
and  altogether  we  cleared  five  pounds  before 
we  finished  tliat  day.  We  also  went  up  to  the 
camp,  where  the  tents  was,  and  I  asked  tlie 
colonel  to  let  me  perform  before  the  men,  and 


98 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


he  said,  '  Well  it  ain't  Qsaal,  but  yoa  may  if 
you  like.'  The  officers  we  fotmd  was  so  pleased 
they  kept  on  giving  us  two-shilling  pieces, 
and  besides  we  had  a  lot  of  foreign  coiQ, 
which  we  sold  to  a  jeweller  for  ten  shillings. 
"  I  worked  my  way  on  to  Canterbury  and 
Winchester,  and  then,  by  a  deal,  of  persuasion 
I  got  permission  to  perform  in  the  back-streets, 
and  we  done  very  weU.    Then  we  went  on  to 
Southampton.    There  was  a  cattle  fair,  on — 
Celse>  fair  is,  I  think,  the  name  of  it;  and 
then  I  joined  another  troupe  of  tumblei^and 
we  worked  the  fair,  and  after  that  went  oKto 
Southampton ;  and  when  we  began  working  on 
the  Monday,  there  was  another  troupe  work- 
ing as  welL    After  we  had  pitched  once  or 
twice,  this  other  troupe  came  and  pitched 
opposition  against  us.     I  couldn't  believe  it 
at  first,  but  when  I  see  which  was  their  lay, 
then  says  I,  *  Now  I'll  settle  this.'  We  was  here, 
as  it  was,  and  they  came  right  on  to  us — there, 
as  it  may  be.     So  it  was  our  dinner-time,  and 
we  broke  up  and  went  off.    After  dinner  we 
came  out  again,  and  pitched  the  carpet  in  a 
square,  and  they  came  close  to  us  again,  and 
as  soon  as  they  struck  up,  the  people  run 
away  to  see  the  new  ones.    So  I  said  *  I  don't 
want  to  ii^iire  them,  but  they  shan't  injure  us.' 
So  I  walked  right  into  the  middle  of  their  ring, 
and  threw  down  the  carpet,  and  says  I,  *  Now, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  best  performance  is 
the  one  that  deserves  best  support,  and  111 
show  you  what  I  can  do.'    I  went  to  work 
with  the  boys,  and  was  two  hours  doing  all  my 
tumbling  tricks.    They  was  regularly  stunned. 
The  silver  and  the   balance  covered  ^e 
carpet  right  over,  as  much  as  it  would  hold. 
I  think  there  was  three  pojunds.    Then  I 
says,  *  Now  you've  seen  the  tumbling,  now  see 
the  perche.'    They  had  a  perche,  too ;  it  was 
taller  than  mine ;  but,  as  I  told  them,  it  was 
because  I  couldn't  get  no  higher  a  one.    So 
I  went  to  work  again,  and  cries  I,  *Now,  both 
boys  up ; '  though  I  had  only  stood  one  on  up  to 
that  time,  and  had  never  tried  two  of  'em. 
Up  they  gets,  and  the  first  time  they  come 
over,  but  never  hurt  theirselves.    It  was  new 
to  me,  you  see.    *  Up  again,  lads,'  says  I ;  and 
up  they  goes,  and  did  it  beautiftd.      The 
people  regular  applauded,  like  at  a  theatre. 
Down  came  the  money  in  a  shower,  and  one 
gentleman  took  his  hat  round,  and  went  col- 
lecting for  us.     Says  I  to  this  other  school, 

*  You  tried  to  ii^jure  us,  and  what  have  you 
got  by  it?  I  beat  you  in  tumbling,  and  if  you 
can  match  the  perche,  do  it.'  Then  they  says, 

*  We  didn't  tiy  to  injure  you;  come  and  drink 
a  gallon  of  beer.'  So  off  we  went,  and  the 
police  told  'em  to  choose  their  side  of  the 
town  and  we  would  take  ours.  That  settled 
the  opposition,  and  we  both  done  well. 

"I've  done  the  Risley  in  the  streets  of 
London,  more  so  than  at  theatres  and  con- 
certs. The  stone  paving  don't  hurt  so  much 
as  you  would  think  to  lie  down.  We  don't  do 
it 


di£forence  whatsumever  in  Bptinging  off  the 
stones.  It  pays  very  well  at  times,  you 
know ;  but  we  don't  like  to  do  it  often,  because 
afterwards  they  dont  like  to  appreciate  yon 
in  concerts  and  theatres,  and  likewise  penny 
exhibitions. 

"  My  brother  Sam  can  jump  like  a  frog,  on 
his  hands,  through  his  legs,  out  of  a  one-pair 
window;  and  little  Johnny  throws  out  of  a 
one-pair-of-8tairs  window  a  back  summerset. 

'*  It's  astonishing  how  free  the  bones  get  bj 
practice.  My  broUier  Sam  can  dislocate  his 
umbs  and  replace  them  again;  and  when 
sleeping  in  bed,  I  very  often  find  him  lying 
with  his  legs  behind  his  neck.  It's  quite 
accidental,  and  done  without  knowing,  and 
comes  natural  to  him,  fh>m  being  alwsya 
tumbling.  Myself,  I  often  in  my  dreams  often 
frighten  my  wife  by  starting  up  and  half 
throwing  a  summersault,  fancying  I'm  at  the 
theatre,  and  likewise  I  often  lie  with  my  heels 
against  my  head. 

'*  We  are  the  only  family  or  persons  going 
about  the  streets  doing  the  Risley.  I've 
travelled  all  through  England,  Scotland,  and 
Wales,  and  I  don't  know  anybody  but  our- 
selves. When  we  perform  in  the  London 
theatres,  which  we  do  when  we  can  get  an 
engagement,  we  get  six  or  seven  poimds  a- 
week  between  us.  We've  appeared  at  the 
Pa>'ilion  two  seasons  running;  likewise  at 
the  City  of  London,  and  the  Standard,  and 
also  all  the  cheap  concerts  in  London.  Then 
we  are  called  '  The  Sprites '  by  the  Nelson 
family  will  appear ;  •  or,  The  Sprites  of  Jupiter;' 
or,'Sons  of  Cerea;'  or,*  Air-climbers  of  Arabia!' 

**  Taking  all  the  year  round,  I  dare  say  my 
income  comes  to  about  thirty-five  shillings  or 
two  pounds,  and  out'  of  that  I  have  to  find 
dresses.* 

Tub  STROMa  Man. 

**  I  HIVE  been  in  the  profession  for  about  thir- 
teen years,  and  I  am  thirty-two  next  birthday. 
Excepting  four  years  that  I  was  at  sea,  I've 
been  solely  by  the  profession.  I'm  what  is 
termed  a  strong  man,  and  perform  feats  of 
strength  and  posturing.  What  is  meant  by 
posturing  is  the  distortion  of  the  limbs,  such 
as  doing  the  splits,  and  putting  your  leg  over 
your  head  and  pulling  it  down  your  bock,  a 
skipping  over  your  leg,  and  such-Uke  business. 
Tumbling  is  different  from,  posturing,  and 
means  throwing  summersets  and  walking  on 
your  hands;  and  acrobating  means  the  two 
together,  with  mounting  three  stories  high, 
and  balancing  each  other.  These  are  the 
definitions  I  make. 

**  I  was  nineteen  before  I  did  anything  of  any 
note  at  all,  and  got  what  I  call  a  living;  salary. 
Long  before  that  I  had  been  trying  tiie  busi- 
ness, going  in  and  out  of  these  f^e  concerts, 
and  trying  my  hand  at  it,  fancying  I  was  very 
clever,  but  disgusting  the  audience,  for  they 


when  it's  muddy.     The    boys   finds    no  I  are  mostly  dulfers  at  these   f^ree  concerts; 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


90 


rbich  is  clearly  the  case,  for  they  only  do  it 
for  a  pint  every  now  and  then,  and  depend 
upon  passing  the  hat  round  after  their  per- 
formance. I  never  got  mach  at  collections,  so 
I  mast  have  been  a  duffer. 

**  My  father  is  an  architect  and  builder,  and 
his  income  now  is  never  less  than  a  thousand 
ijear.  Like  a  fool,  I  wouldn't  go  into  his 
office :  I  wish  I  had.  I  preferred  going  to  sea. 
I  was  always  hankering  after  first  one  vessel 
and  then  another.  I  used  to  be  fond  of  going 
down  to  the  docks,  and  such-hke,  and  looking 
a  the  vessels.  Pd  talk  with  the  sailors  about 
foreign  countries,  and  such-like,  and  my  am- 
bition was  to  be  a  sailor.  I  was  the  scabby 
sheep  of  the  family,  and  I've  been  punished 
for  it.  I  never  went  into  the  governor's 
office ;  but  when  I  was  about  fourteen  I  was 
put  trj  a  stonemason,  for  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  be  a  carver,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
I  was  two  years  there,  and  I  should  have  done 
very  well  if  I  had  stayed,  for  I  earned  a 
guinea  o-wcek  when  I  left. 
'  "  Before  I  went  to  the  stonemason  I  was  at 
the  Victoria,  taking  checks — when  there  was 
aoT.  I  had  an  uncle  there  who  kept  the  saloon 
there.  I  was  always  very  partial  to  going  to 
the  theatre,  for  all  our  people  are  chapel  peo- 
ple, and  that  I  never  liked.  My  father's  par- 
bur  is  always  smothered  with  ministers,  and 
mine  with  tumblers,  and  that's  the  difference. 
I  Qsed  to  go  and  see  my  uncle  at  the  Yic,  so 
•s  to  get  to  the  theatre  for  nothing.  I  wasn't 
paid  fbr  taking  the  checks,  but  I  knew  the 
eheck-taker,  and  he'd  ask  me  to  help  him,  and 
I  was  too  glad  to  get  inside  a  theatre  to  refuse 
the  job.  They  were  doing  dreadful  business. 
It  was  under  Levi,  and  before  Glossop's  time. 
It  was  before  the  glass  curtain  come  out.  The 
glass  curtain  was  a  splendid  thing.  It  went 
straight  up,  never  wound.  You  can  even  now 
see  where  the  roof  was  highered  to  receive  it. 
Levi  has  got  the  Garrick  now.  They  say  he's 
Bot  doing  much. 

**  The  first  thing  I  did  was  at  a  little  beer- 
shop,  comer  of  Southwark-bridge-road  and 
Union -street.  I  had  seen  Herbert  do  the 
Grecian  statues  at  the  Vic,  in  *  Hercules, 
King  of  Clubs,'  and  it  struck  me  I  could  do 
'em.  So  I  knew  this  beer- shop,  and  I  bought 
hilf-a-crown's  worth  of  tickets  to  be  allowed 
to  do  these  statues.  It  was  on  a  boxing-night, 
I  remember.  I  did  them,  but  tliey  were 
dreadful  bad.  The  people  did  certainly  ap- 
plaud, but  what  for,  I  don't  know,  for  I  kept 
shaking  and  wabbling  so,  that  my  marble 
statue  was  rather  ricketty;  and  there  was  a 
strong  man  in  the  room,  who  had  been  per- 
forming them,  and  he  came  up  to  me  and  said 
that  I  was  a  complete  duffer,  and  that  I  knew 
nothing  about  it  at  all.  So  I  replied,  that  he 
knew  nothing  about  his  feats  of  strength,  and 
that  I'd  go  and  beat  him.  So  I  set  to  work  at 
it ;  for  I  was  determined  to  lick  him.  I  got 
five  quarter-of-hundred  weights,  and  used  to 
practice  throwing  them  at  a  friend's  back-yard 


in  the  Waterloo-road.  I  used  to  make  myself 
all  over  mud  at  it,  besides  having  a  knock  of 
the  head  sometimes.  At  last  I  got  perfect 
chucking  the  quarter  hundred,  and  then  I  tied 
a  fourteen  pound  weight  on  to  them,  and  at 
last  I  got  up  half-hundreds.  I  learnt  to  hold 
up  one  of  them  at  arm's  length,  and  even  tlien 
I  was  obliged  to  push  it  up  with  the  other 
hand.  I  idso  threw  them  over  my  head,  as 
well  as  catching  them  by  the  ring. 

"I  went  to  this  beer-shop  as  soon  as  I 
could  do,  and  came  out.  I  wasn't  so  good  as 
he  was  at  lifting,  but  that  was  all  he  could  do ; 
and  I  did  posturing  with  the  weights  as  well, 
and  that  licked  him.  He  was  awfully  jealous, 
and  I  had  been  revenged.  I  had  learnt  to  do 
a  split,  holding  a  half-hundred  in  my  teeth, 
and  rising  with  it,  ^vithout  touching  the 
ground  with  my  hands.  Now  I  can  li^  five, 
for  I've  had  more  practice.  I  had  tremendous 
success  at  this  beer-shop. 

**  It  hurt  me  awftilly  when  I  learnt  to  do  the 
split  with  the  weight  on  my  teeth.  It  strained 
me  all  to  pieces.  I  couldn't  put  my  heels  to 
the  ground  not  nicely,  for  it  physicked  my 
thighs  dreadful.  When  I  was  hot  I  didn't 
feel  it;  but  as  I  cooled,  I  was  cramped  all  to 
bits.  It  took  me  nine  months  before  I  could 
do  it  without  feeling  any  pain. 

"  Another  thing  I  learnt  to  do  at  this  beer- 
shop  was,  to  break  the  stone  on  the  chest. 
This  man  used  to  do  it  as  well,  only  in  a  very 
shght  way  —  with  thin  bits  and  a  cobbler's 
hammer.  Now  mine  is  regular  flagstones. 
I've  seen  as  many  as  twenty  women  faint 
seeing  me  do  it.  At  this  beer-shop,  when  I  first 
did  it,  the  stone  weiglied  about  three  quarters 
of  a  hundred,  and  was  an  inch  thick.  I  laid 
down  on  the  ground,  and  the  stone  was  put  on 
my  chest,  and  a  man  with  a  sledge  hammer, 
twenty-eight  pounds  weight,  struck  it  and 
smashed  it.  The  way  it  is  done  is  this.  You 
rest  on  your  heels  and  hands  and  throw  your 
chest  up.  There  you  are,  like  a  stool,  i^ith 
the  weight  on  you.  When  you  see  the  blow 
coming,  you  have  to  give,  or  it  would  knock 
you  all  to  bits. 

"  When  I  was  learning  to  do  this,  1  prac- 
tised for  nine  months.  I  got  a  friend  of  mine 
to  hit  the  stone.  One  day  I  cut  my  chest 
open  doing  it.  I  wasn't  paying  attention  to 
the  stone,  and  never  noticed  that  it  was  hol- 
low ;  so  then  when  the  blow  came  down,  the 
sharp  edges  of  the  stone,  from  my  having 
nothing  but  a  fleshing  suit  on,  cut  right  into 
the  flesh,  and  made  two  deep  incisions.  I  hod 
to  leave  it  off  for  about  a  month.  Strange 
to  say,  this  stone-breaking  never  hurt  my 
chest  or  my  breathing ;  I  rather  think  it  has 
done  me  good,  for  I'm  strong  and  hearty,  and 
never  have  illness  of  any  sort. 

"  The  first  time  I  done  it  I  was  dreadful 
frightened.  I  knew  if  I  didn't  stop  still  I 
should  have  my  brains  knocked  out,  pretty 
well.  When  I  saw  the  blow  coming  I  trembled 
a  good  bit,  but  I  kept  still  as  I  was  able.    It 


100 


£ONI>OIf  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDOIT  POOR. 


WAS  a  hard  blow,  Ibr  it  broke  fhe  bit  of  Toric- 
shire  paving,  about  an  inch  thick,  into  about 
sixty  pieces. 

"  I  got  very  hard  up  whilst  I  was  perform- 
ing at  this  beer-shop.  I  had  run  away  from 
home,  and  the  performances  were  only  two 
nights  a-week,  and  brought  me  in  about  six 
shillings.  I  wasn't  engaged  anywhere  else. 
One  night,  a  Mr.  Bmanuel,  who  had  a  benefit 
at  the  Salmon  Saloon,  Union-street,  asked  mc 
to  appear  at  his  benefit.  He  hod  never  seen 
me,  but  only  heard  of  my  performances.  I 
agreed  to  go,  and  he  got  out  the  bills,  and 

christened  me  Signer  C ;  and    he    hod 

drawings  mfuie  of  the  most  extravagant  kind, 
with  me  holding'  my  arms  out  with  about  ten 
fifty-six- pound  weights  hanging  to  them  by 
the  rings.  Ho  had  the  weights,  hamraerH, 
and  a  tremen<ious  big  stone  chained  outside 
the  door,  and  there  us«d  to  bo  mobs  of  people 
there  all  day  long  looking  at  it 

*'  This  was  the  first  success  I  made.  Mr. 
Emanuel  gave  five  shillings  for  the  stone,  and 
had  it  brought  up  to  the  saloon  by  two  horses 
in  a  cart  to  make  a  sensation.  It  weighed 
fVom  four  to  five  hundred  weight  I  think  I 
had  such  a  thing  as  five  men  to  lift  it  up 
for  me. 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  about  this  engagement^ 
and  I  was  at  the  coffee-house  where  I  lodged. 
The  fact  was,  I  was  in  rags,  and  so  shabby  I 
didn't  like  to  go,  and  if  he  hadn't  come  to 
fetch  me  I  should  not  have  gone.  He  drove 
up  in  his  chaise  on  the  night  in  question  to 

this  coffee-shop,  and  he  says,  *  Signer  C , 

make  haste ;  go  and  change  your  clothes,  and 
come  along.'  I  didn't  know  at  first  he  was 
speaking  to  me,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had 

been  Signer  C .    Then  I  told  him  I  had 

got  my  best  suit  on,  though  it  was  very  ragged , 
and  no  mistake  about  it  for  I  remember  there 
was  a  good  hole  at  each  elbow.  He  seemed 
astonished,  and  at  last  proposed  that  I  should 
wear  his  great-coat ;  but  I  wouldn't,  because, 
as  I  told  him,  his  coat  would  be  as  well 
known  at  the  saloon  as  he  himself  vma,  and 
tlmt  it  didn't  suit  me  to  be  seen  in  another's 
clothes.  So  he  took  me  just  as  I  was.  When 
we  got  there,  the  landlady  was  regularly  flab- 
bergastered  to  see  a  ragged  fellow  like  me 
come  to  be  star  of  the  night.  She'd  hardly 
speak  to  me. 

•'  There  was  a  tremendous  house,  and  they 
had  turned  above  a  hundred  away.  When  I 
got  into  the  saloon,  Emanuel  says,  'Wbat'U 
you  have  to  drink  ?'  I  said,  '  Some  brandy ; ' 
but  my  landlord  of  the  coffee-house,  who  had 
come  unbeknown  to  me,  he  grumbles  out, 
*  Ask  him  what  he'll  have  to  eat,  for  he's  had 
nothing  since  the  slice  of  bread-and-butter  for 
breakfast.'  I  trod  on  his  toe,  and  8a3rs, 
*Keep  quiet,  you  fool!'  Emanuel  behaved 
like  a  regular  brick,  and  no  mihtake.  He 
paid  for  the  supper  and  everything.  I  was 
regularly  ashamed  when  the  landlord  let  it 
out  though.    That  supper  put  life  into  me,  | 


for  it  almost  had  the  same  eflbot  npon  me  as 
drink. 

**  It  soon  got  whispered  about  in  the  saloon 
that  I  was  the  strong  man,  and  everybody  got 
handing  me  their  glasses ;  so  I  was  regularly 
tipsy  when  it  was  time  to  go  on,  and  they  had 
put  me  off  to  the  last  on  purpose  to  draw  the 
people  and  keep  them  there  drinking. 

"  I  had  a  regular  success.  When  the  women 
saw  the  five  men  put  the  stone  on  my  diest, 
they  all  of  them  called  out,  *  Don't!  don't!' 
It  was  a  block  like  a  curb,  about  a  foot  thidc," 
and  about  a  four  feet  six  inches  long.  I  went 
with  Bmanuel  to  buy  it  I  had  never  tried 
such  a  big  one  before,  It  didn't  feel  so  heavy 
on  the  diest  for,  you  see,  you've  got  such  out- 
and-out  good  support  on  your  hands  and 
heels.  I've  actually  seen  one  man  raise  a 
stone  and  another  a  waggon.  If  s  the  purchase 
done  it  I've  lifted  up  a  cart-horse  right  off 
his  legs. 

**  The  stone  broke  after  six  blows  with  a 
twenty-eight  pomid  sledge-hammer.  Then 
you  should  have  heard  the  applause.  I  thought 
it  would  never  give  over.  It  smashed  all  to 
atoms,  just  like  glass,  and  there  was  the 
people  taking  away  the  bits  to  keep  as  a  rs* 
membrance. 

''As  I  went  out  the  landlady  asked  me  tt> 
have  a  bottle  of  soda-water.  The  landlady 
was  frightened,  and  told  me  she  had  felt  sure 
I  should  be  killed.  I  was  the  second  that 
ever  done  stone-breaking  in  England  or 
abroad,  and  I'm  the  first  that  ever  did  such  a 
big  one.  The  landlady  was  so  alarmed  that 
she  wouldn't  engage  me,  for  she  said  I  must  be 
killed  one  of  the  nights.  Her  behaviour  waa 
rather  different  as  I  went  out  to  when  I 
came  in. 

"  I,  of  courne,  didn't  go  on  in  my  rags.  I 
had  a  first-rate  stage  dress. 

"  After  this  grand  appearance  I  got  engaged 
at  Gravesend  fair  by  Middleton,  and  there  I 
had  eight  sliilliugs  a-dny,  and  I  stopped  with 
him  three  weeks  over  the  fair.  I  used  to  do 
my  performances  outside  on  the  parade,  never 
inside.  I  haii  to  do  the  stone -breaking  about 
nine  or  ten  times  a-day.  They  were  middling 
stones,  some  larger  and  some  smaller,  and  the 
smaller  ones  about  half-a-hundrcd  weight,  I 
suppose.  Any  man  might  bring  his  stone  and 
hammer,  and  break  it  himself.  The  one  who 
struck  was  generally  chosen  from  the  crowd ; 
the  biggest  chap  they  could  find.  I've  heard 
'em  say  to  me,  *  Now,  old  chap,  I'll  smash  you 
all  to  bits;  so  look  out!'  The  fact  is,  the 
harder  they  strike  the  better  for  me,  for  it 
smashes  it  at  once,  and  don't  keep  the  people 
in  suspense. 

"  It  was  at  Gravesend  that  I  met  with  my 
second  and  last  accident  With  the  cutting  oif 
the  chest,  it  is  the  only  one  I  ever  had.  The 
feller  who  come  up  to  break  the  stone  was 
half  tipsy  and  missed  his  aim,  and  obliged  me 
by  hitting  my  finger  instead  of  the  stone.  I 
said  to  bun,  *  Mind  what  yon  are  doing,'  but 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


101 


I  popped  my  hand  behind  me,  and  when  I 
got  19  X  eonldn't  make  out  what  the  people 
m  oyisg  oat  about,  till  I  looked  round  at 
Bj  back  and  then  I  was  smothered  in  blood. 
Middleton  said,  *Good  Godl  what's  the 
Batterer'  and  I  told  him  I  was  hit  on  the  finger. 
When  the  cry  was  givan  of  'All  in  to  begin,'  I 
vent  into  a  booth  doae  by  and  had  some 
ItaoG^,  and  got  a  doctor  to  strap  up  the 
flngezvand  then  I  went  on  witii  the  parade 
bo^nesa  jnat  the  same,  it  didn't  pain  me 
nothing  like  what  I  should  have  thought.  It 
wia  too  hard  a  knock  to  jwin  me  much.  The 
only  time  I  felt  it  was  when  the  doctor  dressed 
it,  iiar  it  gare  me  pepper  taking  the  plaster  off. 

"I  was  at  Gravesend  some  time,  and  I  went 
to  work  again  stone>masoning,  and  I  had  a 
guinea  a- week,  and  in  the  evening  I  used  to 
porfbrm  at  the  Kosc  Inn.  I  did  just  as  I  liked 
there.  I  never  cliarged  'em  anything.  I 
lived  in  the  house  and  they  never  charged  mc 
iBytbinfr.  It  was  a  first-rate  house.  If  I 
vaated  five  shillings  Td  get  it  from  the  land- 
luid.  I  was  there  about  eleven  months,  and 
ill  that  time  I  Uved  there  and  paid  nothing. 
I  had  a  benefit  there,  and  tliey  wouldn't  even 
durge  me  for  printing  the  bills,  or  cords,  or 
tnything.  It  was  (piite  a  clear  benefit^  and 
evez>'  penny  taken  at  the  doors  was  givon  to 
ma.  I  chtirged  a  shilling  adniiitance,  and  tlie 
room  wab  cmwded,  and  they  was  even  on  the 
aairs  standing  tip-toe  to  look  at  me.  I  wanted 
some  weights,  and  usked  a  butcher  to  lend  'em 
to  me,  and  he  says,  *■  Lend  'cm  to  you!  aye,  take 
the  machine  and  all  if  it'll  serve  you.'  I  was 
a  great  favourite,  as  you  may  guess. 

'^  After  Gravesend  I  come  up  to  London,  and 
vent  and  played  the  monkey  at  the  Bower 
Saloon.  It  was  tho  first  time  I  had  done  it. 
There  was  all  the  monkey  business,  jumping 
oier  tables  and  chairs,  and  all  mischievous 
thmgs ;  and  there  was  climbing  up  trees,  and 
ip  two  perpendicular  ropes.  I  was  dressed 
in  a  monkey's  dress ;  it's  made  of  some  of 
their  hearth-rugs  ;  and  my  face  was  painted.' 
h's  very  difficult  to  paint  a  monkey's  face. 
Tve  a  great  knack  tliat  way,  and  can  always 
BUnage  anything  of  that  sort. 

**  From  the  Bower  I  went  on  to  Portsmouth. 
Td  got  hard  up  again,  for  I'd  been  idle  for 
three  months,  for  I  couldn't  get  any  money, 
nd  I  never  appear  under  price.  I  walked  all 
die  way  to  Portsmouth,  carrying  a  half-bun- 
Jnd  weight,  besides  my  dress,  oU  tlie  way ;  I 
played  at  the  top-rooms  on  the  road.  I  did 
pretty  middling,  earned  my  living  on  tho  road, 
•bout  two  shillings  a-day.  When  I  got  to 
Poitsmouth  I  did  get  a  job,  and  a  good  job  it 
WIS,  only  one  shilling  and  sixpence  a-night ; 
hot  I  thought  it  better  to  do  that  than  nothing. 
I  only  did  comic  singing,  and  I  only  knew  two 
Mogs,  but  I  set  to  f|nd  learnt  a  lot.  I  am  very 
eonrtgeoufl,  and  if  I  can't  get  my  money  one 
wiy,  fwill  another.  With  us,  if  you've  got  a 
shHling,  you're  a  fool  if  you  spend  that  before 
70a  have  another.    I  stopped  at  this  public- 


house  fbr  two  months,  and  then  a  man  who 
came  from  Portsea,  a  town  dose  by,  oame 
one  night,  and  he  asked  me  what  I  was  doing. 
He  had  heard  of  what  I  could  do,  and  he 
offered  me  two  pounds  a-week  to  go  with  him 
and  do  the  stanong  business.  He  kept  the  Star 
Inn  at  Portsea.  I  stopped  there  such  a  thing 
as  two  years,  and  I  did  welL  I  had  great  sue- 
cess,  for  the  place  was  cramm'd  every  night. 
For  my  benefit,  Major  Wyatt  and  Captain 
HoUoway  gave  me  their  bespeak,  and  permis- 
sion for  the  men  to  come.  The  admission  was 
sixpence.  Half  tlie  regiment  marched  down, 
and  there  was  no  room  for  the  public.  I  was 
on  the  stage  for  two  huurs  during  my  perform- 
ances. I  was  tired,  and  fainted  away  as  dead 
as  a  hammer  oiler  the  curtain  feU. 

**  Among  other  things  I  announced  that  I 
should,  whilst  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  lift 
a  horse.  I  had  this  horse  paraded  about  the 
towii  for  a  week  before  my  night.  There  was 
such  a  house  that  numbers  of  people  was 
turned  away,  and  a  comic  singer  who  was  per- 
forming at  a  house  opposite,  he  put  out  an 
announcement  that  he  too  would  lift  a  horse, 
and  when  the  time  come  he  brought  on  a 
cloUies -horse. 

"  The  way  I  did  the  horse  was  this :  I  was 
hanging  by  my  ankles,  and  the  horse  was  on 
a  kiudofpLufunn  under  me.  I  had  two  sheets 
rolled  up  and  tied  round  the  horse  like  belly- 
bands,  and  then  I  passed  my  arms  through 
them  and  strained  him  up.  I  didn't  keep  bun 
long  in  the  air,  only  just  lifted  him  off  his 
legs.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  bandage  got  off 
his  eyes,  and  then,  what  with  tho  music  and 
the  applauding,  the  poor  brute  got  frightened 
and  begun  plunging.  I  couldn't  manage  him 
at  all  whilst  he  was  kicking.  He  got  his  two 
hind  legs  over  tho  orchestra  and  knocked  all 
the  fioat-lights  out.  They  kept  roaring,  *  Bring 
him  out !  bring  him  out ! '  as  if  they  thought  I 
was  going  to  put  him  under  my  arm — a  Uiun- 
dering  big  brute.  I  was  afraid  he'd  crack  his 
knees,  and  I  should  have  to  pay  for  him.  The 
fiddler  was  rather  uneasy,  I  con  tell  you,  and 
the  people  began  shifting  about.  I  was  frights 
ened,  and  so  I  managed  to  pop  port  of  the 
sheet  over  his  head,  and  then  I  gave  a  tremen- 
dous strain  and  brought  him  bacOc  again. 

"  How  tlie  idea  of  lifting  a  horse  ever  came 
into  my  head,  I  don't  know.  It  came  in  a 
minute ;  I  hod  never  tried  it  before.  I  knew 
I  should  have  a  tremendous  purchase.  The 
fact  is,  I  had  intended  to  do  a  swindle  by 
having  lines  passed  down  my  dress,  and  for 
somebody  behind  to  pull  the  ropes  and  help 
me.  The  town  was  in  an  uproar  when  I  an- 
nounced I  should  do  it 

**  It  was  at  my  benefit  that  I  first  broke  stones 
with  my  fist.  I  don't  know  whose  original 
notion  it  was.  I  was  not  the  first ;  there's  a 
trick  in  it.  It's  done  this  way :  anybody  can 
do  it.  You  take  a  cobbler's  lapstone,  and  it's 
put  on  a  half-hundred  weight;  you  must  hold 
it  half  an  in^h  above,  and  then  the  concnssion 


IM 


LQKIHiN  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOKDOIT 


then  a  fellow  must  be  no  good  if  he  doesn't 
pay  for  the  third  when  it  comes,  and  the 
day's  money  don't  nm  to  it,  and  you're  in  a 
hole.- 

The  Stbeet  Juooleb. 

Thx  juggler  fh)m  whom  1  reoehred  the  follow- 
ing account,  was  spoken  of  by  his  companions 
and  friends  as  **  one  of  the  deyerest  that  ever 
came  out"  He  was  at  this  time  performing 
in  the  evening  at  one  of  the»chief  saloons  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water. 

He  certainly  appears  to  ^ave  been  sucoess- 
ftil  enough  when  he  first  appeared  in  the 
streets,  and  the  way  in  which  he  squandered 
the  amount  of  money  ho  then  made  w  a  con- 
stant source  of  misexy  to  him,  for  he  kept  ex- 
claiming in  the  midst  of  his  narmtive,  **  Ah ! 
I  might  have  been  a  gentleman  now,  if  I 
hadn't  been  the  fool  I  was  then." 

As  a  proof  of  his  talents  and  success  he 
assured  me,  that  when  Bamo  Samee  first  came 
out,  he  not  only  learned  how  to  do  all  the  In- 
dian's tricks,  but  also  did  tliem  so  dexterously, 
that  when  travelling  **Samee  has  often  paid 
him  ten  shillings  not  to  perfonn  in  the  same 
town  with  him." 

He  was  a  short  man,  with  iron-grey  hair, 
which  had  been  shaved  high  upon  the  temples 
to  allow  him  to  assume  iho  Indian  costume. 
The  skin  of  the  face  was  curiously  loose,  and 
formed  deep  lines  about  the  chin,  whilst  in 
the  cheeks  there  were  dimples,  or  rather 
hollows,  almost  as  deep  as  tiiose  on  a  sofd 
cushion.  He  had  a  singular  look,  from  his 
eyebrows  and  eyes  being  so  black. 

His  hands  were  small  and  delicate,  and 
when  he  took  up  anything,  he  did  it  as  if  he 
were  lifting  the  cup  with  the  ball  under  it 

"  I'm  a  juggler,"  he  said.  "  but  I  don't  know 
if  that's  the  right  term,  for  some  people  call 
conjurers  jugglers ;  but  it's  wrong.  When  I 
was  in  Ireland  they  called  me  a  "  mannlist," 
and  it  was  a  gentleman  wrote  the  bill  out 
for  me.  The  dififeronce  I  makes  between 
colouring  and  juggling  is,  one's  deeei\'ing  to 
the  eye  and  the  other's  pleasing  to  the  eye 
— yes,  that's  it — it's  dexterity. 

"  I  dare  say  I've  been  at  juggling  40  years, 
for  I  was  between  14  and  15  when  I  begun, 
and  I'm  50  now.  I  remember  Hamo  Samee 
and  all  the  first  process  of  the  art.  He  was 
the  first  as  ever  I  knew,  and  very  good  indeed ; 
there  was  no  otlier  to  oppose  him,  and  he 
must  have  been  good  then.  I  suppose  I'm 
the  oldest  juggler  alive. 

"  My  father  was  a  whitesmith,  and  kept  a 
shop  in  the  Waterloo-road,  and  I  ran  away 
tram  him.  There  was  a  man  of  the  name  of 
Humphreyskeptariding-schoolintheWaterloo- 
road  (there  was  very  few  houses  there  then, 
only  brick-fields — aye,  what  is  the  Victoria 
theatre  now  was  then  a  pin-factory  and  a 
hatter's;  it  wasn't  opened  for  performance 
then),  and  I  used  to. go  to  this  riding-school 
and  practise  tumbling  when  the  horse-dung 


was  thrown  out,  tar  X  was  voy  'ambii 
be  a  tnmbler.  When  I  used  to  go 
here  dung-heap,  sometimas  father  won 
me  to  blow  the  fire  or  strike  for  fa: 
he'd  come  after  me  and  catch  me  tu 
and  take  off  his  apron  and  wallop  mi 
all  the  way  home;  and  the  leather  strix 
to  hurt,  I  can  tell  you. 

^I  first  went  to  work  at  the  pin- 
when*  the  Coburg's  built  now,  and  < 
tumbling  then.  Then  I  went  to  a  ha 
Oakley-street,  and  there  I  took  to  ti 
again,  and  usod  to  get  practising  on  tl 
packs  (they  made  the  hats  then  out 
stuff  and  h  ore-skins,  and  such-like,  i 
couldn't  get  a  hat  then  imder  25«.)  ;  I 
get  my  heart  away  from  tumbling  all  1 
I  was  there,  for  it  was  set  on  it  1 
begin  tumbling  when  I  went  out  .on  < 
doing  hnnd-spring,  and  starts-up  (that 
on  your  back  and  throwing  yourself  t 
roimd-alls  (that's  throwing  yourself  ba 
on  to  your  hands  and  back  again  to  yo' 
and  walking  on  my  hands.  I  never 
of  the  men  see  me  practise.  I  had  t 
the  warehouse  up,  and  all  the  wool  wu 
and  I  used  to  have  a  go  to  myself 
morning  before  they  was  up. 

*^  The  iray  I  got  into  my  profesaiona 
was  this:  I  used  to  have  to  go  and 
men's  beer,  for  I  was  kept  for  that  ^ 
I  had  to  go  to  the  men's  homes  to  fet 
breakfasts,  and  the  dinners  and  1 
wish  I  had  such  a  place  now.  The  in 
me  a  shilling  a-week,  and  there  was  t 
them  when  in  full  work,  and  the  maal 
me  45.  Qd.  Besides  that  they  never 
on  a  Monday,  but  I  was  told  to  feU 
food  just  the  same,  so  that  their  wives  a 
know;  and  I  had  all  their  twelve 
breakfasts,  and  so  on.  I  kept  abont  ai 
boys  there,  and  anybody  might  have  the 
that  liked,  for  I've  sometimes  put  'em  c 
for  somebody  to  find. 

**I  was  one  day  going  to  fetch  thi 
beer  when  I  meets  another  boy,  and  1 
*  You  can't  walk  on  your  hands.'  *  Cant 
I,  and  1  puts  down  tlie  cans  and  off  I 
and  walked  on  my  hands  from  one  en 
stieet  to  the  other,  prettj-  nigh.  Mr.  5 
the  rider,  one  of  the  oldest  riders  t 
(before  Dur row's  time,  for  Duorow 
'prentice  of  his,  and  he  allowed  Sand 
a-week  for  all  his  lifetime),  was  pas 
and  he  see  me  walking  on  my  Iiands, 
come  up  and  snys,  *  My  boy,  where 
l>eloug  to  ?'  and  I  answers,  *  My  fathc 
then  he  says,  *Do  you  think  he'd 
come  along  with  me?'  I  told  him  I'^ 
ask ;  and  I  ran  off,  but  never  ^ 
father — you'll  understand  —  and  th( 
minute  or  ti^o  I  came  back  and  said, 
says  yes,  I  may  go  when  I  thinks  ] 
and  then  Mr.  Sanders  took  me  to 
fields,  and  there  was  a  gig,  and  he  di 
down  to  Ware,  in  Hertfordshire. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


105 


n 


*Yoammj  as  well  soj  this  here.  The  dr- 
coMt  at  that  time  wasn't  as  they  are  now. 
Tbey  used  to  call  it  in  the  profession  moulding, 
aid  the  public  termed  it  mountebanking. 
Moulding  was  making  a  ring  in  a  field,  for 
thoe  was  no  booths  then,  and  it  comes  from 
£gging  up  the  mould  to  make  it  soft  for  the 
bocses'  feet.  There  was  no  charge  for  seeing 
the  ezhibitiun,  for  it  was  in  a  field  open  to 
the  public ;  but  it  was  worked  in  this  way : 
these  was  prizes  giren  away,  and  the  tickets 
to  the  lottery  were  Is.  each,  and  most  of  the 
people  bought  'em,  though  they  weren't  ob- 
figaled  to  do  so.  Sometimes  the  prizes  would 
he  a  fiTe-pound  note,  or  a  silver  watch, 
Miybe,  or  a  sack  of  flour,  or  a  pig.  They  used 
t»take  the  tickets  round  in  a  hat,  and  ever}*- 
body  saw  what  they  drawed.  They  was  all 
ywei  peihaps  a  penny  ring — but  there  was 
BO  blanks.  It  was  the  last  night  that  paid 
heat  The  first  and  second  nights  Sanders 
voald  giye  them  a  first-rate  prize ;  but  when 
the  last  night  came,  then  a  half-crown  article 
laa  the  highest  he'd  give  away,  and  that 
helped  to  draw  up.  I've  know'd  him  give  4/.  or 
iL  away,  when  he'd  not  taken  2/.  Mr.  Sanders 
pat  me  to  tumbling  in  the  ring.  I  could  tumble 
w^  before  I  went  with  him,  for  I'd  practised 
€Q  this  dung-heap,  and  in  this  hatter's  shop. 
I  beat  all  his  apprentices  wliat  he  had.  He 
tidnt  give  me  anything  a- week,  only  my  keep, 
hot  I  was  glad  to  run  away  and  be  a  showman. 
I  was  Texy  sncoessful  in  the  riDg-tumbling,  and 
fnm  that  I  got  to  be  clever  on  the  stilts  and  on 
the  elack-rope,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the  pro- 
kmaQf  the  waulting-rope.  "When  I  was  ragged 
I  lead  to  mn  home  again  and  get  some  clothes. 
tm  BUBiy  a  time  scon  him  burst  out  into 
tem  to  see  me  come  home  so  ragged.  *  Ah,' 
Wdasy,  'where  have  you  been  now? — tum- 
Vfing,  I  suppose.'  I'd  answer, '  Yes,  father ; ' 
lad  then  he'd  say,  *  Ah,  your  tumbling  will 
I  hoBg  yon  to  the  gallows.'  I'd  stop  with  him 
'  tin  he  gave  me  some  fresh  clothes,  and  then 
I  Id  holt  again.  You  see  I  liked  it.  I'd  go  and 
4e  it  (or  nothing.  Now  I  dread  it ;  but  it's 
=  too  late,  unfortunately. 

"  I  ran  away  from  Sanders  at  last,  and  went 

baek  to  father.      One  night   I  went  to  the 

theatoe,  and  there  I  see  Ramo  Samee  doing  his 

j  jecgUng,  and  in  a  minute  I  forgot  all  about 

'  the  tomhling,  and  only  wanted  to  do  as  he  did. 

Directly  I  got  home  I  got  two  of  the  plates, 

ttd  went  into  a  back-room  and  began  prac 

tinog,  making  it  turn  round  on  the  top  of  a 

ttich.    I  broke  nearly  all  the  plates  in  the 

liOQse  doing  this — that  is,  what  I  didn't  break 

I  I  cracked.    I  broke  the  entire  set  of  a  dozen 

I  ptites,  and  yet  couldn't  do  it    ^Vhen  mother 

'  toond  all  her  plates  cracked,  she  said,  *lt'8 

thtt  boy;'  and  I  had  a  good  hiding.    Then  1 

Ftt  on  my  Sunday  suit  and  bolted  away  again. 

•  lahrays  bolted  in  my  best  clothes.    I  then 

j  Vtti about  tumbling  in  the  public-houses,  till  I 

I   ^  got  money  enough  to  have  a  tin  plate  made 

^  a  deep  rim,  and  with  this  tin  plate  I  learnt 


it,  so  thati  could  afterwards  do  it  with  a  crockery 
one.  I  kept  on  my  tumbling  till  I  got  a  set  of 
wooden  baUs  turned,  and  I  stuck  brass  coffin- 
nails  all  over  them,  ao  that  they  looked  like 
metal  when  they  was  up;  and  I  began  teach- 
ing myself  to  chuck  them.  It  took  a  long  time 
learning  it,  but  I  was  fond  of  it,  and  deter- 
mined  to  do  it  I  was  doing  pretty  well  with 
my  tumbling,  making  perhaps  my  9s,  or  4j. 
a-night^  so  I  was  pretty  well  off.  Then  I  got 
some  tin  knives  made,  and  leamt  to  throw 
them:  and  I  bought  some  iron  rings,  and 
bound  them  with  red  and  blue  tape,  to  make 
them  look  handsome ;  and  I  leamt  to  toss  tliem 
the  same  as  the  bolls.  I  practised  balancing 
pipes,  too.  Phery  time  I  went  into  a  public 
house  I'd  take  a  pipe  away,  so  it  didn't  cost  me 
anything.  I  dare  say  I  was  a  twelvemonth 
before  I  could  juggle  well.  When  I  could 
throw  the  three  balls  middling  tidy  I  used  to  do 
them  on  the  stilts,  and  that  was  more  than  ever 
a  man  attempted  in  them  days ;  and  yet  I  was 
only  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age.  I  must 
have  been  summut  then,  for  I  went  to  Oxford 
fair,  and  there  I  was  on  my  stilts,  chuckuig  my 
balls  in  the  public  streets,  and  a  gentleman 
came  up  to  me  and  asked  me  if  I'd  take  an  en- 
gagement,  and  I  said  *  Yes,  if  it  was  a  good 
un* — for  I  was  taking  money  like  smoke ;  and 
he  agreed  to  give  me  a  pound  a-day  during  the 
fair;  it  was  a  week  fair.  I  had  so  much 
money,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  ^  I 
actually  went  and  bought  a  silk  neckerchief 
for  every  day  in  the  week,  and  flash  boots,  and 
caps,  and  everything  I  could  see,  for  I  never  had 
so  much  money  as  in  them  days.  The  master, 
too,  mode  his  share  out  of  me,  for  he  took 
money  like  dirt 

"  From  Oxford  I  worked  my  way  over  to  Ire- 
land. I  had  got  my  hand  into  juggling  now, 
but  I  kept  on  with  my  old  apparatus,  though 
I  bought  a  new  set  in  Dublin.  I  used  to  have 
a  bag  and  bit  of  carpet,  and  perform  in  streets. 
I  had  an  Indian's  drc'ss  made,  with  a  long 
horse-hair  tail  down  my  back,  and  white  bag- 
trousers,  trimmed  with  red,  like  a  Turk's,  tied 
right  roimd  at  the  ankles,  and  a  flesh-coloured 
skull-cap.  My  coat  was  what  is  called  a 
Turkish  fly,  in  red  velvet,  cut  off  like  a  waist- 
coat,  with  a  peak  before  and  behind.  I  was  a 
regular  swell,  and  called  myself  the  Indian 
Juggler.  I  used  to  perform  in  the  barracks 
twice  a-day,  morning  and  evening.  I  used  to 
make  a  heap  of  money.  I  have  taken,  in  one 
pitch,  more  than  a  pound.  I  dare  say  I've 
taken  91,  a-day,  and  sometimes  more  indeed ; 
I've  saved  a  waggon  and  a  booth  there, — 
a  very  nice  one, — and  the  waggon  cost  mo 
14/.  second-hand;  one  of  Vickiy's  it  was,  a 
wild-beast  waggon.  I  dare  say  I  was  six 
months  in  Dublin,  doing  first-rate.  My  per- 
formances was  just  the  same  then  as  they  is 
now ;  only  I  walked  on  stilts,  and  they  was 
new  then,  and  did  the  business.  I  was  the 
first  man  ever  seed  m  Ireland,  either  juggling 
or  on  the  stilts. 


>o.  I.Xl. 


R 


106 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


**  I  had  a  drain  and  pipes,  and  I  nsed  to  play 
them  myself.  I  played  any  tmie, — anythink, 
just  what  I  could  think  of,  to  draw  the  crowd 
together;  then  I'd  moimt  the  stilts  and  do 
what  I  called  *  a  drunken  fh)lic,'  with  a  bot- 
tle in  my  fcandf  tumbling  about  and  pretending 
to  be  drmik.  Then  I'd  chuck  the  balls  a. 
bout,  and  the  knives,  and  the  rings,  and  twirl 
the  plate.  I  wound  ttp  with  the  ball,  throwing 
it  in  the  air  and  catching  it  in  a  cup.  I  didnt 
do  any  balancing  pipes  on  my  nose,  not 
whilst  on  the  stilts. 

.  **  I  used  to  go  out  one  day  on  the  stilts 
and  one  on  the  ground,  to  do  the  balancing. 
I'd  balance  pipes,  straws,  peacocks'  feathers, 
and  the  twirling  plate. 

**  It  took  me  a  long  time  learning  to  catch 
the  ball  in  the  cup.  I  practised  in  the  fields 
or  streets;  anywhere.  I  began  by  just 
throwing  the  ball  a  yard  or  two  in  the  air,  and 
then  went  on  gradually.  The  first  I  see  do 
the  ball  was  a  man  of  the  name  of  Dussang, 
who  came  over  with  Ramo  Samee.  It's  a 
very  dangerous  feat,  and  even  now  I'm  never 
safe  of  it,  for  the  least  wind  will  blow  it  to  the 
outside,  and  spoil  the  aim.  I  broke  my  nose 
at  Derby  races.  A  boy  ran  across  the  ring, 
and  the  ball,  which  weighs  a  quarter  of  a 
pound,  was  coming  right  on  him,  and  would 
have  follen  on  his  head,  and  perhaps  killed 
him,  and  I  ran  forward  to  save  him,  and 
couldnt  take  my  aim  proper,  and  it  fell  on 
mv  nose,  and  broke  it.  It  bled  awftdly,  and 
it  kept  on  for  near  a  month.  There  happened 
to  be  a  doctor  looking  on,  and  he  came  and 
plastered  it  up ;  and  then  I  chucked  the  ball 
up  again,  (for  I  didn't  care  what  I  did  in  them 
days),  and  the  strain  of  its  coming  down 
made  it  burst  out  again.  They  actually  gived 
me  money  not  to  tlu'ow  the  bidl  up  any  more. 
I  got  near  a  sovereign,  in  silver,  give  me  from 
the  Grand  Stand,  for  that  accident. 

•*  At  Newcastle  I  met  with  another  accident 
with  throwing  the  ball.  It  came  down  on 
my  head,  and  it  regularly  stunned  me,  so  that 
I  fell  dowui  It  swelled  up,  and  every  minute 
got  bigger,  till  I  a'most  thought  I  had  a  dou- 
ble heM,  for  it  felt  so  heavy  I  could  scarce 
hold  it  up.  I  was  obliged  to  knock  off  work 
for  a  fortnight. 

^  In  Ireland  I  nsed  to  make  the  people 
laugh,  to  throw  up  raw  potatoes  and  let  them 
come  down  on  my  naked  forehead  and  smash. 
People  give  more  money  when  they  laugh. 
No,  it  never  hurt  my  forehead,  it's  got  har- 
dened ;  nor  I  never  suffered  fiom  headaches 
when  I  was  practicing. 

**  As  you  catch  the  ball  in  the  cup,  you  are 
obliged  to  give,  you  know,  and  bend  to  it, 
or  it  would  knock  the  brains  out  of  you  pretty 
well.  I  never  heard  of  a  man  killing  himself 
with  the  ball,  and  iVe  only  had  two  accidents. 

'<  I  got  married  in  Ireland,  and  then  I  started 
off  wiSi  the  booth  and  waggon,  and  she  used 
to  dance,  and  I'd  juggle  and  balance.  We 
went  to  the  fairs,  but  it  didn't  answer,  and 


we  lost  all ;  for  my  wife  turned  out  a  very  bad 
sort  of  woman.  She's  dead  now,  through 
drink.  I  went  to  the  Isle  of  Man  from  Ii«« 
land ;  I  had  practised  my  wife  in  the  stilti* 
and  learnt  her  how  to  use  them,  and  we  dia 
well  there.  They  never  see  such  a  thing  in 
their  lives,  and  we  took  money  like  dirL 
They  christened  us  the '  Manx  Giants.'  If  my 
wife  had  been  like  my  present  one,  I  should 
be  a  made  gentleman  by  this  time ;  but  she 
drank  away  my  booth,  and  waggon,  and  hone, 
and  all. 

'*  I  saved  up  about  20/.  in  the  Isle  of  Man  7 
and  from  there  we  went  to  Scotland,  and  thero 
my  wife  died, — through  drink.  That  tcK>k  a- 
way  all  the  money  I  had  saved.  Wtf  didnt 
do  much  in  Scotland,  only  in  one  particular 
town, — that's  Edinburgh, — on  New-year% 
day.  We  took  a  good  deal  of  money,  21.  I 
think;  and  we  carried  coppers  about  in  • 
stocking  with  me. 

**  I  travelled  about  in  England  and  Wales 
when  I  married  my  second  wife.  She's  • 
strong  woman,  and  lifts  700  lbs.  by  the  hair 
of  her  head. 

•*  When  I  got  back  to  London  I  hadnt  %■ 
shilling  in  my  pocket,  thqagh  my  wife  wb» 
very  eareftil  of  me ;  but  times  got  bad,  and 
what  not.  We  got  a  situation  at  12«.  a  day, 
and  all  collections,  at  Stepney  fair,  whidi 
would  sometimes  come  to  a  pound,  and  at 
others  30s. ;  for  collections  is  better  than  sa- 
lary any  days :  that  set  us  up  in  a  litUe  house, 
which  we've  got  now. 

«*  I'm  too  old  now  to  go  out  regularly  in  the 
streets.    It  tires  me  too  much,  if  I  have  to  1^ 

r;ar  at  a  penny  theatre  in  the  evening.  Whctt 
do  go  out  in  the  streets,  I  carry  a  mahogaqy 
box  with  me,  to  put  my  things  out  in.  IN© 
got  three  sets  of  things  now,  knives,  balliiy 
and  cups.  In  fact,  I  never  was  so  well  off  ia 
apparatus  as  now ;  and  many  of  them  have 
been  given  to  me  as  presents,  by  friends  M 
have  gi'n  over  performing.  Knives,  and  bal]% 
and  all,  are  very  handsome.  The  balls,  some 
a  pound,  and  some  2  lbs.  weight,  and  the 
knives  about  1 4  lbs. 

**  When  I'm  out  performing,  I  get  into  all 
the  open  places  as  I  can.  I  goes  up  the  Com- 
mercial-road and  pitches  at  the  Mile>end.gatfl^ 
or^  about  Tower-lull,  or  such-like.  I'm  widl 
known  in  London,  and  the  police  knows  me  so 
well  they  very  seldom  interfere  with  me» 
Sometimes  they  say,  *  That's  not  allowed,  yon 
know,  old  man  I "  and  I  say,  *■  I  shan't  be  above 
two  or  three  minutes,'  and  they  say,  *  Make 
haste,  then !"  and  then  I  go  on  with  the  per- 
formance. 

"I  think  I'm  the  cleverest  juggler  out.  I 
can  do  the  pagoda,  or  the  canopy  as  some  calls 
it ;  that  is  a  thing  like  a  parasol  balanced  bj 
the  handle  on  my  nose,  and  the  sides  held  op 
by  other  sticks,  and  then  with  a  pea-shooter  I 
blow  away  the  supports.  I  also  do  what  te 
called  *the  birds  and  bush,'  which  is  some- 
thing of  the  same,  only  you  knock  off  the  birdi 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


107 


'vith  m  pea-shooter.  The  birds  is  only  made 
<tf  eork,  bat  it's  rery  difficult,  because  you  haye 
to  take  your  balance  agin  eyeiy  bird  as  falls ; 
besides,  yon  most  be  careftil  the  birds  dont 
itll  in  yonr  eyes,  or  it  woold  take  away  your 
sight  and  spoil  the  balance.  The  birds  at 
kitk  are  hardest  to  knock  off,  because  you  have 
to  bend  back,  and  at  the  same  time  mind  you 
doDt  topple  the  tree  off. 

''These  are  the  only  feats  we  perform  in 
tttlancing,  and  the  juggUng  is  the  same  now 
as  ever  it  was,  for  there  ain't  been  no  improve- 
ments Gvi  the  old  style  as  I  ever  heerd  on ;  and 
I  suppose  balls  and  knives  and  rings  will  last 
iat  a  hundred  years  to  come  yet 

*^I  flod  my  wife  are  now  engaged  at  the 
*Templeof  Mystery' in  Old  Street-road,  and 
it  ssys  on  the  bills  that  they  are '  at  present 
exhibiting  the  following  new  and  interesting 
tilent,'  and  then  they  caUs  me  *  The  Renowned 
Indian  Juggler,  performing  his  extraordinary 
Feats  with  Cups,  Balls,  Daggers,  Plates, 
Xnives,  Rings,  Balancing,  <S:c.  &c: 

**  After  the  juggling  I  generally  has  to  do 
ecsguring.  I  does  what  they  call  *■  the  pile  of 
Bsgs,'  that  is,  putting  four  halfpence  on  a 
hoffB  cap,  and  making  them  disappear  when  I 
taj  •  Presto,  fly ! '  Then  there's  the  empty 
cops,  and  making  'taters  come  under  'em,  or 
there's  bringing  a  cabbage  into  a  empty  hat 
There's  also  making  a  shilling  pass  from  a 
gentleman's  hand  into  a  nest  of  boxes,  and 
taeh-like  tricks :  but  it  ain't  half  so  hard  as 
joggling,  nor  anything  like  the  work« 

**!  a^  my  missis  have  5s.  0(2.  a-night  be- 
'tveen  as,  besides  a  collection  among  the  com- 
ptoy,  which  I  reckon,  on  the  average,  to  be  as 
good  as  another  pound  a-week,  for  we  made 
that  the  last  week  we  performed. 

*  I  should  say  there  ain't  above  twenty  jug- 
t^ets  in  all  England — indeed,  I'm  sure  there 
'Oit— such  as  goes  about  pitching  in  the 
streets  and  towns.  I  know  there's  only  four 
ethers  besides  myself  in  London,  unless  some 
new  one  has  sprung  up  very  lately.  You  may 
safSely  reckon  their  earnings  for  the  year  round 
tt  a  pound  a-week,  that  is,  if  they  stick  to 
jngf^g;  but  most  of  us  joins  some  other 
camng  along  with  juggling,  such  as  the 
l*s   bunness,  and  that  helps  out  the 


**  Before  this  year,  I  used  to  go  down  to  the 
aea-nde  in  the  summer,  and  perform  at  the 
watering-places.  A  chap  by  the  name  of 
Ooidoii  is  at  Ramsgate  now.  It  pays  well  on 
^  sands,  for  in  two  or  three  hours,  accord- 
ing to  the  tides,  we  picks  up  enough  for  the 
day.- 

The  Stbxet  Conjubeiu 

''IcALC  myself  a  wizard  as  well;  but  that's 
only  the  poHte  term  for  cox^urer ;  in  fact,  I 
mold  think  that  wizard  meant  an  astrologer, 
•d  more  of  a  fortune-teller.  I  was  fifteen 
Jtears  of  age  when  I  first  began  my  profes- 
•ooal  Hfe ;  indeed  I  opened  with  Gentleman 


Cooke  at  the  Rotunda,  in  BlackMaxs'-road, 
and  there  I  did  Jeremiah  Stitchem  to  his 
Billy  Button. 

**  My  father  held  a  very  excellent  situation 
in  the  Customs,  and  lived  at  his  ease,  in  very 
affluent  circumstances.  His  library  ilone  was 
worth  two  hundred  pounds.  I  waft  only  ten 
years  of  age  when  my  father  died.  He  was  a 
vexy  gay  man,  and  spent  his  income  to  the 
last  penny.  He  was  a  veiy  gay  man,  very  gay. 
After  my  mother  was  left  a  widow,  the  libraiy 
was  swept  off  for  a  year's  rent  I  was  too 
young  to  understand  it's  value,  and  my  mother 
was  in  too  much  grief  to  pay  attention  to  her 
affairs.  Another  six-months'  rent  sold  up  the 
furniture.  We  took  a  small  apartment  close 
in  the  neighbourhood.  My  mother  had  no 
means,  and  we  were  left  to  shift  for  ourselves. 
I  was  a  good  boy,  and  determined  to  get  some- 
thing to  do.  The  first  day  I  went  out  I  got 
a  situation  at  four  shillings  a-week,  to  mind 
the  boots  outside  a  boot-maker's  shop  in 
Newington  Causeway.  The  very  first  week  I 
was  there  I  was  discharged,  for  I  fell  asleep 
on  my  stool  at  the  door,  and  a  boy  stole  a 
pair  of  boots.  From  there  I  went  to  a  baker's, 
and  had  to  carry  out  the  bread,  and  for  four 
years  I  got  different  employments,  as  errand 
boy  or  anything. 

*<  For  many  years  the  mall  opposite  Bedlam 
was  filled  with  nothing  else  but  shows  and 
show-people.  All  the  caravans  and  swing- 
boats,  and  what  not,  used  to  assemble  there 
Ull  the  next  fan:  was  on.  They  didn't  perform 
there,  it  was  only  their  resting-place.  My 
mother  was  living  close  by,  and  every  oppor- 
tunity I  had  I  used  to  associate  with  the  boys 
belonging  to  the  shows,  and  then  I'd  see  them 
practising  their  tumbling  and  tricks.  I  was 
so  fond  of  this  that  I  got  practising  with  these 
boys.  I'd  go  and  point  my  face  as  clown,  and 
although  dressed  in  my  ordinary  clothes  I'd  go 
and  tumble  with  the  rest  of  the  lads,  until  I 
could  do  it  as  well  as  they  could.  I  did  it  for 
devilment,  that's  what  I  call  it,  and  that  it  was 
which  first  made  me  think  of  being  a  profes- 
sional. 

**  From  there  I  heard  of  a  situation  to  sell 
oranges,  biscuits,  and  ginger-beer,  at  the 
Surrey  Theatre.  It  was  under  Elliston's 
management  I  sold  the  porter  up  in  the 
gallery,  and  I  had  three-hal^cnce  out  of  eveiy 
shilling,  and  I  could  make  one  shilling  and 
sixpence  a-night;  but  the  way  I  used  to  do  it 
at  that  time  was  this :  I  went  to  fetch  the  beer, 
and  then  I'd  get  half-a-gallon  of  table-beer 
and  mix  it  wiUi  the  porter;  and  I  tell  you, 
I've  made  such  a  thing  as  fifteen  shillings  of 
a  boxing-night  I  alone  could  sell  five  gallons 
of  a  night ;  but  then  their  pints  at  that  time 
was  tin  measures,  and  little  more  than  half-a- 
pint :  besides,  Td  froth  it  up.  It  was  three- 
pence  a  pint,  and  a  wonderful  profit  it  must 
have  been.  From  there  I  got  behind  the 
scenes  as  supernumerary,  at  the  time  Nelson 
Lee  was  manager  of  the  supers. 


110 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TJm  LONDON  POOR. 


to  hear  it,  very  much.'  Then  Fd  offer  to  per- 
form, if  agreeable,  to  the  company ;  ofken  the 
party  would  offer  to  name  it  to  the  company, 
and  he'd  call  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
(for  they  all  know  each  other  in  these  parlours) 
*  I  say,  Mr.  So-and-so,  have  yon  any  objection 
to  this  gentleman  showing  us  a  little  amuse- 
ment?' and  they  are  all  of  them  safe  to  say, 
'  Not  in  the  least  I'm  perfectly  agreeable  if 
others  are  so;'  and  then  I'd  begin.  I'd  pull 
out  my  cards  and  card-boxes,  and  the  bonus 
genius  or  the  wooden  doll,  and  then  I'd  spread 
a  nice  clean  cloth  (which  I  always  carried  with 
me)  on  the  table,  and  then  I'd  go  to  woric  I 
worked  the  dice  by  placing  it  on  the  top  of  a 
hat,  and  with  a  penknife  pretending  to  make 
an  incision  in  the  crown  to  let  the  soUd  block 
pass  through.  It  is  done  by  having  a  tin 
covering  to  the  solid  dice,  and  the  art  consists 
in  getting  the  solid  block  into  the  hat  without 
being  seen.  That's  the  whole  of  the  trick.  I 
begin  by  striking  the  block  to  show  it  is  solid. 
Then  I  place  two  hats  one  on  the  other,  brim 
to  brim.  Then  I  slip  the  solid  dice  into  the 
under  hat,  and  place  the  tin  covering  on  the 
crown  of  the  upper  one.  Then  I  ask  for  a 
knife,  and  pretend  to  cut  the  hat-crown  the 
size  of  the  tin-con  on  the  top,  making  a  noise 
by  dragging  my  nail  along  the  hat,  which 
closely  resembles  cutting  with  a  knife.  I've 
often  heard  people  say,  *None  of  that!'  think- 
ing I  was  cutting  their  hat.  Then  I  say,  'Now, 
gentlemen,  if  I  con  pass  this  dice  through  the 
crown  into  the  hat  beneath,  you'll  say  it's  a 
very  clever  deception,'  because  all  conjurers 
acknowledge  that  they  deceive ;  indeed,  I  al- 
ways say  when  I  perform  in  parlours,  *  If  you 
can  detect  me  in  my  deceptions  I  shall  be 
very  much  obliged  to  you  by  naming  it,  for  it 
will  make  me  more  careftd;  but  if  you  can't, 
the  more  credit  to  me.'  Then  I  place  another 
tin-box  over  the  imitation  dice ;  it  fits  closely. 
I  say, » Presto—quick — begone  1 '  and  clap  my 
hands  three  times,  and  then  lift  up  the  tin- 
cases,  which  are  both  coloured  black  inside, 
and  tumble  the  wooden  dice  out  of  the  under 
hat.  You  see,  the  whole  art  consists  in  pass- 
ing the  solid  block  unseen  into  the  hat. 

"  The  old  method  of  giving  the  order  for 
the  things  to  pass  was  this :  *  Albri  kira  mum- 
ma  tousha  cocus  co  shiver  de  freek  from  the 
margin  under  the  crippling  hook,'  and  that's 
a  language." 

Statement  of  akotheb  Stbeet  Cokjtbeb. 

''Im  London  I  had  a  great  quantity  of  parlours 
where  I  was  known  and  allowed  to  perform.  One 
night  I'd  take  the  West-end,  and  another  the 
East-end.  Sometimes  I  have  done  four  or 
five  houses  of  an  evening,  and  I  have  had  to 
walk  miles  for  that— to  Woolwich  and  back 
for  instance,  or  to  Edmonton  and  back — and 
occasionally  I'd  only  come  home  with  1«.  M, 
I  have  also  had  8«.  from  one  parlour  only,  and 
then  I'd  consider  that  a  night's  performance, 
and  come  home  again. 


'^  I  remember  one  Toy  peeoBir  dmnnstnM 
which  happened  to  me  whilst  I  was  out  hoik- 
ing. There  is  a  house  at  the  bottom  of  Tocfc- 
strieet,  Westminster,  where  th^  wouldn't  allow 
any  other  comurer  but  me.  I  wasveiy  friendly 
with  the  landlord,  and  I  went  there  regohudj 
every  week,  and  I'd  invariably  take  snoh  a 
thing  as  2«.  or  8«.  out  of  the  room.  If  Ifoand 
only  a  small  muster  in  the  parlour,  I'd  say, 

*  111  eome  another  evening,'  sad  go  off  to  ano- 
ther parlour  in  Pimlioo.  One  night  the  com- 
pany in  the  parlour  said,  after  I  had  been  pe^ 
forming,  *  What  a  pity  it  is  that  one  of  yov 
talent  doesnt  take  a  large  room  somewhere,  and 
we'd  patronise  you.'  '  Why,'  says  the  lan^ori, 

*  he  can  have  my  large  room  up-stairs  if  he 
likes.'  I  agreed  to  it,  and  says, '  Well,  gentls- 
men,  we'll  have  it  next  Wednesday  evening,  if 
you  think  proper.'  The  landlord  didnt  tiQ 
his  wife  that  there  was  a  performance  to  taka 
place  on  the  Wednesday  evening.  When  I 
went  to  this  house  to  the  appointment,  theie 
were  about  thirty  assembled.  The  laiadlofd 
was  out.  When  we  asked  the  landlady  for  the 
room,  she  wouldn't,  and  we  had  all  the  diffi- 
culty in  the  world  before  we  got  the  apart- 
ment. I  wanted  a  large  table-cloth  to  diMi 
up  my  stand,  for  I  have,  in  order  to  per- 
form some  of  my  tricks,  to  make  a  bag  lirith 
the  end  of  the  table-cloth  to  drop  things  into. 
We  sent  the  waitertoaskforthisdoth,and8a7B 
she,  *  I  aint  going  to  lend  no  coi^iurers  table- 
cloths.' Then  a  gentleman  says,  '  Oh,  non- 
sense, 111  soon  get  you  a  table-doth.  Shell 
lend  me  one  in  a  minute.'  He  goestoUie 
bar,  but  the  reply  she  made  was,  *  I'm  sn^ 
prised  at  Mr.  W.  having  such  a  x>erformanos 
up  there,  and  no  table-cloth  shall  you  hate 
fix>m  me.'  He  came  up-stairs,  and  said  he  had 
been  grossly  insulted  at  tlie  bar;  and  then  ano- 
ther gentleman  said,  *  Well,  this  young  Inan 
shan't  be  disappointed,  and  we'll  see  if  we 
cant  find  another  house  down  the  street,  and 
move  it  to  there,  and  we'll  all  go.'  One  went 
out,  and  came  back  and  said  he'd  not  only  got 
a  very  large  room  and  everything  required,  bat 
the  landlord  had  four  friends  in  the  bar  who'd 
join  our  company.  I  made  altogether  about 
1/.  that  night,  for  I  made  no  charge,  and  it 
was  altogether  contribution.  None  of  thai 
company  ever  returned  to  that  house  again,  so 
he  lost  the  whole  of  his  parlour  customers.  I 
oould  never  go  into  that  house  again,  and  I 
really  was  sorry  for  the  landlord,  for  it  wasnt 
his  fault.  This  is  a  very  good  proof  that  it  is 
to  the  advantage  of  landlords  to  allow  respeefc- 
able  performers  to  visit  their  parlours. 

**  At  others  times  I  have  sometimes  gone  into 
a  pariour  and  found  the  customers  taUdns 
poUtics.  If  it  was  a  very  good  company,  and 
I  saw  good  business,  I'd  try  to  break  the 
thread  of  the  discussion  by  saying  when  there 
was  a  pause  in  the  debate,  *  Qentlemen,  wonld 
you  like  to  see  some  of  my  performances,  svdi 
as  walking  round  the  ceihng  with  my  head 
down?'    Then  they'd  say,  •WcU,  that's  Tety 


L02W0N  LABOXm  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Ul 


i;  let^  see  totl*  Of  course  I  couldn't 
I,  and  I  only  said  it  to  attract  notice. 
E^d  do  my  card>tiickB,  and  make  a  col- 
,  and,  after  that,  remark  that  as  the 
•walking  performance  was  a  dangerous 
miiBt  haye  a  sovereign ;  of  conrse  they 
it  grre  this,  and  I'd  take  my  leave, 
e  night,  in  Oxford-street,  I  met  a 
and  he  says,  'Where  are  you  going?' 
lim  I  was  himting  for  a  good  parlour, 
told  me  he  had  just  left  a  good  com- 
t  soch  and  such  a  house.  I  thanked 
nd  I  went  there.  It  was  up  a  long 
B,  and  I  entered  the  room  without 
the  landlord's  permission,  and  I  called 
lass  of  porter.  As  soon  as  I  saw  the 
out  of  the  room  I  made  my  appeal  to 
Qpany.  They  were  all  of  them  agree- 
id  most  happy  to  see  my  performances. 
[*d  done  my  performance  I  went  to 
\  collection,  and  they  said,  *  Oh,  cer- 
not ;  we  thought  you'd  done  it  for  your 
nusement;  we  never  give  anything  to 
y.  I  lost  one  hour  of  the  best  time  of 
{ht.  I  said,  'Very  good,  gentlemen, 
tisfied  if  you  are.'  It  was  an  agreed 
ith  the  landlord,  for  he  came  into  the 
and  he  says,  *  What,  another  one  ! ' 
seized  me  by  the  neck  and  pushed  me 
ks  soon  as  I  got  outside  I  met  another 
sr,  and  he  asked  where  I'd  been.  I 
t  I'd  let  him  be  served  the  same  as  I 
I  showed  him  the  house,  and  told  him 
dd  make  a  second  'nobbings'  as  we 
»  I  stopped  outside  peeping  over  the 
ind  presently  I  see  him  being  pushed 
the  landlord  as  I  had  been.  We  had  a 
laugh,  and  then  we  started  off  to 
^street,  to  one  of  our  principal  houses, 
tre  wasnt  a  soul  in  the  room.  It  was 
le  in  a  back -street,  where  none  but 
I  and  footmen  resort  to.  But  we  was 
ined  to  have  some  money  that  night, 
I  our  families  wanted  it — ^both  him  and 

ising  a  tobacconist's  shop  in  Regent- 
we  saw  three  gents  conversing  with 
ly  behind  the  counter.  I  told  him  I'll 
i;et  a  pickwick  here,  and  see  if  I  can't 
i  performance  in  the  front  of  this 
r.  These  things  only  wants  an  intro- 
1 ;  so  I  looks  at  my  pickwick,  and  says 
.s  a  pickwick  ?  why  I  swallows  such  as 
'  and  I  apparently  swallowed  it.  One  of 
says,  *You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
red  it?'  'Certainly  I  did,  sir,'  I 
. ;  and  then  he  makes  me  do  it  again. 
L  told  them  I'd  show  them  something 
ironderfhl  still,  so  I  said,  'Have  you 
nen  such  a  thing  as  a  couple  of  half- 

about  you  7'  they  gave  me  the  money, 
hd  the  trick  of  passing  the  money  from 
9  hand.  I  said  to  them,  '  Can  you  tell 
lidi  hand  the  money's  in?'  says  he, 

anybody  can  see  it's  in  that  one.' 
nr;   saj8   I,   'I   think   not'     *If  it 


aint,'  says  he,  *  you  may  keep  'em.'  Then  I 
opened  both  hands,  and  they  were  in  neither, 
and  he  asked  where  they  was  then ;  so  I  told 
him  I'd  given  him  them  back  again,  which  of 
course  he  denied,  and  appeared  much  sur- 
prised. Then  I  took  'em  out  of  his  cravat. 
It's  a  very  clever  trick,  and  appears  most  sur- 
prising, though  it's  as  simple  as  possible,  and 
all  done  by  the  way  in  which  you  take  them 
out  of  the  cravat ;  for  you  keep  them  palmed, 
and  have  to  work  'em  up  into  the  folds.  Of 
course  I  returned  the  half-crowns  to  him,  but 
when  I  heiurd  him  say  you  may  keep  them  I 
did  feel  comfortable,  for  that  was  something 
to  the  good.  My  friend  outside  was  looking 
through  the  window,  and  I  could  see  him 
rubbing  his  hands  with  glee ;  I  got  another 
half-crown  out  of  them  gentlemen  before  I'd 
done  with  them,  for  I  showed  'em  a  trick  with 
some  walking-sticks  which  were  lying  on  the 
counter,  and  also  cut  the  tape  in  two  and 
made  it  whole  again,  and  such-like  perform- 
ances. When  a  fellow  is  on  his  beam-ends,  as 
I  was  then,  he  must  keep  his  eyes  about  him, 
and  have  impudence  enough  for  anything,  or 
else  he  may  stop  and  starve.  The  great  art 
is  to  be  able  to  do  tricks  with  anything  that 
you  can  easily  get  hold  of.  If  you  take  up  a 
bit  of  string  from  a  counter,  or  boirow  a 
couple  of  shillings  of  a  gentleman,  your  tricks 
with  them  startles  him  much  more  than  if  you 
had  taken  them  out  of  your  own  pocket,  tot 
he  sees  there's  been  no  preparation.  I  got 
ten  shillings  out  of  these  two  gents  I  spoke 
of,  and  then  I  and  my  mate  went  and  busked 
in  a  parlour,  and  got  fivepence  more ;  so  that » 
we  shared  five  and  twopence-ha'penny  each.  ^ 

"  I  have  often  made  a  good  deal  of  money  in 
parlours  by  showing  how  I  did  my  little  tncks, 
such  as  cutting  the  tape  and  passing  the  half- 
crowns.  Another  thing  that  people  always 
want  to  know  is  the  thimble-rig  trick.  Of 
course  it  doesn't  matter  so  much  showing  how 
these  tricks  are  done,  because  they  depend 
upon  the  quickness  and  dexterity  of  handling. 
Tou  may  know  how  an  artist  paints  a  picture, 
but  you  mayn't  be  able  to  paint  one  yourself. 

"  I  never  practised  thimble-rigging  myself, 
for  I  never  approved  of  it  as  a  practice.  I've 
known  lots  of  fellows  who  lived  by  it.  Bless 
you !  they  did  well,  never  sharing  less  than 
their  4/.  or  5/.  every  day  they  worked.  This 
is  the  way  it's  done.  They  have  three  thimbles, 
and  they  put  a  pea  under  two  of  'em,  so  that 
there's  only  one  without  the  pea.  The  man 
then  b^^s  moving  them  about  and  saying, 
'  Out  of  this  one  into  that  one,'  and  so  on,  and 
winds  up  by  offering  to  'lay  anything,  from  a 
shilling  to  a  pound,'  that  nobody  can  t^  which 
thimble  the  pea  is  under.  Then  he  turns 
round  to  the  crowd,  and  pretends  to  be  push, 
ing  them  back,  and  whilst  he's  saying, '  Come, 
gentlemen,  stand  more  backwarder,'  one  of  the 
confederates,  who  is  called '  a  button,'  lifts  up 
one  of  the  thimbles  with  a  pea  under  it,  and 
langhfl  to  those  around,  as  much  as  to  saj, 


U2 


LONDON  LABOUR   AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


*  We've  found  it  out'  He  shows  the  pea  two 
or  three  times,  and  the  last  time  he  does  so, 
he  removes  it,  either  by  taking  it  up  under  his 
forefinger  nail  or  between  his  thumb  and 
finger.  It  wants  a  great  deal  of  practice  to  do 
this  nicely,  so  as  not  to  be  found  out.  When 
the  man  turns  to  the  table  again  the  button 
says,  '  I'll  bet  you  a  couple  of  sovereigns  I 
know  whero  the  pea  is.  Will  any  gentleman 
gome  halves?'  Then,  if  there's  any  hesita- 
tion, the  man  at  the  table  will  pretend  to  bo 
nervous  and  olfer  to  move  the  thimbles  again, 
but  the  button  will  seize  him  by  the  arm,  and 
shout  as  if  he  was  in  a  passion, '  No,  no,  none 
of  that !  It  was  a  fair  bet,  and  ^'ou  shan't 
touch  'em.'  He'll  tlicn  again  ask  if  anybody 
will  go  him  halves,  and  there's  usually  some- 
body flat  enough  to  join  him.  Then  the 
stranger  is  asked  to  lift  up  the  thimble,  so  that 
he  shouldn't  susx>ect  anything,  and  of  course 
there's  no  pea  there.  He  is  naturally  stag- 
gered a  bit,  and  another  confederate  standing 
oy  will  say  calmly,  *  I  knew  you  was  wrong ; 
here's  the  pea;'  aiid  ho  lifta  up  the  thimble 
with  the  second  pea  under  it.  If  nobody  will 
go  shares  in  the  'buiton's'  bet,  then  he  lifts 
up  the  thimble  and  replaces  the  pea  as  he  does 
so,  and  of  course  wins  the  stake,  and  he  takes 
good  care  to  say  as  he  pockets  the  sovereign, 

*  I  knew  it  was  there ;  what  a  fool  you  was  not 
to  stand  in.'  The  second  time  they  repeat 
the  trick  there's  sure  to  be  somebody  lose  his 
money.  Thero  used  to  be  a  regular  pitch  for 
thimble-riggers  opposite  Bedlam,  when  the 
shows  used  to  put  up  there.  I  saw  a  brewer's 
collector  lose  72.  there  in  less  than  half-an- 
homr.  He  had  a  bag  full  of  gold,  and  they 
let  him  win  the  three  first  bets  as  a  draw. 
Most  of  these  confederates  are  fighting-men, 
and  if  a  row  ensues  they're  sure  to  get  the 
best  of  it 

^'A  veiy  good  place  where  I  used  to  go 
busking  was  at  Mother  Emmerson's  in  Jermyn- 
street.  There  used  to  be  all  sorts  of  characters 
there,  jugglers,  and  singers,  and  all  sorts.  It 
was  a  favourite  house  of  the  Marquis  of  Water- 
ford,  and  he  used  to  use  it  nearly  every  night. 
I've  seen  him  buy  a  pipe  of  port,  and  draw 
tumblers  of  it  for  any  body  that  came  in,  for 
his  great  delight  was  to  mako  people  drunk. 
He  says  to  Mr8.£mmer8on,  *•  How  much  do  you 
want  for  that  port,  mother  ? '  and  then  he  wrote 
a  cheque  for  the  amount  and  had  it  tapped. 
He  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  was  my  Lord ; 
if  he  played  any  tricks  upon  you,  he'd  always 
square  it  up.  Many  a  time  he's  given  me  half- 
a-pint  of  brandy,  saying,  *  That's  all  you'll  get 
fipom  me/  Sometimes  I'd  say  to  him,  *  Can  I 
show  you  a  few  tricks,  my  Lord?'  and  then, 
when  rd  finished,  I  knew  he  never  gave 
money  if  you  asked  him  for  it,  so  I'd  let  him 
abuse  me,  and  order  me  out  of  the  house  as  a 
humbug ;  and  then,  just  as  I'd  got  to  the  door, 
he'd  call  me  back  and  give  me  half-a-sovercign. 
I've  seen  him  do  some  wonderful  things. 
t^re  seen  him  jump  into  an  old  woman's 


crockeryware-basket,  while  she  was  cany 
along,  and  smash  eveiything.  Sometime 
get  seven  or  eight  cabs  and  put  a  lot  of  fit 
and  other  musicians  on  the  roofs,  and  fi 
with  anybody  that  liked,  and  then  go 
procession  round  ihQ  streets,  he  drivin 
tirst  cab  as  fast  as  he  could  and  the 
playing  as  loud  as  possible.  It's  wonderi 
games  he'd  be  up  to.  But  he  always 
handsomely  for  whatever  damage  he  di 
he  swept  cdl  the  glasses  off  a  cotmter, 
was  the  money  to  make  'em  good  again.  1 
ever  I  did  any  tricks  before  him,  I  tool 
care  not  to  produce  any  apparatus  that  I 
for,  or  he'd  be  sure  to  smash  it. 

"  One  night  I  hadn't  a  penny  in  the 
and  at  home  I  knew  they  wanted  food ; 
went  out  to  busk,  and  I  got  over  in  tl 
Kent-road,  and  went  to  a  house  there 
the  Green  Man.  I  walked  into  the 
lour;  and  though  I  hadn't  a  penny  J 
pocket,  I  called  for  four  pen'orUi  of  nu 
water.  I  put  my  big  dice  down  upo: 
table  by  the  side  of  me,  and  begun  si 
my  rum,  and  I  could  see  cvciybody  Ic 
at  this  dice,  and  at  last,  just  as  I  exp 
somebody  asked  what  it  was.  So  I  f 
*  Gentlemen,  I  get  my  Uving  this  way, 
you  like,  I  shall  b«  happy  to  show  you 
of  my  deceptions  for  your  entertain 
They  said,  *  Certainly,  young  man,  v 
perfectly  agreeable.'  Ah!  I  thought  t 
self,  thank  heaven  that's  all  right,  for  I 
for  the  rum  and  water  you  see,  and  if 
refused,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
I  pulled  out  my  nice  clean  cloth  and  1 
upon  the  table,  and  to  work  I  went. 
only  done  one  or  two  tricks,  when  in  • 
the  waiter,  and  directly  be  sees  me  he 
out,  *•  We  don't  allow  no  ooi^jurers  oi 
thing  of  that  kind  here,'  and  I  had  ti 
up  again.  When  he'd  gone  the  company 
'  Go  on,  young  man,  it's  all  right  now ; 
out  with  my  cloth  again ;  then  in  can 
landlord,  and  says  he,  'You've  already 
told  we  don't  iJlow  none  of  you  oa 
fellows  here,'  and  I  had  to  put  up  a  8 
time.  When  he'd  gone,  the  gents  told 
begin  again.  I  had  scafcely  spread  mj 
when  in  comes  the  landlord  again,  in  a ' 
ing  rage,  and  shouts  out, '  What,  at  it  e 
Now  you  be  off;'  so  I  said,  »I  only  did 
oblige  the  company  present,  who  wera  i 
able,  and  that  I  hadn't  yet  finished  m 
and  water,  which  wasn't  paid  for.*  '  No* 
for  ? '  says  he  ;  *  No,'  says  I :  *  but  Tm  w 
here  for  a  friend,  and  bell  pay  for  it.' 
may  imagine  my  feeUngs,  widiout  a  pei 
my  pocket  *  Don't  let  me  catch  you 
again,  or  I'll  give  you  in  charge,'  sa: 
Scarcely  had  he  left  again  when  Uie  oox 
began  talking  about  it,  and  saying  it  w 
bad  to  stop  me;  so  one  of  them  rinf 
bell,  and  when  the  landlord  comes  : 
says,  *  Mr.  Landlord,  tliis  young  perso 
been  veiy  civil,  and  conducted  himseL 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


118 


highlj  respectable  manner,  and  has  certainly 
ifforded  ns  a  great  deal  of  amnsement ;  now 

I  whj  should  you  object  to  his  showing  us 
Kune  tricks  f  *  Thank  heavens/ thought  I  to 
ffljself,  *  I'm  sayed,  and  the  rum  will  be  paid 
for.    The  landlord's  manner  altered  all  of  a 

>  sodden,  and  says  he,  *  Oh,  certainly,  gentle- 
men! certainly!  if  it's  your  wish,  I  don't 
mind  the  young  man's  being  here ;  thongh  I 
mike  it  a  rule  to  keep  my  parlour  select.' 

'   Then  I  set  to  work  and  did  all  my  tricks 

'   eomfortably,  and  I  made  a  collection  of  Is.  6rf. 

I  Then  I  rang  the  bell  like  a  lord,  and  I  put 
down  a  shilling  to  pay  for  tlie  rum  and  water, 
tod  saying,  *  Gentlemen,  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  patronage,'  to  which  they 
icptied, '  Not  at  all,  young  man,'  I  walked  past 
tka  bar  to  leave.     Then  the  landlord  comes 

Lto  me   and  says,   shaking   his  fist,  and 
in  the  face  with  rage,  '  If  ever  I  catch 

I  yott  here  again,  you  d rogue,  I'll  give  you 

(0  a  policeman.'  So,  without  more  ado,  I 
valks  round  to  the  other  door,  and  enters  the 
parlour  again  and  tells  the  company,  and  they 
bid  in  Uie  landlord  and  blowed  him  well 
■■  up.  This  will  just  show  you  the  risks  we 
bsTB  to  run  when  out  busking  for  a  living, 
and  what  courage  is  wcnted  to  speculate  upon 
dunces. 

"  There  are  very  few  coiyurers  out  busking 

now.    I  don't  know  above  four;  one  of  'em 

hit  had   the  best  chances  in  the  world  of 

getting  on ;  but  he's  a  very  uneducated  man, 

I   tod  that  has  stood  iu  his  way,  thongh  he's 

fBiy  clever,  and  pr'aps  the  best  hand  at  tlie 

I   eqw  and  balls  of  any  man  in  England.    For 

I   iDttance,  once  he  was  at  a  nobleman's  party, 

I   gning  his  entertainment,  and  he  says  such 

I   a  thing  as  this: — *  You  see,  my  lords  and 

'   kdies,  I  have  a  tatur  in  this  hand,  and  a  tatur 

I   kthaft;  now  1  shall  pass  'em  into  this  liand- 

!   hveher/     Of  course  the  nobleman   said  to 

'   kmself,   *  Tatur!   handkercher!   why,   who's 

thk feller?'    You  may  depend  upon  it  he  was 

lenr  isked  there  any  more ;  for  every  thing 

I    at  a  wizard's  business  depends  upon  graceful 

I   aetioii,  and  his  style  of  dcUvery,  so  that  he 

\   IMJ  make  himself  agreeable  to  the  company. 

'^When  a  conjurer's  out  busking,  he  may 

nckon  open  making  his  v>05.  a-week,  taking 

tile  year  round ;  pr'aps,  some  weeks,  he  won't 

tike  more  than  12s.  or  U)s. ;    but  then,  at 

othsr  times,  he  moy  get  Gs,  or  8«.  in  one 

larionr  alone,  and  I  have  taken  as  much  as 

U  bgr  teaching  gentlemen  how  to  do  the  tricks 

I  had  been  pfenning.    I  have  sometimes 

viQced  my  twenty  miles  a-day,  and  busked  at 

way  paiiour  I  came  to,  (for  I  ne?er  enter 

tip-rooms,)  and  come  home  with  only  Is.  6d. 

in  my  pocket.    I  have  been  to  Edmonton  and 

\mk  and  only  earned  !«.,  and  then,  pr'aps, 

it  eleven  the  same  night,  when  I  was  nearly 

done  up,  and  quite  dispirited  with  my  luck, 

Tre  turned  into  one  of  the  parlours  in  town 

■ad  earned  my  Qs.  in  less  than  an  hour,  where 

Id  been  twelve  only  earning  one." 


The  Stbeet  Fire-Kino,  or  Salamander. 

This  person  came  to  me  recommended  by  one 
of  my  street  acquaintances  as  the  *•  pluckiest 
fire-eater  going,"  and  that  as  he  was  a  little 
'*  do^-n  at  heel,"  he  slumld  be  happy  for  a  con- 
sideration to  give  me  any  information  I  might 
require  in  the  "  Salamander  line.'* 

He  was  a  tall,  gaimt  man,  with  an  absent- 
looking  face,  and  so  pale  that  his  dark  eyes 
looked  positively  wild. 

I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  looked  at  his 
bony  form,  that  fire  was  not  the  most  nutri- 
tious food  in  the  world,  until  the  poor  fellow 
explained  to  me  that  ho  had  not  broken  his 
fast  for  two  days. 

He  gave  the  following  account  of  himself: — 

"  My  father  was  a  barber — a  three-ha'penny 
one — and  doing  a  good  business,  in  South- 
wark.  I  used  to  assist  him,  lathering  up  the 
chins  and  shaving  'em — torturing,  I  called  it. 
1  was  a  very  good  light  hand.  You  see,  you 
tell  a  good  shaver  by  the  way  he  holds  the 
razor,  and  the  play  from  tlie  wrist.  All  our 
customers  were  tradesmen  and  workmen,  but 
father  would  never  shave  either  coalheavers  or 
fishermen,  because  they  always  threw  down  a 
penny,  and  said  there  was  plenty  of  penny 
barbers,  and  tlioy  wouldn't  give  no  more.  The 
old  man  always  stuck  up  for  his  price  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  There  was  a  person  set  up 
close  to  him  for  a  penny,  and  that  icyiured  us 
awful.  I  was  educated  at  St.  George's  National 
and  Parochial  School,  and  I  was  a  national  lad, 
and  wore  my  own  clothes ;  but  the  parochials 
wore  the  uniform  of  blue  bob-tailed  coats,  and 
a  badge  on  the  left  side.  When  they  wanted 
to  make  an  appearance  in  the  gallery  of  the 
church  on  charity-semion  days,  they  used  to 
midco  all  the  nationals  dress  like  the  paro- 
chials, so  as  to  swell  the  numbers  up.  I  was 
too  fbnd  of  entertainments  to  stick  to  learning, 
and  I  used  to  sttp  it.  Kennington  common 
was  my  principal  place.  I  used,  too,  to  go 
to  the  outside  of  the  Queen 's-bench  and  pick 
up  tlie  racket-balls  as  they  was  chucked  over, 
and  then  sell  them  for  three-ha'pence  each. 
I  got  promoted  from  the  outside  to  the  inside ; 
for,  from  being  always  about,  they  took  me  at 
threepence  a-day,  and  gave  me  a  bag  of  whiten- 
ing to  whiten  the  racket-balls.  When  I  used 
to  hop  the  wag  from  school  I  went  there, 
which  was  tliree  times  ar-week,  which  was  the 
reglar  racket-days.  I  used  to  spend  my  three- 
pence in  damaged  fruit — have  a  pen'orth  of 
damaged  grapes  or  plums — or  have  a  ha'porth 
of  wafers  from  the  confectioner's.  Ah,  I've  eat 
thousands  and  thousands  of  ha'porths.  It's  a 
kind  of  a  paste,  but  they  stick  Uke  wafers — 
my  father's  stuck  a  letter  many  a  time  with  'em. 
They  goes  at  the  bottom  of  the  russetfees  cake 
— ah,  ratafees  is  the  word. 

*'  I  got  so  unruly,  and  didn't  attend  to  school, 
so  I  was  turned  out,  and  then  I  went  to  help 
father  and  assist  upon  the  customers.  I  was 
confined  so  in  the  shop,  that  I  only  stopped 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


115- 


jaomoit  the  lighted  piece  is  put  in  your 
montli,  the  flame  goes  out  on  the  instant 
Then  we  sqaench  the  flame  with  spittle. 
As  we  takes  a  bit  of  link  in  the  mouth,  we 
tacks  it  on  one  side  of  the  cheek,  as  a  monkey 
do  with  nuts  in  his  i>oach.  After  I  have  eaten 
sufficient  fire  I  take  hold  of  the  link,  and  ex- 
tinguish the  lot  by  putting  the  burning  end  in 
my  mouth.  Sometimes,  when  I  makes  a  slip, 
sod  don't  pat  it  in  carefhl,  it  makes  your  mous- 
'  tache  fiz  up.  I  must  also  mind  how  I  opens 
mj month,  'cos  the  tar  sticks  to  the  lip  wherever 
it  touches,  and  pains  sadly.  This  sore  on  my 
hand  is  caused  by  the  melted  pitch  dropping 

00  my  fingers,  and  the  sores  is  liable  to  be 
I    bftd  for  a  week  or  eight  days.    I  don't  spit  out 

my  faits  of  link;  I  always  swallow  them.  I 
•  nerer  did  spit  'em  out,  for  they  are  very  whole- 
I  some,  and  keeps  you  from  having  any  sickness. 
j  Whilst  I'm  getting  the  next  trick  ready  I 
!  ehewB  them  up  and  eats  them.  It  tastes  raUier 
'  xooghish,  bat  not  nasty  when  you're  accus- 
tomed to  it.  It's  only  like  having  a  mouthful 
of  dust,  and  veiy  wholesome. 

**  My  next  trick  is  with  a  piece  of  tow  with  a 
piece  of  tape  rolled  up  in  the  interior.  I  begin 
to  eat  a  portion  of  this  tow— plain,  not  a-light 
—till  I  find  a  fitting  opportunity  to  place  the 
tspe  in  the  mouth.  Then  I  pause  for  a  time, 
nil  in  the  meantime  Pm  doing  a  little  pan- 
tomime basiness — ^just  like  love  business,  se- 
rums—-till  I  get  the  end  of  this  tape  between 
inj  teeth,  and  then  I  draws  it  out,  supposed 
to  be  manufactured  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
After  that — which  always  goes  immensely — 

1  eat  some  more  tow,  and  inside  this  tow  there 
ii  what  I  call  the  fire-ball— that  is,  a  lighted 
fbsee  boond  round  with  tow  and  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  tow  Tm  eating— which  I  intro- 
dooe  at  a  fitting  opportunity.  Then  I  blows 
out  with  my  breath,  and  that  sends  out  smoke 
and  fire.  That  there  is  a  very  hard  trick,  for 
it's  aooording  how  this  here  fire-ball  bustes. 
Sometimes  it  bastes  on  the  side,  and  then  it 
bams  aU.  the  inside  of  the  mouth,  and  the 
next  morning  you  can  take  out  pretty  well  the 
inside  of  yonr  mouth  with  your  finger;  but  if 
it  bastes  near  the  teeth,  then  it's  all  right,  for 
there's  vent  fur  it.  I  also  makes  the  smoke 
and  flame — that  is,  sparks — come  down  my 
nose,  the  same  as  coming  out  of  a  blacksmith's 
chimney.  It  makes  the  eyes  water,  and  there's 
t  tingling ;  bat  it  don*t  bum  or  make  you 
giddy. 

**  My  next  trick  is  with  the  brimstone.  I 
have  a  plate  of  lighted  sulphur,  and  first  in- 
hile  the  fomea,  and  then  devour  it  with  a  fork 
md  swallow  it  As  a  costermonger  said  when 
he  saw  me  do  it, '  I  say,  old  boy,  your  game 
nnt  all  brandy.'  There's  a  kind  of  a  acid, 
niily,  sour  taste  in  this  feat,  and  at  first  it  used 
to  niake  me  fbel  sick;  but  now  I'm  used  to  it, 
end  it  dont.  When  I  puts  it  in  my  mouth  it 
dingt  jmllike  sealing-wax,  and  forms  a  kind  of 
a  dMtd  ash.  Of  a  morning,  if  I  haven't  got  my 
brwk&ii  \ff  a  certain  time,  there's  a  kind  of  a 


retching  in  my  stomach,  and  that's  the  only 
inconvenience  I  feel  fh>m  swallowing  the  sul- 
phur for  that  there  feat 

"  The  next  is,  with  two  sticks  of  sealing-wax 
and  the  same  plate.  They  are  lit  by  the  gas 
and  dropped  on  one  another  till  they  are  bodily 
a-light.  Then  I  borrow  either  a  ring  of  the 
company,  or  a  pencil-case,  or  a  seal.  I  set 
the  sealing-wax  a-ligbt  with  a  fork,  and  I  press 
the  impression  of  whatever  article  I  can  get 
with  tlie  tongue,  and  the  seal  is  passed  round 
to  the  company.  Then  I  finish  eating  the 
burning  wax.  I  always  spits  that  out  after,^ 
when  no  one's  looking.  Tho  sealing-wax  is 
all  right  if  you  get  it  into  the  interior  uf  tho 
mouth,  but  if  it  is  stringy,  and  it  falls,  you 
can't  get  it  off,  without  it  takes  away  skin  and 
all.  It  has  a  very  pleasant  taste,  and  I  always 
prefer  the  red,  as  it's  flavour  is  the  best  Hold 
your  breath  and  it  goes  out,  but  still  the  heat 
remains,  and  you  can't  get  along  with  that  so 
fast  as  the  sulphur.  I  often  bum  myself, 
especially  when  I'm  bothered  in  my  entertain- 
ment ;  sach  as  any  person  talking  about  me 
close  by,  then  I  listen  to  'em  perhaps,  and  Tm 
liable  to  bum  myself.  I  haven't  been  able 
to  perform  for  three  weeks  after  some  of  my 
burnings.  I  never  let  any  of  the  audience 
know  anything  of  it,  but  smother  up  tho  pain, 
and  go  on  with  my  other  tricks. 

"  The  other  trick  is  a  feat  which  I  make 
known  to  the  public  as  one  of  Eamo  Samee's, 
which  he  used  to  perform  in  public-houses 
and  tap-rooms,  and  made  a  deal  of  money  out 
of.  With  the  same  plate  and  a  piece  of  dry 
tow  placed  in  it,  I  have  a  pepper-box,  with 
ground  rosin  and  sulphur  together.  I  light  the 
tow,  and  with  a  knife  and  fork  I  set  down  to 
it  and  eat  it,  and  exclaim,  *  This  is  my  light 
supper.'  There  isn't  no  holding  the  breath  so 
much  in  this  trick  as  in  the  others,  but  you 
must  get  it  into  the  mouth  any  how.  It's 
like  eating  a  hot  beef-steak  when  you  are 
ravenous.  The  rosin  is  apt  to  drop  on  the 
flesh  and  cause  a  long  blister.  You  see,  we 
have  to  eat  it  with  the  head  up,  full-faced ; 
and  really,  without  it's  seen,  nobody  would 
believe  what  I  do. 

"  There's  another  feat,  of  exploding  the 
gunpowder.  There's  two  ways  of  exploding 
it  This  is  my  way  of  doing  it  though  I  only 
does  it  for  my  own  benefits  and  on  grand 
occasions,  for  it's  veiy  dangerous  indeed  to 
the  f^ume,  for  it's  sure  to  destroy  the  hair  of 
the  head ;  or  if  anything  smothers  it,  it's 
liable  to  shatter  a  thumb  or  a  limb. 

"  I  have  a  man  to  wait  on  me  for  tliis  trick, 
and  he  unloops  my  dress  and  takes  it  ofi^ 
leaving  the  bare  back  and  arms.  Then  I  gets 
a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  powder,  and  I  has  an 
ounce  put  on  the  back  part  of  the  neck,  in  the 
hollow,  and  I  holds  out  each  arm  ^-ith  an 
orange  in  the  palm  of  each  hand,  with  a  train 
along  the  arms,  leading  up  to  the  neck.  Then 
I  turns  my  back  to  tho  audience,  and  my  man 
fires  the  gunpowder,  and  it  blew  up   in  a 


116 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


xninnte,  and  ran  down  the  train  and  blew  op 
that  in  my  hands.  I've  been  pretty  luol^ 
with  this  trick,  for  it's  only  been  when  the 

Eowder's  got  under  my  bracelets,  and  then  it 
urts  me.  I'm  obliged  to  hold  the  hand  up, 
for  if  it  hangs  down  it  hurts  awful.  It  looks 
like  a  scurvy,  and  as  the  new  skin  forms,  the 
old  one  falls  ofL 

**  That's  the  whole  of  my  general  perform- 
ance for  concert  business,  when  I  go  busking 
at   free    concerts    or  outside    of   shows    (I 

generaUy  gets  a  crown  a-day  at  fairs).  I  never 
o  the  gunpowder,  but  only  the  tow  and  the 
link. 

**I  have  been  engaged  at  the  Flora  Gkur- 
dens,  and  at  St  Helena  Gardens,  Bother- 
hithe,  and  then  I  was  Signor  Salamander,  the 
great  fire-kin^  from  the  East-end  theatres. 
At  the  Eel- pie-house,  Peckham,  I  did  the 
'  terrific  flight  through  the  air,'  coming  down 
a  wire  surrounded  by  flre-works.  I  was 
called  Herr  Alma,  the  flying  flend.  There  was 
four  soaflbld-poles  placed  at  the  top  of  the 
house  to  form  a  tower,  just  large  enough  for 
me  to  lie  down  on  my  belly,  for  the  swivels  on 
the  rope  to  be  screwed  into  the  cradle  round 
my  body.  A  wire  is  the  best,  but  they  had  a 
rope.  On  this  cradle  were  places  for  the  fire- 
works to  be  put  in  it.  I  had  a  helmet  of  fire 
on  my  head,  and  the  three  sparic  cases  (th^ 
are  made  with  steel-filings,  and  throw  out 
sparks)  made  of  Prince  of  Wales  feathers.  I 
had  a  sceptre  in  my  hand  of  two  serpents,  and 
in  their  open  mouths  they  put  fire-balls,  and 
they  lookeid  as  if  they  was  spitting  fieiy  venom. 
I  had  wings,  too,  formed  ftom  the  ankle  to  the 
waist  They  was  netting,  and  spangled,  and 
well  sized  to  throw  off"  the  fire.  I  only  did 
this  two  nights,  and  I  had  ten  shillings  each 

Serformance.  It's  amomentaiy  feeling  coming 
own,  a  kind  of  suffocation  like,  so  that  you 
must  hold  your  breath.  I  had  two  mei\  to 
cast  me  ofi*.  There  was  a  gong  first  of  all, 
knocked  to  attract  the  attention,  and  then  I 
made  my  appearance.  First,  a  painted  pigeon, 
made  of  lead,  is  sent  down  the  wire  as  a 
pilot.  It  has  moveable  wings.  Then  all  the 
fire-works  are  lighted  up,  and  I  come  down 
right  through  ihe  thickest  of  'em.  There's  a 
trap-door  set  in  the  scene  at  the  end,  and  two 
men  is  there  to  look  after  it  As  soon  as  I 
have  passed  it,  the  men  shut  it,  and  I  dart  up 
against  a  feather-bed.  The  speed  I  come 
down  at  regularly  jams  me  up  against  it,  but 
you  see  I  throw  away  this  sceptre  and  save 
myself  with  my  hands  a  little.  I  feel  fagged 
for  want  of  breath.  It  seems  like  a  sudden 
fright,  you  know.  I  sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  Pm  all  right 

**rm  never  afraid  of  fire.  There  was 
a  turner's  place  that  took  fire,  and  I  saved 
that  house  from  being  burned.  He  was  a 
friend  of  mine,  the  turner  was,  and  when  I 
was  there,  the  wife  thought  she  heard  the 
children  crying,  and  asked  me  to  go  up  and 
see  what  it  was.    As  I  went  up  I  could  smell  I 


fire  worse  and  worse,  and  when  I  got  in  the 
room  it  was  frill  of  smoke,  and  all  the  car- 
pet, and  bed-hangings,  and  curtains  smoulder- 
ing. I  opened  the  window,  and  the  fire  burst 
out,  so  I  ups  with  the  carpet  and  throw'd  it 
out  of  window,  together  with  the  blazing 
chairs,  and  I  rolled  the  linen  and  drapery  up 
and  throw'd  them  out  I  was  as  near  suflb- 
cated  as  possible.  I  went  and  felt  the  bed, 
and  there  was  two  children  near  dead  firom 
the  smoke;  I  brought  them  down,  and  a 
medical  man  was  called,  and  he  brought  then 
round. 

**  I  dont  reckon  no  more  than  two  oih«r 
fire-ldnp  in  London  beside  myself.  I  only 
know  of  two,  and  I  should  be  sure  to  hear  of 
'em  if  there  were  more.  But  they  can  only 
do  three  of  the  tricks,  and  I've  got  novelties 
enough  to  act  for  a  fortnight,  with  fresh  per- 
formances eveiy  evening.  There's  a  party  In 
Dmry.lane  is  willing  to  back  me  for  five, 
fifteen,  or  twenty  pounds,  against  anybody 
that  will  come  ana  answer  to  it,  to  p€»foim 
with  any  other  man  for  cleanness  and  clever^ 
ness,  and  to  show  more  variety  of  perfonn- 


^Vm  always  at  fire-eating.  That's  howl 
entirely  get  my  living,  and  I  perform  five 
nights  out  of  the  six.  Thursday  night  is  Uia 
only  night,  as  I  may  say,  I'm  idle.  Thursday 
night  eveiybody's  frijgged,  that's  the  saying—- 
Got  no  money.  Friday,  there's  many  liuge 
firms  pays  their  men  on,  especially  in  Bar- 
mondsey. 

'Tm  out  of  an  engagement  now,  and  I 
dont  make  more  than  eleven  shillings  a-week, 
because  I'm  busking;  but  when  I'm  in  an 
engagement  my  money  stands  me  about 
thirty-five  shillings  a-week,  putting  down  the 
value  of  the  drink  as  well-*that  is,  what's 
allowed  for  refreshment  Summer  is  the  worst 
time  for  me,  'cos  people  goes  to  the  gflffdens« 
In  the  winter  season  I'm  always  engaged  three 
months  out  of  the  six.  Ton  might  say,  if  yoa 
counts  the  overplus  at  one  time,  and  minus  at 
other  time,  that  I  makes  a  pound  a-week.  I 
know  what  it  is  to  go  to  the  treasury  on  a 
Saturday,  and  get  my  thirty  shillings,  and  I 
know  what  it  is  to  have  the  landlord  come  with 
his  *•  Hallo !  hallo !  here's  three  weeks  due^ 
and  another  week  running  on.' 

"  I  was  very  hard  up  at  one  time — when  I 
was  living  in  Friar-street— and  I  used  to 
frequent  a  house  kept  by  a  betting-man,  near 
the  St  George's  Surrey  Riding-school.  A  man 
I  knew  used  to  supply  this  betting-man  with 
rats.  I  was  at  this  public-house  one  night 
when  this  rat-man  comes  up  to  me,  and  says 
he,  *  Hallo!  my  pippin ;  here,  I  want  you :  I 
want  to  make  a  match.  Will  you  kill  thir^ 
rats  against  my  dog  ?'  So  I  said,  *  Let  me  see 
the  dog  first ; '  and  I  looked  at  his  mouth,  and 
he  was  an  old  dog ;  so  I  says,  *  No,  I  wont  go  in 
for  thirty ;  but  I  don't  mind  trying  at  twenty.* 
He  wanted  to  make  it  twenty-four,  but  I 
wouldn't    They  put  the  twenty  in  the  ratpph^ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


117 


iiid  the  dog  irent  in  first  tnd  killed  his,  and 
be  took  9k  qoAiter  of  an  hour  and  two  minutes. 
Thm  %  fresh  lot  were  put  in  the  pit,  and  I 
beipyi ;  my  hands  were  tied  behind  me.  They 
ihriyt  make  an  allowanoe  for  a  man,  so  the 
pit  was  made  closer,  for  yon  see  a  man  can't 
tamroondlike  adog;  I  had  half  the  space  of 
tke  dog.  The  rats  lay  in  a  duster,  and  then 
1  picked  them  off  where  I  wanted 'em,  and  bit 
lEm  between  the  shoulders.  It  was  when  they 
cme  to  one  or  two  that  I  had  the  work,  for 
tbej  eat  ^x>at.  The  last  one  made  me  re- 
member him,  for  he  gave  me  a  bite,  of  which 
Pve  got  the  scar  now.  It  festered,  and  I  was 
dUBged  to  have  it  cut  out.  I  took  Dutch 
drops  for  it,  and  poulticed  it  by  day,  and  I 
WIS  bad  for  three  weeks.  They  made  a  sub* 
teription  in  the  room  of  fifteen  shillings  for 
kiOaig  these  rats.  I  won  the  match,  and  beat 
the  dog  \ty  four  minutes.  The  wager  was  five 
ifaiUbags,  which  I  had.  I  was  at  the  time  so 
kaid  up,  rd  do  anything  for  some  money; 
Ihou^  as  far  as  that's  concerned,  I'd  go  into  a 
fit  now,  if  anybody  would  make  it  worth  my 
wbfle." 

The  Sxakb,  Swobd,  ahd  Krite-Swallowxb. 

Hi  was  quite  a  young  man,  and,  judging  from 
Ui  eonntenanoe,  there  was  nothing  Uiat  could 
teeoottt  for  his  having  taken  up  so  strange  a 
iDsthod  of  gaining  his  livelihood  as  that  of 
swallowing  snakes. 

He  was  very  simple  in  his  talk  and  manner. 
He  readily  confessed  that  the  idea  did  not 
originate  with  him,  and  prided  himself  only 
on  being  the  second  to  take  it  up.  There  is  no 
doobt  that  it  was  from  his  being  startled  by  the 
itnngeness  and  daringness  of  the  act  that  he 
was  induced  to  make  the  essay.  He  said  he 
saw  nothing  disgusting  in  it;  that  people 
Ubsd  it ;  that  it  served  him  well  in  his  **  pro- 
feBBionBl*  engagements;  and  spoke  of  the 
saake  in  genial  as  a  reptile  capable  of  afiec 
lion,  not  unpleasant  to  the  eye,  and  very 
deanly  in  its  habits. 

**!  swallow  snakes,  swords,  and  knives; 
bet,  of  coarse,  when  I'm  engaged  at  a  penny 
theatre  I*m  expected  to  do  more  than  this, 
lor  it  would  only  take  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Old  that  isn't  long  enough  for  them.  They 
cdl  me  in  the  perfession  a  *  Sallementro,'  and 
that  is  what  I  term  myself;  though  p'raps 
itrs  easier  to  say  I'm  a  *  swallower.' 

^  It  was  a  mate  of  mine  that  I  was  with 
that  first  put  me  up  to  sword-and-snake  swal- 
kniiDg.  I  copied  off  him,  and  it  took  me 
about  three  months  to  learn  it.  I  began  with 
*  cwofd  first — of  course  not  a  sharp  sword, 
bat  one  blunt-pointed— and  I  didn't  ex. 
aelly  know  how  to  do  it,  for  there's  a  trick  in  it. 
I  eee  him,  and  I  said,  '  Oh,  I  shall  set  up 
master  for  myself,  and  practise  until  I  can 
doit* 

^  At  first  it  turned  me,  putting  it  down  my 
iluQat  past  my  swallow,  right  down— about 


eighteen  inches.  It  made  my  swallow  sore — 
yeiy  sore,  and  I  used  lemon  and  sugar  to  cure 
it.  It  was  tight  at  first,  and  I  kept  pushing  it 
down  fruther  and  further.  There's  one  thin^, 
you  mustn't  cough,  and  until  you're  used  to  it 
you  want  to  very  bad,  and  then  you  must  pull 
it  up  again.  My  sword  was  about  three-quar- 
ters  of  an  inch  wide. 

^  At  first  I  didn't  know  the  trick  of  doing  it, 
but  I  found  it  out  this  way.  You  see  the 
trick  is,  you  must  oil  the  sword— the  best 
sweet  oil,  worth  fourteen  pence  a  pint — and 
you  put  it  on  with  a  sponge.  Then,  you  un- 
derstand, if  the  sword  scratches  the  swallow 
it  dont  make  it  sore,  'cos  the  oil  heals  it  up 
again.  When  first  I  put  the  sword  down,  be- 
fore  I  oiled  it,  it  used  to  come  up  quite  slimy, 
but  after  Uie  oil  it  slips  down  quite  easy,  is  as 
clean  when  it  comes  up  as  before  it  went 
down. 

"  As  I  told  you,  we  are  called  at  concert-rooms 
where  I  perform  the  <  Sallementro.'  I  think 
it's  French,  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is  exactly ; 
but  that's  what  I'm  called  amongst  us. 

''  The  knives  are  easier  to  do  Uian  the  sword 
because  they  are  shorter.  We  puts  them  right 
down  till  the  handle  rests  on  the  mouth.  The 
sword  is  about  eighteen  inches  long,  and  the 
knives  about  eight  inches  in  the  blade.  People 
run  away  with  Uie  idea  that  you  slip  the  blades 
down  your  breast,  but  I  always  hold  mine  right 
up  with  the  neck  bare,  and  they  see  it  go  into 
the  mouth  atween  the  teeth.  They  also  fancy 
it  hurts  you;  but  it  don't,  or  what  a  fool  I 
should  be  to  do  it.  I  don't  mean  to  say  it 
don't  hurt  you  at  first,  'cos  it  do,  for  my  swal- 
low was  very  bad,  and  I  couldn't  eat  anything 
but  liqtuds  for  two  months  whilst  I  was  learn- 
ing.  I  cured  my  swallow  whilst  I  was  stretch- 
ing it  with  lemon  and  sugar. 

*'  I  was  tlie  second  one  that  ever  swaDowed 
a  snake.  I  was  about  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  old  when  I  learnt  it.  The  first  was 
Clarke  as  did  it.  He  done  vexy  well  with  it,  but 
he  wasn't  out  no  more  than  two  years  before 
me,  so  he  wasn't  known  much.  In  the  country 
there  is  some  places  where,  when  you  do  it, 
they  swear  you  are  the  devil,  and  won't  have  it 
nohow. 

"  The  snakes  I  use  are  about  eighteen  inches 
long,  and  you  must  first  cut  the  stingers  out, 
'cos  it  might  hurt  you.  I  always  keep  two  or 
three  by  me  for  my  performances.  I  keep 
them  warm,  but  the  winter  kills  'em.  I  give 
them  nothing  to  oat  but  worms  or  gentles.  I 
generally  keep  them  in  fionnel,  or  hay,  in  a 
box.    I've  three  at  home  now. 

**  When  first  I  began  swallowing  snakes  they 
tasted  queer  like.  They  draw'd  the  roof  of 
the  mouth  a  bit.  It's  a  roughish  taste.  The 
scales  rough  you  a  bit  when  you  draw  them 
up.  You  see,  a  snake  will  go  into  ever  such  a 
little  hole,  and  they  are  smooth  one  way.  ^ 

*'  The  head  of  the  snake  goes  about  an  inch 
and  a  half  down  the  throat,  and  the  rest  of  it 
continues  in  the  mouth,  curled  round  like.    I 


118 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


hold  him  hy  the  tidl,  and  when  I  pinoh  it  he 
goes  right  in.  You  must  cut  the  stinger  oat 
or  he'll  iiyure  you.  The  tail  is  slippeiy,  but 
you  nip  it  with  the  nails  like  pinchen.  If 
yon  was  to  let  him  go,  he'd  go  right  down ; 
but  most  snakes  will  stop  at  two  inches  down 
the  swallow,  and  then  they  bind  like  a  ball  in 
the  mouth. 

**  I  in  genendly  get  my  snakes  by  giving  little 
boys  ha'pence  to  go  and  catch  'em  in  the 
woods.  I  get  them  when  I'm  pitching  in  the 
country.  I'll  get  as  many  as  I  can  get,  and 
bring  'em  up  to  London  for  my  engagements. 

**  AVhen  first  caught  the  snake  is  slimy,  and 
I  have  to  clean  him  by  scraping  him  off  with 
the  finger-nail  as  dean  as  I  can,  and  then 
wiping  him  with  a  cloth,  and  then  with  ano- 
ther, until  he's  nice  and  clean.  I  have  put 
lem  down  slimy,  on  purpose  to  taste  what  it 
was  like.  It  had  a  nasty  taste  with  it— >Teiy 
nasty. 

**  I  give  a  man  a  shilling  always  to  cut  the 
stinger  out— one  that  knows  all  about  it,  for 
tlio  Btinger  is  under  the  tongue.  It  was  this 
Clark  I  first  see  swallow  a  snake.  He  swallowed 
it  as  it  ^-os  when  ho  caught  it,  slimy.  He 
said  it  was  nasty.  Then  he  scraped  it  with 
his  nail  and  lot  it  crawl  otween  his  hands, 
cleaning  itself.  When  once  they  are  cleaned 
of  the  slime  they  havn  no  taste.  Upon  my 
word  they  are  clean  thinp:s,  a'most  like  metal. 
They  only  lives  on  worms,  and  that  ain't  so 
nasty ;  besides,  tliey  never  makes  no  mess  in 
tlie  box,  only  frotliing  in  the  mouth  at  morn- 
ing and  evening :  but  I  don't  know  what  comes 
from  'em,  for  I  ain't  a  doctor. 

"  When  I  exhibit,  I  first  holds  the  snake  up 
in  the  air  and  pinches  the  tail,  to  make  it  curl 
about  and  twist  round  my  arm,  to  show  that 
he  is  alive.  Then  I  holds  it  above  my  mouth, 
and  as  soon  as  he  sees  the  hole  in  he  goes. 
He  goes  wavy-like,  as  a  ship  goes. — ^that;B  the 
comparison.  You  see,  a  snake  will  go  in  at 
any  hole.  I  always  hold  my  breath  whilst 
his  head  is  in  my  swallow.  AVhen  he  moves 
in  the  swallow,  it  tickles  a  little,  but  it  don't 
make  you  want  to  retch.  In  my  opinibn 
he  is  more  glad  to  come  up  than  to  go 
down,  for  it  seems  to  be  too  hot  for  him.  I 
keep  him  down  about  two  minutes.  If  I 
breathe  or  cough,  he  draws  out  and  cuils  back 
again.  I  think  there's  artfulness  in  some  of 
them  big  snakes,  for  they  seem  to  know  which 
is  the  master.  I  was  at  Wombwell's  menagerie 
of  wild  bea.^t8  for  three  months,  and  I  had  the 
care  of  a  big  snake,  as  thick  round  as  my  arm. 
I  -wouldn't  attempt  to  put  that  one  down  my 
throat,  I  can  tell  you,  for  I  think  I  might 
easier  have  gone  down  his'n.  I  had  to  show 
it  to  the  people  in  front  of  the  carriages  to 
draw  'em  in,  at  fair  time.  I  used  to  hold  it  up 
in  both  hands,  with  my  arms  in  the  air.  Many 
a  time  it  curled  itself  three  or  four  times 
round  my  neck  and  about  my  body,  and  it 
never  even  so  much  as  squeeged  me  the  least 
bit.    I  had  the  feeding  on  it,  and  I  used  to 


prive  it  the  largest  worms  I  coiild  find.  Mr. 
Wombwell  has  often  said  to  me, '  It^s  a  dan- 
gerous game  you're  after,  and  if  you  don't 
give  the  snake  plenty  of  worms  and  make  it 
like  you,  it'll  nip  you  some  of  these  times.'  Tm 
sure  the  snake  know'd  me.  I  was  very  partial 
to  it,  too.  It  was  a  flirren  snake,  over  spots, 
called  a  boa-constructor.  It  never  iii^uxed  me, 
though  I'm  told  it  is  uncommon  powerful, 
and  eon  aqueege  a  man  up  like  %  sheet  of 
paper,  and  crack  his  bones  as  easj  ms  a  laric*!. 
Pm  tremendous  courageous,  nothing  frightens 
me ;  indeed,  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  afraid. 

"  The  one  I  was  speaking  of  I  have  aften 
held  up  in  the  air  in  both  hands,  and  it 
was  more  than  four  yards  long,  and  let  it 
curl  round  my  neck  in  five  or  six  twiris.  It 
was  a  boa-constructor,  and  I  believe  it  knoWd 
me,  end  that's  why  it  didn't  hurt  me,  for  I  feed 
him.  He  had  nothing  but  long  great  wonns, 
and  he  grew  to  know  me. 

^  My  performance  with  the  snake  is  always 
very  successful.  The  women  is  frightened  at 
first,  but  they  always  stop  to  see,  and  only 
hide  their  eyes.  '1  here's  no  danger  as  long 
as  you  keep  hold. 

^  I  generally  perform  at  concert-rooms,  and 
penny  theatres,  and  cheap  circuses,  and  all 
round  the  counUy,  such  as  in  the  street,  or  at 
farm-houses,  or  in  tap-rooms.  I  have  done  it 
in  the  streets  of  London  too,  and  then  Vm 
drcssed-up  in  fleshing  tights,  skin  dress,  and 
trunks.  I  carry  the  snake  in  a  box.  When  I 
swallow  it  some  holloa  out, '  0  my  God,  dont 
do  that!'  but  when  I'm  finished,  they  siy, 
'It's  hardly  wonderfrd  to  be  believed,'  axid 
give  money. 

« I  generally  mix  up  the  sword-and-snake 
performances  with  my  other  ones ;  and  it^ 
the  same  in  the  streets. 

**  Sometimes  I  go  out  to  tap-rooms  in  my 
eveiy-day  dress,  with  the  snake  in  my  pocket, 
and  a  sword.  Then  I  go  and  ofler  to  show 
my  performance.  First  I'll  do  some  tumbling, 
and  throw  a  somerset  over  a  table.  Then  I 
takes  out  the  snake  ard  say,  *  Gentlemen,  I 
shall  now  swallow  a  live  snake,  anybody  is  at 
liberty  to  feel  it,'  I  have— according  to  the 
company,  you  know — ^niade  such  a  thing  aa 
five  shillings,  or  one  shilling  and  sixpence, 
or  whatever  it  may  be,  by  snake-swallowing 
alone. 

''I'm  the  only  one  in  London  who  can 
swallow  a  snake.  There's  nobody  else  besides 
me.  It  requires  great  courage.  I've  great 
courage.  One  night  I  was  sleeping  in  a  bam 
at  a  public-house,  called  the  Globe,  at  Lewes, 
seven  miles  from  Brighton.  A  woman  who 
had  cut  her  throat  used  to  haunt  the  place. 
Well,  I  saw  her  walking  about  in  a  long  white 
shroud,  the  doors  opening  and  shutting  be- 
fore  her.  A  man  who  was  in  the  room  with 
us  jumped  up  in  his  bed  and  cried,  *  Tum- 
blers!'" 

'*I  must  teU  you  one  thing  before  you 
finish,  just  to  prove  what  tremendous  courage 


JuONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Ill) 


L  I  was  out  showing  the  sword-aad- 
swallowing  in  the  conntiy,  and  I  tra- 
down  to  near  Lawes,  which  is  seven 
ram  Brighton,  and  there  I  put  up  at  a 
adled  the  Falcon.  We  slept  in  a  bam, 
night,  when  all  was  asleep  except  my- 
see  a  fignre  all  in  white  come  into  the 
vith  her  throat  cnt,  and  her  face  as 
m  chalk.  I  knowed  she  was  a  apperi- 
OB  rd  been  told  the  hoose  was  haunted 
b.  Well,  in  she  come,  and  she  stopped 
oked  at  me,  seeing  that  I  was  awake, 
lenpization  poored  out  of  me  like  a 
r;  hat  I  wam't  afeard,  I've  that  courage. 
,*Ood  help  me!'  for  I  knew  I'd  done 
m  as  I  cocdd  call  to  mind ;  so  I  hadn't 
r  of  ghosts  and  such-like  spirits.  No, 
ftain  it  wem't  no  fancy  of  mine,  'cos 
see  it  as  well  as  me.  There  was  a 
B  the  same  room,  and  he  woke  up  and 
16  ghosts,  and  up  he  jumps  in  bed  and 
mt:  'Tumblers!  Tumblers!  here's  a 
I  h'^tnting  us ! '  I  told  him  to  lie  down 
>  to  sleep,  and  hold  his  uoise.  Then  I 
t  of  bed,  and  it  wanished  past  me,  close 
Id  be, — as  near  as  I  am  to  this  table. 
oor  opened  itself  to  let  her  out,  and 
loaed  again.  I  didn't  fed  the  air  cold 
or  nothing,  nor  was  there  any  smell  or 
nk.  I'm  sure  I  wasn't  dreaming,  'cos 
rs  pretty  well  when  I'm  awake.  Besides 
ora  kept  bouncing  open,  and  then  slam- 
o  again  for  more  Uian  an  hour,  and  woke 
od^  in  the  room.  This  kept  on  tiU  one 
•  Yet,  yon  see,  though  the  sweat  run 
ne  to  that  degree  I  was  wetted  through, 
lad  that  courage  I  could  get  out  of  bed 
what  the  spirit  was  like.  I  said,  '  God 
le  1  for  I've  done  no  harm  as  I  knows  of^' 
at  give  mo  courage." 
1^  the  ^  Salamentro  "  told  mo  this  ghost 
lie  spoke  it  in  a  half  voice,  like  that  of 
oas  believer  in  such  things.  When  he 
dshed  he  seomed  to  have  something  on 
ad,  for  after  a  moment's  silence  he  said, 
oniidential  tone,  "Between  ourselves, 
VCL  a  Jew."  I  then  asked  him  if  he 
It  the  ghost  was  aware  of  it,  and  had 
him  on  that  account,  and  the  following 
i  reply :  "  Well,  it  ain't  imlikely ;  for,  you 
me  of  our  scholars  know  what  to  say  to 
K>r  things,  and  they  know  what  to  do 
;  'em.  Now,  pr'aps  she  thought  I  knew 
wcrets^ — ^but,  I'm  no  scholard — ^for,  yon 
\  itm^  always  carry  prayers  about  with 
beep  ofi  evil  spirits.  That's  one  reason 
was  so  bold  as  to  go  up  to  her." 

Stbekt  Clowh. 

«8  a  melancholy -looking  man,  with 
nken  eyes  and  other  characteristics  of 
starvation,  whilst  his  face  was  scored 
inee  and  wrinkles,  telling  of  paint  and 
iture  age. 
B.W  him  performing  in  the  streets  with 


a  school  of  acrobats  soon  after  I  had  been 
questioning  him,  and  the  readiness  and  busi- 
nessUike  way  with  which  he  resumed  his 
professional  buffoonery  was  not  a  httle  re- 
maricable.  His  stoiy  was  more  pathetic  than 
comic,  and  proved  that  the  li£B  of  a  street 
clown  is,  perhaps,  the  most  wretched  of  all 
existence.  Jest  as  he  may  in  the  street,  his 
hfe  is  literally  no  joke  at  home. 

**  I  have  been  a  down  for  sixteen  years,"  he 
said,  **  having  lived  totally  by  it  for  that  time. 
I  was  left  motherless  at  two  years  of  age,  and 
my  father  died  when  I  was  nine.  He  was  a 
carman,  and  his  master  took  me  as  a  stable- 
boy,  and  I  stayed  with  him  until  he  failed  in 
business.  I  was  then  left  destitute  again, 
and  got  employed  as  a  snpemumeraiy  at 
Astle/s,  at  one  shilling  a-night  I  was  a 
'  super'  some  time,  and  got  an  insight  into 
theatricd  life.  I  got  acquainted,  too,  with 
singing  people,  and  could  sing  a  good  song, 
and  came  out  at  last  on  my  own  account  in 
the  streets,  in  the  Jim  Grow  line.  My  neces- 
sities forced  me  into  a  public  line,  which  I  am 
far  from  liking.  I'd  pull  trucks  at  one  shilling 
a-day,  rather  than  get  twelve  shillings  a- week 
at  my  business.  I've  tried  to  get  out  of  the 
line.  I've  got  a  friend  to  advertise  for  me  for 
any  situation  as  groom.  Ive  tried  to  get  iuto 
the  police,  and  I've  tried  oUier  things,  but 
somehow  there  seems  an  impossibility  to  get 
quit  of  the  street  business.  Many  times  I 
have  to  play  the  down,  and  indulge  in  all  kinds 
of  buffoonery,  with  a  terrible  heavy  heart.  I 
have  travelled  very  much,  too,  but  I  never  did 
over-well  in  the  profession.  At  races  I  may 
have  made  ten  shillings  for  two  or  three  days, 
but  that  was  only  occosiond ;  and  what  is  ten 
shillings  to  keep  a  wife  and  family  on,  for  a 
month  maybe?  I  have  three  children,  one 
now  only  dght  weeks  old.  You  can't  imagine, 
sir,  what  a  curse  the  street  business  often 
becotnos,  with  its  insults  and  starvations. 
The  day  before  my  wife  was  confined,  I  jumped 
andlabour'd  doing  Jim  Grow  for  twdve  hours — 
in  the  wet,  too-— and  earned  one  shilling  and 
threepence;  with  ibis  I  returned  to  a  home 
without  a  bit  of  cod,  and  with  only  half-a- 
quartern  loaf  in  it.  I  know  it  was  one  shilling 
and  threepence ;  for  I  keep  a  sort  of  log  of  mj 
earnings  and  my  expenses;  yon'U  see  on  it 
what  I've  eom'd  as  clown,  or  the  ftmnyman, 
with  a  party  of  acrobats,  since  the  beginning 
of  this  year." 

He  showed  me  this  log,  as  he  called  it, 
which  was  kept  in  small  figures,  on  paper 
folded  up  as  economically  as  possible.  His 
latest  weekly  earnings  were,  ISU.  6<i.,  U.  \OtL, 
7s.  7if.,  2«.  Sd.,  a#.  Hid.,  7*.  1^  7j.  9K» 
6«.  4|d.,  10«.  104d.,  95.  7d.,  6s.  lid.,  I5s.  0H» 
6s.  6d.,  4s.  2d.,  I2s.  lOid.,  lOt.  &Kr  ^^*  ^• 
Against  this  was  set  off  what  the  poor  man 
haid  to  expend  for  his  dinner,  drc,  when 
out  playing  the  clown,  as  he  was  away  firom 
home  and  could  not  dine  with  his  family.  The 
dphers  intimate  the  weeks  when  there  was  no 


>/ 


190 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


such  expense,  or  in  other  words,  those  which 
had  heen  passed  without  dinner.  0,  0,  0,  0, 
2t,  2|rf.,  3«.  9{d,,  4>.  id,,  4f.  JM.,  6«.  6^1^.,  ftt. 
11H>  ^'  lO^rf.,  2f.  8H>  St.  7K»  8«.  4|rf.,  Of. 
bid,,  Am,  6}4^,  4f.  3«I.  This  account  shows  an 
average  of  Ba.  6^.  a- week  as  the  gross  gain, 
whilst,  if  the  expenses  he  deducted,  not  quite 
six  shillings  remain  as  the  average  weekly  sum 
to  he  taken  home  to  wife  and  family. 

**!  dare  say,"  continued  the  man,  *<that 
no  persons  tMnk  more  of  their  dig^ty  than 
such  as  are  in  my  way  of  life.  I  would  rather 
starve  than  ask  for  parochial  relief.  Many  a 
time  I  have  gone  to  my  lahour  without  breakmg 
my  fast,  and  played  clown  until  I  could  raise 
dinner.  I  have  to  make  jokes  as  clown,  and 
«ould  fill  a  volume  with  all  I  knows." 

He  told  me  several  of  his  jests ;  they  were 
«11  of  the  most  venerable  kind,  as  for  instance : 
— **  A  horse  has  ten  legs :  he  has  two  fore 
legs  and  two  hind  ones.  Two  fores  are  eight, 
«nd  two  others  are  ten."  The  other  jokes 
were  equally  puerile,  as,  •*  Why  is  the  City  of 
Home,**  (he  would  have  it  Rome),  "like  a 
candle  wick?  Because  it's  in  the  midst  of 
Greece."  **01d  and  young  are  both  of  one 
«ge :  your  son  at  twenty  is  young,  and  your 
liorse  at  twenty  is  old:  and  so  old  and 
joung  are  the  same.**  ''The  dress,"  he 
continued,  *'thatl  wear  in  the  streets  consists 
of  red  striped  cotton  stockings,  with  ftdl 
trunks,  dotted  red  and  black.  The  body, 
which  is  dotted  like  the  trunks,  fits  tight  like 
a  woman's  ^own,  and  has  Aili  sleeves  and 
Irills.  The  wig  or  scalp  is  made  of  horse-hair, 
which  is  sown  on  to  a  white  cap,  and  is  in  the 
shape  of  a  cock's  comb.  My  face  is  painted 
with  dry  white  lead«  I  grease  my  skm  first 
and  then  dab  the  white  paint  on  (flake-white 
is  too  dear  for  us  street  clowns) ;  after  that  I 
colour  my  cheeks  and  mouth  with  vermilion. 
I  never  dress  at  home ;  we  all  dress  at  public- 
houses.  In  the  street  where  I  lodge,  only  a 
very  few  know  what  I  do  for  a  living.  I  and 
my  wife  both  strive  to  keep  the  business  a 
secret  firom  our  neighbours.  My  wife  does  a 
little  washing  when  able,  and  often  works 
eight  hours  for  sixpence.  I  go  out  at  eight 
in  the  morning  and  return  at  dark.  My 
children  hardly  know  what  I  do.  They  see 
my  dresses  lying  about,  but  that  is  all.  My 
eldest  is  a  girl  of  thirteen.  She  has  seen  me 
dressed  at  Stepney  fair,  where  she  brought  me 
my  tea  (I  live  near  there) ;  she  laughs  when 
she  sees  me  in  my  clown's  dress,  and  wants  to 
stay  with  me :  but  I  would  rather  see  her  lay 
dead  before  me  (and  I  had  two  dead  in  my 
place  at  one  time,  last  Whitsun  Monday  was  a 
twelvemonth)  than  the  should  ever  belong 
to  my  profession." 

I  could  see  the  tears  start  from  the  man's 
eyes  as  he  said  this. 

"Frequently  when  I  am  playing  the  fool  in 
the  streets,  I  feel  very  sad  at  heart  I  can't  help 
thinkingof  the  bare  cupboards  at  home ;  but 
what's  that  to  the  worid?  l*ve  often  and  often 


been  at  home  all  day  when  it  has  be* 
wi^  no  food  at  all,  either  to  give  my  o 
or  take  myself,  and  have  gone  out  at  i 
the  public-houses  to  sing  a  comic  s 
play  the  funnyman  for  a  meal — yo 
miagine  with  what  feelings  for  the  part 
when  I've  come  home  I've  call'd  my  o 
up  from  their  beds  to  share  the  loai 
brought  back  with  me.  I  know  three  < 
clowns  as  miserable  and  bad  off  as 
The  way  in  which  our  profession  is  ru 
by  the  stragglers  or  outsiders,  who  an 
men  who  are  good  tradesmen.  They  tak 
clown's  business  only  at  holiday  or  fsi 
when  there  is  a  little  money  to  be  pieke 
it,  and  after  that  they  go  back  to  th« 
txtides ;  so  Uiat,  you  see,  we,  who  are  oU 
continue  at  it  Uie  year  llirough,  are  dep: 
even  the  little  bit  of  luck  we  should  otl 
have.  I  know  only  of  another  regnlai 
clown  in  London  besides  myself.  Some  i 
of  acrobats,  to  be  sure,  wiU  have  a  comic  < 
ter  of  some  kind  or  other,  to  keep  the  pi 
that  is,  to  amuse  the  people  while  the 
is  being  collected :  but  Uiese,  in  gene 
not  regular  clowns.  They  are  m<^y  i 
and  got  up  for  the  occasion.  They  « 
don't  do  anything  else  but  the  street 
business,  but  they  are  not  pantomim 
profession.  The  street  clowns  genen 
out  with  dancers  and  tumblers.  Th< 
some  street  clowns  to  be  seen  with  the 
in-the-greens ;  but  they  are  mostly  i 
who  have  hired  their  dress  for  the 
three  days,  as  the  case  may  be.  I  thin 
are  three  regular  clowns  in  the  met] 
and  one  of  these  is  not  a  professioB 
never  smelt  the  sawdust,  I  know,  air 
most  that  I  have  known  have  been 
makers  before  taking  to  the  business. 
I  go  out  as  a  street  clown,  the  first  thii 
is  a  comic  medley  dance ;  and  then  aft 
I  crack  a  few  jokes,  and  that  is  the  wl 
my  entertainment  The  first  part 
medley  dance  is  called  *  the  good  St  An 
(I  was  the  first  that  ever  danced  the  p 
the  streets) ;  then  I  do  a  waltz,  and  n 
with  a  hornpipe.  After  that  I  go  thn 
little  burlesque  business.  I  fan  myse 
one  of  the  school  asks  me  whether  I  am 
breath  ?  I  answer,  *  No,  the  breath  is 
me.'  The  leading  questions  for  the  jd 
all  regularly  prepared  beforehand.  T 
jokes  always  go  best  with  our  and 
The  older  they  are,  the  better  for  the  i 
I  know,  indeed,  of  nothing  new  in  the 
way ;  but  even  if  there  was,  and  it  was  in  a 
deep,  it  would  not  do  for  the  public  tho 
fares.  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of*] 
but  the  jokes  are  nearly  all  too  high 
indeed,  I  cant  say  I  think  very  mu(&  o 
myself.  The  principal  way  in  which  I 
up  my  jokes  is  through  associating  with 
clowns.  We  dont  make  our  jokes  oursel' 
fact,  I  never  knew  one  clown  who  did. 
own  that  the  street  clowns  like  a  little  c 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


121 


and  occasionally  a  good  deoL  They 
«e  in  a  measure  obligated  to  it.  I  can't  fancy 
a  cioirn  being  funny  on  small  beer ;  and  I 
Bsvcr  in  all  my  life  knew  one  who  was  a 
tMlBCaUer.  I  think  such  a  person  would  be 
a  onioiia  character,  indeed.  Most  of  the  street 
dovaa  die  in  the  workhouses.  In  their  old 
i|«  they  are  generally  rery  wretched  and 
fQff«ty.ctricken.  I  cant  say  what  I  think 
vill  be  the  end  of  me.    I  darent  think  of  it, 

k%em  minutes  afterwards  I  saw  this  man 
fcMHi!  aa  Jim  Crow,  with  his  face  blackened, 
ilierinc  and  singing  in  the  streets  aa  if 
ha  waa   the   lightest-hearted   fellow   in   all 


The  Pksxt-Gait  Clowx. 

Tn  "'proiiBsaional**  firom  whom  I  elicited  my 
kiio«led|^  of  penny-gaff  clowning  is  known 
■Mog  hia  companions  as  ^  Funny  Billy."  He 
■fitted  not  a  little  anxious  to  uphold  the 
jgnity  of  the  penny  theatre,  frequently  assur- 
iig  ne  that  **  they  brought  things  out  there 
■  a  ilyle  that  would  astonish  some  of  the  big 
kmea."    Iffia  whole  being  seemed  ?rrapped 

a  hi  these  cheap  dramatic  saloons,  and  he 
I  me  wonderful  stories  of  first-claas  actors 
H  **  The  Bffingham,**  or  of  astonishing  per- 
faBcn  at  **  The  Bower,"  or  **  Rotunda."  He 
ua  iorpfiaed,  too,  that  the  names  of  several 
tf  the  artiates  there  were  not  familiar  to  me, 
ad  fteqnently  pressed  me  to  go  and  see  so- 
ad-aola  **  Beadle,"  or  hear  so-and-so  sing  his 
"Oh!  dont  I  like  my  Father !" 

Baadea  being  a  clown,  my  informant  was 
ilio  '^an  author,"  and  several  of  the  most 
■HeMftil  ballets,  pantomimes,  and  dramas, 
IbA  of  late  years  have  been  brought  out  at  the 
(Star  (■&,  have,  I  was  assured,  proceeded  from 


^Uapen." 

Li  build,  even  in  his  every-day  clothes,  he 
xeaembles  a  down — perhaps  from  the 
of  his   chest  and  high-buttoned 
or  from  the  shortness  and  crooked- 
of  hia  legs ;  but  he  was  the  first  I  had 
whoee  form  gave  any  indication  of  his 


Sboe  the  beginning  of  this  year  (185C)  he 

ftM  nfeo  np  clowning,  and  taken  to  pantaloon* 

iaginateady  for  "on  last  boxing-day,"  he  in- 

foRBed  me,  ^  he  met  with  an  accident  which 

I  ^"Vrraird  his  jaw,  and  caused  a  swelling  in 

\m  cheek  aa  ^  he  had  an  apple  inside  his 

■  aoeth."    This  he  said  he  could  conceal  in  his 

Mka-np  as  a  pantaloon,  but  it  had  ruined  him 

for  down. 

ffia  statement  was  as  follows : — 

**rm  a  clown  at  penny  ga£&  and  the  cheap 

tkcitres,  for  some  of  the  gafis  are  twopence 

nd  threepence-— that's  as  high  as  they  run. 

^  Botonda  in  the  Blackfriars'-road  is  the 

Wgest  in  London,  and  that  will  hold  one 

^iiOQttiid  comfortably  seated,  and  they  give 

I  ^in  one  evening,  at  one  penny,  twopence, 


and  threepence,  and  a  first-class  entertain- 
ment it  is,  consisting  of  a  variety  of  singing 
and  dancing,  and  ballets,  from  one  hour  and 
a-half  to  two  hoiurs.  There  are  no  penny 
theatres  where  speaking  is  legally  allowed, 
though  they  do  do  it  to  a  great  extent,  and  at 
all  of  'em  at  Christmas  a  pantomime  is  played, 
at  which  Clown  and  Pantaloon  speaks. 

**  The  difi'erence  between  a  penny-gaff  clown 
and  a  fair,  or,  as  we  call  it,  a  canvas  down,  is 
this,-— at  the  fairs  the  principal  business  is 
outside  on  the  parade,  and  there's  very  little 
done  (sddom  more  than  two  scenes)  inside. 
Now  at  the  penny  gafis  they  go  through  c^ 
regular  pantomime,  consisting  of  from  six  to 
eight  scenes,  with  jumps  and  all  complete, 
as  at  a  regular  theatre ;  so  that  to  do  clown  to 
one  of  them,  you  must  be  equal  to  those  that 
come  out  at  the  regular  theatres ;  and  what's 
more,  you  must  strain  every  nerve ;  and  what's 
more  still,  you  may  often  please  at  a  regular 
theatre  when  you  won't  go  down  at  all  at  a 
penny  gafil  The  circus  clown  is  as  different 
from  a  penny-gaff  down  as  a  coster  is  from 
a  tradesman. 

**What  made  me  turn  down  was  this.  I 
was  singing  comic  songs  at  the  Albion  Saloon, 
Whitechapel,  and  playing  in  ballets,  and 
doing  the  scene-painting.'  Business  was  none 
of  the  best.  Mr.  Paul  Herring,  the  celebrated 
clown,  was  introduced  into  the  company  as  a 
draw,  to  play  bidlets.  The  ballet  which  he 
selected  was  *The  Barber  and  Beadle;'  and 
me  being  the  only  one  who  played  the  old 
men  on  the  estabUshment,  he  selected  me  to 
play  the  Beadle  to  his  Barber.  He  compli- 
mented me  for  what  I  had  done,  when  the 
performance  was  over,  for  I  done  my  utter- 
most to  gain  his  applause,  knowing  him  to  be 
such  a  star,  and  what  he  said  was — I  think — 
deserved.  We  played  together  ballets  for  up- 
wards of  nine  months,  as  well  as  pantomimes, 
in  which  I  done  the  Pantaloon ;  and  wo  had 
two  clear  benefits  between  us,  in  which  we 
realised  three  pounds  each,  on  both  occasions. 
Then  Mr.  Paul  Herring  was  engaged  by  Mr. 
Jem  Douglass,  of  the  Standard,  to  perform 
with  the  great  cloMrn,  Mr.  Tom  Matthews,  for 
it  was  intended  to  have  two  downs  in  the 
piece.  Ho  having  to  go  to  the  Standard  for 
the  Christmas,  left  about  September,  and  we 
was  without  a  clown,  and  it  was  proposed  that 
1  should  play  the  clown.  1  accepted  the  offer, 
at  a  salary  of  tbiiny-live  shillings  a-week, 
under  Hector  Simpson,  the  great  pantomimist 
—who  was  proprietor.  This  gentleman  was 
well  known  as  Uie  great  dog-and-bear  man  of 
Covent  Garden,  and  vaiious  other  theatres, 
where  he  played  Vultuitine  and  Orson  with  a 
living  bear.  He  showed  rac  vaiions  things 
that  I  were  deficient  in,  and  with  what  I  knew 
n^yself  we  went  on  admiringly  well ;  and  I 
continued  at  it  as  clown  for  upwards  of  a  year, 
and  became  a  great  favourite. 

"  Iremember  clowning  last  Christmas  ( 1850) 
particularly,  for  it  was  a  sad  year  for  mc,  and 


1298 


LOhDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOM. 


one  of  the  busiest  times  I  have  ever  known. 
I  met  with  my  accident  then.  I  was  wox^ed 
to  death.  First  of  all,  I  had  to  do  mj  re- 
hearsals ;  then  I  had  the  scene-painting  to  go 
on  with,  which  occupied  me  night  and  day,  and 
what  it  brought  me  in  was  three  shillings  a- 
daj  and  three  shillings  a-night  The  last 
scene,  eqnal  to  a  pair  of  flats,  was  only  given 
to  me  to  do  on  Ghxistmas-eve,  to  accomplish  by 
the  bozing'day.  I  got  them  done  by  five 
o'clock  at  Christmas  morning,  and  then  I  had 
to  go  home  and  complete  my  dress,  likewise 
my  little  boy's,  who  was  engaged  to  sing  and 
play  in  ballets  at  two  shillings  a-night ;  and  he 
was  only  five  years  old,  bat  very  clever  at 
singing,  combating,  and  ballet  performing,  as 
also  the  illustrations  of  the  Grecian  statues, 
which  he  first  done  when  he  was  two  and  a 
half  years  old. 

**  The  pantomime  was  the  original  Statue 
Blanche,  as  performed  by  Joe  Grimaldi,  as  Mr. 
Hector  Simpson  had  produced  it — for  it  was 
under  his  superintendence — at  Govent  Garden 
Theatre.  It's  title  was,  *  The  Statue  Blanche, 
or  Harlequin  and  the  Magic  Cross.'  I  was 
very  successftil  on  the  boxing.nii^t,  but  on  the 
second  occasion  of  my  acting  in  it  I  received 
an  accident,  which  laid  me  up  for  three  months, 
and  I  was  not  off  my  oed  for  ten  weeks. 

*'  I  had.  pre^-ious  to  this,  played  clown  very 
often,  esi>ecially  on  the  Satmrday  evenings,  for 
the  Jews,  for  I  was  a  great  favourite  with 
them ;  so  for,  that  I  knew  they  would  go  fa» 
and  near  to  serve  me.  I  had  performed  in 
•  Harlequin  Blue  Beard,*  and  *  Harlequm  Merry 
Milliners,  or  The  Two  Pair  of  Lovers,'  and 
several  others,  fh)m  eight  to  ten  of  them ;  but 
that  was  during  the  summer  season.  But  I 
had  never  had  a  chance  of  coming  out  at 
Christmas  before,  and  to  me  it  was  quite  an 
event,  and  there's  no  doubt  I  should  have 
prospered  in  it  only  for  my  accident. 

"  This  accident  was  occasioned  by  this. 
During  the  comic  scene — the  scene  of  the 
stripping  of  the  chUd — they  allowed  an  in. 
experienced  person  to  play  the  part  of  the 
Beadle,  and  the  doll  for  the  child  was  stuffed 
with  oak  sawdust,  and  weighed  twenty-six 
pounds.  He  took  it  up  by  the  leg  and 
struck  me  a  blow  in  the  face,  which  dislocated 
the  jaw-bone,  and  splintered  it  all  to  pieces. 
I  went  through  the  pantomime  with  the  rem- 
nants of  the  broken  jaw  still  in  my  face, 
having  then  four  hours  to  perfonn,  for  we 
played  sixteen  houses  that  boxing^day,  to 
upwards  of  firom  three  to  four  thousand  peo> 
pie,  and  we  began  at  half-past  eleven  in 
the  day,  and  terminated  at  twelve  at  night. 
I  had  met  with  great  approbation  the  whole 
of  the  time,  and  it  was  a  sad  event  for  me. 
It  was  quite  accidental  was  my  accident,  and 
of  course  I  bore  the  man  no  malice  for  one, 
but  more  blamed  the  manager  for  letting  him 
come  on. 

"  When  I  had  done  that  night,  after  my 
blow,  I  felt  very  fatigued,  and  my  face  was  vety 


sore.  I  was  completely  jawlocke 
imagined  I  had  caught  a  cold.  It 
awfully  every  time  I  closed  my  tee 
drowned  my  feelings  in  a  little  brand 
forth;  and  the  next  night  I  resi 
downing.  After  I  had  done  that  e 
found  I  was  so  vexy  bad  I  could  hart 
and  going  home  with  my  wife  and  o 
was  obliged  to  sit  down  every  othi 
took,  which  occupied  me  very  near  t 
to  do  the  mile  and  a  quarter.  I  wei 
and  never  got  up  again  for  ten  we< 
brought  on  fever  again.  Ahl  whi 
suffered,  God,  and  God  only,  knows 
the  doctor  came,  he  said  I  were  imd 
severe  fever,  and  he  thought  I  had 
cold,  and  that  I  had  the  erysiphilas, 
being  so  swollen  that  it  hung  on  my 
as  they  propped  me  up  with  pillows. 
nothing  about  it.  He  made  'em  I 
face  with  poppy-heads,  and  wash  m 
out  with  honey,  which  drove  me  o 
mind,  for  I  was  a  fortnight  deranged, 
told  me,  that  whilst  I  was  mad  I  hat 
very  ill  to  her — poor  thing  I — ^for  I  wc 
anybody  oome  near  me  but  her ;  f 
she'd  come  I'd  seize  her  by  the  hair, 
she  was  the  man  who  had  broke  my 
once  Inear  strangled  her.  I  was  mad,^ 
Ah!  what  I  suffered  then,  nobod 
Through  that  accident  my  wife  and 
has  had  many  a  time  to  go  without 
Everything  was  sold  then  to  keep  mc 
workhoase  —  even  my  poor  little 
frocks.  My  poor  wife  saved  my  life,  i 
did,  for  three  doctors  gave  me  up.  I  doi 
they  knew  what  I  had.  The  teeth  i 
but  the  mouth  was  closed,  and  I  coul 
it.  They  thought  I  had  an  abscess  1 
they  out  me  three  or  four  times  in  tl 
open  the  gathering.  At  lost  they  i 
the  jaw-bone  was  smashed.  "SXln 
better,  the  doctor  told  me  he  could  d 
for  me,  but  give  me  a  letter  to  Dr.  F 
at  the  King's  College  Hospital.  I  wei 
and  he  examined  and  probed  the  jav 
the  incision  under  the  gland  of  the  ; 
then  he  said  he  must  take  the  jaw  ot 
I  would  consult  my  friends  and  h 
they  said  first ;  and  wiUi  the  idea  a 
operation,  and  being  so  weak,  I  actual 
down  in  the  passage  as  I  was  leaving 

"Ah!  fancy  my  distress  to  mokt 
hit,  and  everj'body  to  compliment  m< 
did,  and  to  see  a  prospect  of  almos 
money,  and  then  suddenly  to  be  thr( 
and  be  told  it  was  either  life  or  deatl 

"  I  wouldn't  undergo  the  operatic 
went  home,  and  here  comes  forti 
pulled  out  the  teeth  with  a  pair  of 
pincers,  and  cut  open  my  face  wit 
knife  to  take  out  the  bits  of  bone.  I 
been  a  prudent,  sober  man,  I  sho 
died  through  it. 

**  There  was  a  friend  of  mine  who 
a  broth^  to  me,  and  he  stuck  to  : 


LONDON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


123 


inch.  There  was  lots  of  professionals  I  had 
tapported  in  their  iU&ess,  and  they  never  come 
near  lue;  only  mj  dear  friend,  uiid  but  for 
him  I  i^hould  have  died,  for  he  saved  up  his 
money  to  get  me  port  wine  and  such  things. 

"Many  a  time  Tre  gone  out  when  I  was 
better  to  sing  comio  songs  at  concerts,  when 
I  could  feel  the  hits  of  bone  jangling  in  my 
mouth.  But,  sir,  I  had  a  wife  and  family, 
and  they  wanted  food.  As  it  was,  my  poor 
wile  had  to  go  to  the  workhouse  to  be  con- 
fined. At  one  time  I  started  off  to  do  away 
with  myself.  I  parted  with  my  wife  and 
children,  and  went  to  say  good-by  to  my 
good  friend,  and  it  was  he  who  saved  my  lil\>. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  it  would  have  been 
agooser  with  me,  for  I  was  prepared  to  finish 
all.  He  walked  about  with  me  and  reasoned 
me  out  of  it,  and  si^s  he, '  What  on  earth  will 
become  of  the  wife  and  the  children  ? ' 

"  Im  sufficiently  well  now  to  enable  me  to 
reinime  my  old  occupation,  not  as  Glown  but  as 
Pantaluon. 

•*  Alt^jgethcr — taking  it  all  in  all — I  was 
ihKi  years  as  clown,  and  vciy  successful  and 
a  great  favourite  with  the  Jews.  My  standing 
njbry  for  comic  singing  and  dofiTi  was  eighteen 
riiiUmgs  a-week;  but  tlien  at  Christmas  it 
WIS  always  rose  to  thirty  shillings  or  tliirty- 
fire  shillings.  Then  I  did  the  writing  and 
painting,  such  as  the  placards  for  the  (Uitside  ; 
loeh  as,  *This  saloon  is  open  this  evening,'.  '  \  i  r 
•ad  such-like;  and  that,  on  tlie  average,  would  |-*^o^'-"*c^  ^^  • 
bring  mo  in  eight  shillings  a-week. 

**There  was  seven  men  and  tlireo  females  in 
my  company  when  we  played  *  Harlequin  Blue 
Beard,'  for  that's  the  one  I  shall  describe  to 
you,  and  that  we  played  for  a  considerable 
time.  I  was  manager  at  the  time,  and  1 
atvays  was  liked  by  the  company,  for  I  never 
ibed  them  or  anything  like  that ;  fur,  you  see, 
I  knew  that  to  take  sixpence  from  a  poor  man 
was  to  take  a  loaf  of  bread  from  tho  children. 

"This  pantomime  was  of  my  own  writing, 
and  I  managed  the  chorus  and  the  dances,  and 
lH  I  painted  the  scenery*,  too,  and  moulded 
fte  masks — about  six  altogether — and  then 
•fterwards  played  clo\vn.  All  this  was  in- 
daded  in  my  salary  of  eighteen  shillings  a- 
veek,  and  that  was  the  top  price  of  the  com- 


He  drives  lover  off  stage,  and  is  about  to  take 
Fatima  back  to  cottage,  when  castle  gates 
at  back  opens  and  discovers  Blue  Beard  in 
gondola,  which  crosses  the  stage  in  the  waters. 
Blue  Beard  wears  a  mask  and  a  tremendous 
long  sword,  which  takes  two  men  to  pull 
out.  He's  afterwards  Clown,  and  I  played  the 
part 

"  Several  other  gondolas  cross  stage,  and 
when  the  last  goes  off  the  chorus  begins  in 
the  distance,  and  increases  as  it  approaches, 
and  is  thus : 

'  In  fire  or  in  water,  in  earth  or  in  air : 
Wako  \ip,  old  Blue  Beard*  these  good  things  to 

shuro : 
Wako  up  I  wako  up  I  wake  old  up  Blue  Board, 

theao  ijpood  things  to  share.* 

"Then  comes  Blue  Beard's  march,  and 
enter  troops,  followed  by  Shackaback  in  a  hurry. 
He's  Blue  Beard's  servant.  He  bears  on  Ma 
shoulder  an  immense  key,  which  he  places  in 
the  middle  of  stage.  He  then  comes  to  the 
front  with  a  scroll,  wliich  he  exhibits,  on 
which  is  written : 


'  Blue  Board  comes  this  rery  day, 
A  debt  of  gratitude  to  wiy : 
Aye,  you  noodn't  trouble,  it  is  all  right, 
lie  inieuda  to  wed  Fatima  this  very  ni^jht.* 

At  which  they  all  become  alarmed,  and  in  an 
immense  hxury  of  music  enters  Blue  Beard 
majestically.     Ho  sings,  to  the  tune  of  *  The 


"  The  first  scene  was  with  a  cottage  on  tho 
left  hand  and  with  the  surroundhig  countiy 
ia  the  back ;  three  rows  of  waters,  with  the 
distant  view  of  Blue  Beard's  c»Lstle.  Enters 
the  lover  (he's  the  Harlequin)  in  a  disj,aiiso 
diissed  as  a  Tiu-k ;  ho  explains  in  thf  panto- 
inime  that  he  should  like  to  make  the  lady  in  tlie 
Cdtlage  his  bride  (which  is  Fatima,  and  at'ter- 
^WiU  Columbine).  He  goes  to  the  cottage 
Mul  knocks  three  times,  when  she  appears  at 
the  window.  She  comes  out  and  dances  with 
him.  At  the  end  of  the  dance  tlio  old  man 
comes  in,  to  the  tune  of  »Koa.st  Beef  of  Old 
England.*  He  wears  a  big  mask,  and  is  the 
^4ther  to  Fatima,  and  afterwards  Pantaloon. 


When  first  I  saw  that  lady, 

As  you  may  plainly  aoo, 

I  thoucrht  Hhe  was  tho  handsomest  girl 

As  over  there  could  bo  ; 

8uch  a  cheerful  chubby  girl  was  she^ 

With  such  a  pair  of  eyes. 

With  such  a  mouth,  and  such  a  noso, 

That  she  ilid  nie  so  nurimso : 

Which  made  me  cry  out, 

Hal  Hal' 

"  Tho  lover  from  tlie  side  says : 

*  You*ro  no  credit  to  your  dada.' 

"Then  Blue  Beard  looks  romid  fiercely, 
and  his  mask  is  made  with  eyes  to  work  with 
strings  : 

'  But  I  shall  him  surprlso 
Whon  I  opens  my  eyes,' 

(and  he  opens  a  tremendous  pair  of  saucer 
eyes), 

'  That  talks  of  my  dear  dada.' 

Then  the  music  goes  *  Ha !  ha ! '  As  he  draws 
his  sword  into  the  army  of  four  men,  Shacka- 
back gels  it  on  the  nose. 

"Then  Blue  Beard  goes  direct  to  the  old 
man  and  embraces  him,  and  shows  him  a  big 
purse  of  money.  He  then  goes  to  the  young 
lady,  but  she  refuses  him,  and  says  she  would 
sooner  wed  the  young  trooper.  The  old  man 
gets  in  a  rage,  when  enters  Demon  unseen  by 
uU;  he  waves  over  their  headi ;  they  then  catch 
hold  of  hands  and  dance  round  the  key  again, 
to  the  tune  of  *  The  Boast  Beef  of  Old  Kug- 


Xo.  LXII. 


124 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


land.'  Then  begins  a  choras  which  is  thus, 
to  the  time  of  *  Stoney  Batter :' 

'Bound  thlB  mof^ic  key 
Oftily  let  us  trudge  it ; 
Hoping  eomething  new 
Will  be  brought  to  our  ClulBtmas  budget. 

But  a  aong  about  a  key. 
Is  but  a  doleAil  matter. 
So  well  sing  one  of  our  own. 
And  we'll  call  it  Stoney  Batter. 
Bi  too  loo  zal  loo.' 

(Fairies  from  the  side :) 

'Bitoolooralxidow* 
(Others :) 

*  Bl  too  loo  ral  roo,  loo  ral  lido.' 

''After  dancing  roimd  key.  Blue  Beard 
orders  two  of  the  troops  to  seize  the  girl  and 
carry  her  to  the  castle.  Then  they  catch 
hands  ond  begin  singing,  to  the  tune  of  *  Fine 
Young  Bachelors :' 

*  Here'*  a  \o\\j  lot  of  us. 
Fine  Tundsh  gcntlomen ; 
With  plenty  of  money  in  our  purso, 
Fine  Turkish  gentlemen,'  Ac  4ic. 

*'And  the  scene  closes  on  this.  Then 
the  lover  just  crosses,  so  as  to  give  time  to 
arrange  the  back  scene.  He  vows  vengeance 
on  Bliio  Beard.  Then  scene  opens,  and  dis-, 
covers  a  chamber  with  Fatiraa  on  couch,  and 
Demon  behind  with  a  large  heart,  on  the 
scene  over  which  is  in  illuminated  letters : 

*  Whosoe'er  this  dagger  takes, 
The  magic  spells  oTBlue  Beaxd  breaks.' 

The  large  key  is  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch  on  which  she  is  laying.  We  don't  in- 
troduce the  haunted  chamber  scenes,  as  it 
would  have  been  too  lengthened ;  but  it  was 
supposed  that  she  had  been  there  and  exa- 
mined it,  and  terror  had  overcome  her  and 
she  had  swooned.  That's  when  the  audience 
sees  her.  We  couldn't  do  all  the  story  at  a 
penny  gafi,  it  was  too  long.  To  return  to  the 
plot. 

**  Enter  Fairy,  who  dances  round  the  stage, 
and  sees  the  heart.  She  goes  and  snatches  Uie 
dagger ;  then  a  loud  crash,  and  the  key  falls 
to  pieces  on  the  stage. 

^*  I  had  five  shillings  given  me  as  a  present 
for  that  scene,  for  I  had  painted  the  scene  all 
arches,  and  round  every  pillar  was  a  serpent 
with  fire  coming  from  the  mouth.  I  produced 
that  pantomime,  so  that  altogether  it  did  not 
cost  thirty  shillings,  because  each  man  found 
his  own  dress,  don't  you  see. 

'*  After  the  crash  enters  Blue  Beard.  He 
says  the  lady  has  broken  the  key,  and  he 
is  about  to  kill  her;  when  enter  lover,  and  he 
has  a  terrific  combat,  in  which  they  never  hit 
a  blow  (like  a  phantom-fight)  ;  but  the  lover 
is  about  to  be  struck  to  the  ground,  when 
enters  Fairy,  who  speaks  these  words  : 


*  Hold !  turn  and  turn  is  the  Torkshire  way. 

Yoti  think  ours.  Now  your  dog  shall  have  itadnr* 
Behold!' 

^  Then  the  scene  falls,  and  discovers  a  fauj 
palace  at  back,  with  fairies,  who  sing : 

'  Gome,  listen,  gentle  lover. 

Come,  listen  unto  me ; 
Be  guided  by  our  faixy  queen. 
Who  gained  your  liberty.' 

'*  They  all  look  dismayed  at  one  anotheii 
and  go  to  the  sides  ready  for  changing  their 
dresses  for  the  comic  woric 

''  The  Fairy  Queen  then  says : 

*  Tou,  the  true  lover,  I  think  knows  no  sin. 
Therefore  grace  our  pantomime  as  Harlequin.* 

**  And  turning  to  the  lady  she  adds : 

'  N'ay,  young  lady,  do  not  pine. 
But  attend  him  as  his  faithfiil  Columbtna.' 

<*  Turning  to  Blue  Beard : 

'  Tou,  Blue  Beard,  a  man  of  great  renown. 
Shall  grace  our  pautomime  as  Christoias  Clown.' 

**Then  Clown  comes  forward,  and  criei: 

*  Halla!  ha,  ha,  ha!  here  we  are !  Shobbus  is 
out;'  (that's  the  Jewish  Sunday);  and,  oh 
dear !  how  they  used  to  laugh  at  that ! 

<*  Then  she  turns  to  the  old  man : 

*Tou,  old  man,  you've  been  a  silly  loon. 
Attend  him  as  slippery  fidgetty  Pantaloon  I* 

^  Then  as  she's  going  off  she  says : 

*  Ah !  I'd  almost  forgotten  ; 
Never  miud.  it  is  all  ri^ht; 
Demon  of  the  magic  key. 
Attend  as  Sprite.' 

*'  Then  the  fairies  sing : 

'  We  fairies  danco,  we  fairies  sing. 
Whilst  the  silver  moon  is  beaming  ; 
We  fairies  dance,  we  fairies  sing, 
To  please  oiur  Fairy  Queen.' 

"Then  there  is  blue  fire,  and  the  scent 
closes,  and  the  comic  business  begins. 

**  Clown  dances  first  with  Harlequin,  and  at 
the  end  of  trip  hollars  out :  *Ha,  here  we  are r 
Then  ho  sings  out,  each  time  Harlequin  beats 
him,  *  A,  E,  I,'  (Pantaloon  drops  in  and  gels 
a  blow,  0 1) ;  and  Clown  says,  *  Tuppence !  i^ 
right,  you  owe  me  nothing;  I  shan't  give  you 
no  change.' 

"Then  there's  a  photography  scene,  and 
Clown  comes  on  and  says,  *  Here,  I  say,  what 
shall  we  do  for  a  living  ? '  Then  Pantaloon  says, 

*  We'll  become  dancing-masters.*  The  Clown 
saj-s,  *  They'll  take  Ukenesses.' 

•  *  All,  here's  somebody  coming  !* 
'Enter  a  swell  with  white  ducks,  and  a 

blacking-boy  follows,  says,  *  Clean  your  boetSy 
sir?'  Clown  asks  him  to  dean  his.  As  the 
boy  is  beginning,  Harlequin  bang^  him,  and 
he  knocks  the  boy  over.  Next  bang  he  gets 
he  hits  Pantaloon,  and  says  he  did  it.    Panta- 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


129 


looD  says, '  I  never  touched  you ;'  and  Clown 
Tpplies,  'Then  don*tdo  it  again.'  Then  I'd  give 
'em  a  rub  np  on  the  smoking  mania.  I'd 
say  to  boy, '  Here,  boy,  take  this  farden  to  get 
yomself  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  little  boys  is  fond 
of  smoking;'  and  Pantaloon  would  add,  *  Yes, 
men's  left  off.'  Boy  goes  off  to  buy  the  to- 
bacco, and  leaves  his  blacking-box,  which 
Clown  promises  to  take  care  of  and  clean  the 
boots.  He  hollows  out,  'Clean  your  boots?' 
and  Pantaloon  puts  his  foot  down,  and  gets 
Us  toes  rapped.  Enter  a  lady,  who  asks  where 
she  can  have  her  portrait  taken, — ^Yes,  raarm ; 
orer  there, — Clown  steals  parcel.  When  lady 
is  gone.  Clown  discovers  parcel  to  contain 
blank  canls.  This  is  what  he  takes  the  por- 
traits on,  and  it  was  at  a  time  when  they  was 
all  the  rage  at  a  shilling.  Clown  then  says, 
lie's  taking  portraits,  and  mokes  a  camera  out 
of  the  blacking-box.  He  cuts  a  hole  in  the 
box,  and  sticks  the  blocking-bottle  for  a  lens. 
Then  he  places  the  box  on  Pantaloon's  back 
for  a  stand.  Then,  of  course,  Clown  knocks 
liimover,  and  he  asks  what  that's  for.  *  Why,  if 
you're  a  stand,  what  do  you  fall  for  ?  I  never 
see  such  a  stand.'  Then  ladies  and  gentle- 
aien  come  in  to  have  their  portraits  taken, 
and  Clown  smears  the  cards  with  blacking 
and  gives  it^  and  asks  a  shilling ;  when  they 
pramble  and  won't  pay,  he  rubs  the  blacking 
in  their  faces.  General  row,  and  the  scene 
changes  to  a  street-scene.  There's  another 
tiq)  by  Harlequin  and  Columbine,  and  enters. 
Gown  in  a  hurry  with  six  fish,  and  he  meets 
Pantaloon.  'Look'ee  here,  what  I've  found!' 
•Oh,  fair  halves ! '  'All  right!  sit  down,  and  you 
ihall  have  them.'  Pantaloon  declines,  and  Clown 
knocks  him  down,  and  they  begin  sharing  fish. 
*  There's  one  for  you  and  one  for  me,  another 
for  you  and  another  for  me,  another  for  you 
and  another  for  me.'  *  How  many  have  you 
got?'  Bsk%  Clown,  and  Pantaloon  says,  *One — 
two — three.'  Clown  says,  *  No !  you've  got 
more  than  three.'  Then,  taking  one  up,  he 
asks,  'How  many  is  that?' — *One.'  Taking  an- 
other up,  *  How  many's  that  ?'  Pantaloon  ex- 
eliims,  *  Two  ! '  Clown  says,  *  Then  two  and 
one  is  three,'  and  takes  up  another,  and  asks 
liow  many  that  is.  Pantaloon  exclaims,  'Three ! ' 
i^wn  says,  '  Then  three  and  three  makes  six.' 
down  then  counts  his  own,  and  says,  '  I've 
only  got  three;  you  must  give  me  these  three 
to  make  me  six.  That's  fair  halves.  Ain't 
you  satisfied  ?'  '  No  I '  '  Then  take  that,'  and 
he  knocks  him  over  with  a  fish. 

"The  next  scene  is  a  public-house — 'The 
f^masons'  Arms,  a  select  club  held  here.' 
After  trip  by  Harlequin  and  Columbine,  enters 
Clown  and  Pantaloon.  'Look'ee  here!  it's  a 
pnblic-house !  let's  have  half  a  pint  of  half-and- 
half.'  Clown  hollows,  'Now  ramrod  I'  meaning 
landlord,  and  he  comes  on.  '  Why  don't  you 
Attend  to  gentlemen  ? '  '  What's  your  pleasure, 
ab?'  *  Hidf  a  pint  of  half-and-half  for  me  and 
my  Mend.'  He  brings  a  tumbler,  which  Har- 
lequin breaks,  and  it  comes  in  half.    *  Hallo !' 


cries  Clown ;  *  this  is  mm  half-and-half ! 
Here's  half  for  you  and  half  for  me.* 

*'  Then  they  say,  *  I  say,  here's  somebody 
coming.'  Enter  two  Freemasons,  who  give 
each  other  the  sign  by  shaking  both  hands, 
bumping  up  against  each  other,  whispering 
in  each  other's  ear,  and  going  into  the  public- 
house.  Clown  then  calls  the  landlord,  and 
says  he  belongs  to  the  club.  Landlord  asks 
him  for  the  sign.  Clown  says  he's  got  it  over 
the  door.  He  then  takes  Pantaloon  and 
shakes  his  hands,  and  bumps  him,  and  asks 
if  that  is  the  sign.  The  landlord  says  'No.' 
'  Is  that  it?'  *  No,  this  is,'  and  he  gives  Clown  a 
spank;  and  he  passes  it  to  Pantaloon,  and 
knocks  him  down.  *  That's  the  sign ;  now  we've 
got  it  between  us.*  *Yes,  and  I've  got  the 
best  half.' 

*'  Clown  says,  '  Never  mind,  we  will  get  in ; ' 
and  he  goes  to  the  door  and  knocks,  when  the 
club  descends  and  strikes  them  on  the  head. 
CXovm.  then  tells  Pantaloon  to  go  and  knock, 
and  he'U  watch  and  see  where  it  comes  fVom. 
The  club  comes  down  again,  and  knocks  Pan- 
taloon on  the  head ;  but  Clown  sees  from 
whence  it  comes  and  pulls  a  man  in  fleshings 
out  of  the  window.  Clown  and  Pantaloon 
pursues  him  round  stage,  and  he  knocks  them 
both  over,  and  jumps  through  a  trap  in  the 
window  with  a  bottle  on  it,  marked  '  Old  Tom,' 
and  a  scroll  falls  down,  written  *  Gone  to 
blazes.'  Pantaloon  follows,  and  flap  falls,  on 
which  is  written,  '  To  be  left  till  called  for.* 
Clown  is  about  to  follow,  when  gun  fires  and 
scroll  falls  with  '  Dead  letter'  on  it.  Pantaloon 
is  bundled  out  by  landlord  and  others  ;  gene- 
ral row;  policemen  springing  rattles,  fireworks, 
Sec. 

"  There  are  from  four  to  five  comic  scenes 
like  tliis.  But  it  would  take  too  long  to  de- 
scribe them.  Besides,  we  don't  do  the  same 
scenes  every  evening,  but  vary  them  each 
night. 

"Then  comes  the  catch,  or  the  dark  scene, 
in  which  Clown,  Pantaloon,  Harlequin,  and 
Columbine  are  in  the  dark,  and  seize  one 
another. 

*  Hold  I  you've  done  your  best  with  all  your  might; 
Aud  we'll  give  our   friends  a   chaigo    another 
nigiit.' 

*'  You  see  the  poetry  is  always  beautifully 
adapted  to  ourselves.  They've  very  clever 
fairies. 

**  We  in  generally  finale  with  that  there : 

'  Wo  fairies  dance;  we  fairies  sing. 
Whilst  the  silver  moon  is  beajooimg ; 
We  fairies  dance,  wo  fairies  sing, 
And  we  have  pleased  our  Fairy  Queen. 

"Then  the  bell  rings,  and  the  man  who 
keeps  order  cries  out,  *  Pass  out !  pass  out  I' 

**  The  performance  generally  takes  from  one 
hour  and  a  half  to  an  hour  and  three-quarters, 
and  we  do  three  of  'em  a  night.  It  makes  the 
perspiration  run  off  you,  and  eveiy  house  I 


126 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


have  a  wet  shirt.  The  only  rest  I  have  is  with 
any  boy  singing  *  Hot  codlms.*  >Vhen  they  call 
for  the  song  I  sa)',  *Yc8,  yes;  all  right;  you 
shall  have  them;  only  there's  a  chip  of  mine 
will  sing  it  for  me,'  and  I  introduce  my  httle 
boy— of  four  then— to  sing. 

"The  general  pay  for  Clowns  at  penny  ex- 
hibitions is  averaging  ttom  twenty  to  twenty*. 
five  shillings  a-week.  Yon  can  say  without 
exaggeration,  that  there  are  twenty  of  these 
penny  exhibitions  in  London.  They  always  pro- 
duce a  new  pantomime  at  Christmas ;  and  all 
the  year  ruund,  in  summer  as  well  as  winter, 
they  bring  'em  out,  when  business  is  shy,  for  a 
draw,  whi(>Ji  they  alwayv  find  them  answer. 

"  A  Clown  that  can  please  at  a  penny 
gafi",  is  ca]table  of  gi\ing  satisfaction  at  any 
theatre,  for  the  audience  is  a  very  difficult  one 
to  entertain.  They  have  no  delicacy  in  'em, 
and  will  hiss  in  a  moment  if  anything  dis- 
pleases tliem. 

"A  pantomime  at  a  penny  exhibition  will 
run  at  Christmas  three  weeks  or  a  month,  if 
very  successful ;  and  during  that  time  it's  played 
to  upwards  of  twelve  hundn-d  persons  a-night, 
according  to  the  size  of  the  house,  for  few 
penny  ones  hold  more  than  four  hundred, 
and  that's  three  times  a-uight.  The  Rotunda 
in  the  Jtlackfriars'-road,  and  the  Olympic  Cir- 
cus in  the  Lower  Marsh,  Lambeth,  dr)  an  im- 
mense business,  for  they  hold  near  a  thousand 
each,  and  that's  three  thousand  spectators  the 
night. 

**  When  the  pantomime  is  on  we  only  do  a 
little  comic  singing  before  it  begins  playing." 

TuE  Canvas  Clown. 

A  TALL,  fine-looking  young  fcUow,  with  a 
quantity  of  dark  hair,  which  he  wore  tucked 
behind  his  ears,  obhged  me  with  his  experience 
as  a  olo^Ti  at  the  fairs.  He  came  to  me 
dressed  in  a  fashionable  **i)alutot,"  of  a  ginger- 
bread colour,  which,  without  being  questioned 
on  the  subject,  he  told  me  ho  had  bought  in 
Petticoat  Luiie  for  three  shillings. 

I  have  K<.>1dom  seen  a  finer-built  youth  than 
tliis  clown,  for  he  was  proportioned  like  a 
statue.  The  peculiarity  of  his  face  was  that, 
at  the  junction  of  the  forehead  with  the  nose 
there  was  a  rising,  instead  of  a  hollow,  some- 
what like  that  which  is  seen  in  Homan  anti- 
quities. 

His  face,  whilst  talking,  was  entirely  with- 
out emotion,  and  he  detailed  the  business 
outside  tlie  show,  on  the  parade,  in  a  sing- 
song voice,  like  a  child  saving  its  lesson ;  and 
altliough  he  often  said  "  This  makes  'em  shout 
with  laughter,**  his  own  face  remained  as  so- 
lemn as  a  parish  clerk's. 

He  furnished  me  with  the  following  parti- 
culars of  his  life : — 

•*  On  and  off,  I've  been  clowning  these 
twelve  year.  Pre\'iou8  to  that  time,  I  have 
done  busking  in  pubhc-houses,  and  comic 
singing,  and  ballet  performing  at  penny  exhi- 


bitions ;  as  well  as  parading  oatside  shows  at 
fairs.  I've  done  clowning  at  near  every  place. 
at  fairs  and  in  the  streeta,  along  with  a  school 
of  acrobats,  and  at  circuses,  and  at  penny 
gafis,  and  at  the  Standard,  and  such-like.  1 
first  commenced  some  twelve  years  ago,  st 
Enfield  fair.  It  was  a  travelling  concern  I  wsi 
with,— the  'Thespian  Temple,'  'or  JohiW 
son's  Theatre,— where  I  was  engaged  to  pa- 
rade on  the  outside  as  a  walking  ^^entlemaiu 
There  was  no  clown  for  the  pantomime,  for  he 
had  disappointed  us,  and  of  course  they  couldnt 
get  on  without  one ;  so,  to  keep  the  concern 
going,  old  Jolmson,  who  knew  I  was  a  good 
tumbler,  came  up  to  me,  and  said  '  he  had 
iianti  vampo,  and  your  nabs  must  fake  it;* 
which  means, — We  have  no  clown,  and  yoQ 
must  do  it.  So  I  done  the  clowning  on  the 
parade,  and  then,  wlien  I  went  inside,  I'd  pot 
on  a  jiair  of  Turkish  trousers,  and  a  long 
cloak,  and  hat  and  feathers,  to  play  *  Bobert, 
duke  of  Normandy,'  in  the  first  piece, 

**  You  SCO  the  iKi-forraances  consisted  of  all 
gag.  I  don't  supp(»so  anybody  knows  what 
the  words  are  in  the  piece.  Everj'body  at  a 
show  theatre  is  expected  to  do  general  busi- 
ness, and  wln^n  you're  short  of  people  (as 
we  was  at  .Johnson's,  for  wo  played  *  Robert, 
duke  of  Normandy,'  with  tlireo  men  and  twe 
gills).  Clown  is  expected  to  come  on  and  slip 
a  cloak  over  his  dress,  and  act  tragedy  in  the 
first  piece.  We  don't  make  u^)  so  heavy  for 
the  clown  for  fjiirs,  only  a  Uttle  dab  of  red  oa 
the  cheeks,  and  powder  on  the  face ;  so  we*Tt 
only  just  got  to  wipe  off  the  *  slop  *  when  ifk 
in  the  way.  You  lot)ks  rather  pale,  that's  alL 
The  dress  is  hidden  by  the  ono  we  put  over 
it, 

*♦  The  plot  of  *  Robert,  duke  of  Normandy,' 
is    this :    He  and   his    slave    Piccoli*    come 
I  in  ;     and    after    a    little    busini.»ss    between 
I  them,    oil   gagging,    he    says,    *  Slave !   get 
!  ba*rk  to  the  castle ! '  he  answers,  *  Your  orders 
i  shall  be  atU'uded  to  I '  Thou  he  says,  '  At  the 
peril  of  your  life,  and  prevent  the  fair  Ange- 
line  to  escape ! '    That's  the  first  scene.    In 
1  the  second,  two  of  Ilobert's  slaves  attack  his 
j  rival,  and  then  Robert  rushes  in  and  pretends 
I  to  save  him.     He  cries  *  Hold!  two  to  one  I' 
The  men  go  off,  sajing,  *Well,  we  part  as 
fiiends !  when  next  we  meet,  we  meet  as  foes !' 
As  soon  as  Robert  leaves  the  rival  the  lady 
comes  in,  and  tells  him  slie  is  flying  from  Ro- 
bert's castle,    and  that  Robert  has  seduced 
her,   and  seeks  her  life.     She  tells  him  that 
tlie  man  who  just  left  him  is  he.     '  It  is 
false!'   he  suys;    *  that  is  my  friend  I*   She 
cries,  *  Test  him ! '  *  But  how  ?*'  he  asks.    She 
replies,*  Follow  me  to  tlie  statue,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  grove,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  I ' 
Then  the  third  comes  on.    Enter  Robert  and 
slave,  and  tlie  marble  statue  discovered:  that 
is,  it  is  supposed  to  be,  but  it  is  only  Angelina 
dressed  up.    H«>  gives  tlie  slave  instnictionR  to 
put  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  statue, — for 
he  is  supposed  to  have  dealings  with  Old  Nick^ 


LOimON  LABOUR  AKD  THE  LOSDOS  I'OUU. 


Ii7 


ftt  erery  tiin«  he  pat  a  ziDg  on  the  statne 
I  demand  a  irictim.  He  teUs  the  slave  to 
a  ring  OD  the  finger,  and  pronounce 
irordi :  *•  When  it  may  pleaae  your  most 
na  migesty  to  seek  ^rour  hnsband,  to 
victim,  yon  irill  find  hun  here ! '  *No,  no, 
se— there  ! '  pointing  to  BoberL     The 

half  draws  his  sword,  and  exclaims, 
b!  what  ho!*  without  touching  him. 
s  the  rival,  who  demands  satisfaction  of 
1 ;  who  sa>*s,  '  "What  can  I  do  to  satisfy 

ibr  he's  in  a  deuce  of  a  go  now.  He 
tells  him  to  kneel  to  the  statue,  and 

he  is  not  Robert,  dnko  of  Normandy. 
id  of  that  he  calls  to  the  servant,  and 
lim  to  put  the  ring  on ;  but  Kobert,  the 
,  is  in  a  dence  of  a  way,  tearing  his 

The  servant  does  it,  and  exclaims,  *  I 
lone  it ;  but  would  you  believe  it,  when 
ed  it  on  the  finger,  tlie  finger  beciime 
sed ! '  Robert  cries,  *  Slave,  tb<m  art 
I  if  I  find  that  it  is  false  I  will  cleave 
to  the  enrth  I '  Robert  examines  the 
,  and  exclaims,  *Alas!  it  is  too  true  I' 
le  kneels  to  the  statne  and  siiys,  •  I 
that  I  am ' — and  he's  goiuj;  to  say,  *  not 

of  Normandy,'   but  Uie  statue  is  too 

for  him,  and  adds,  *  Robi>rt,  duke  of 
■ndy!'  And  then  the  comic  slave  pops 
ead  round,  and  pronoimces,   '  Oh,  tlie 

'  Then  the  ri\'al  stabs  him,  and  he  follK 

wounded,  and  then  he's  triumphant; 
I  pen'orth    of   blue    fire    finishes    tlic 

*  and  then  ding !  ding !  dong  1  and 
goes   tlie   curtain.      'NVe    alwa^'s    have 

Ire, —  a  pen'orth  each  house, — andthut 
;  it  go.  Sometimes  there  are  two  friends 
piece ;  but  it  all  depends  upon  M-heth(.>r 
wre  is  powerfully  cast  or  not     We  usually 

*  the  two  friends  into  one,  or  does  away 
•em  all  tojrether.  '  Robert,  duke  of 
andy,'  is  a  never-failing  fair  piece,  and 
rays  cIo^'s  it  overj-yeAr.  Thai  and  *  Rluo 
,  or  Female  Curiosity,'  and  *  Fair  Kosa- 
,  or  the  Bower  of  Woodstock,'  are 
ock  pieces.  After  the  curtain  has  been 
three  minutes  it  goes  up  again,  and  tlie 

goes  in  and  says, — 

*  Elr<jii  of  th«  mountain,  dale,  and  dell, 
Tnia  yu\in^  maid  to  pleaue  within  her  cell, 
Atteud  unto  us,  one  und  all — 

liHcen  to  your  potent  master's  calL' 

hen  an  of  us  at  the  sid(>s  put  their 
s  in  their  mouths  and  howl  like  Indians. 
"s  generally  a  cue  given  of  *  Now,  demons.' 
that  the  heavy  man  says  :** 

*  Too,  jomig  man,  that  knows  no  dn. 
Appear  as  russet-booted  Harlequin.' 

illed  him  russet-booted,  because  he  had 
playing  the  lover  in  the  first  piece.  At 
idson's  they  called  him  *  Spangled  Har- 
I,*  but  old  Johnson  couldn't  do  that,  he 
t  no  wardrobe.    Then  the  heavy  man  con- 


'  And  you,  younrmiid.  no  lonirer  pine, 
Atteud  him  as  hia  (aithAil  C<dumbine.' 

Then  he  goes  on : — 

'  Two  more  slaves  will  I  rise  flnom  out  the  uo&thom- 

abledocp, 
Who  for  a  long  time  have  been  in  perpatual  aleep; 
They,  too,  shall  share  my  boon — 
ApiK>ar  as  Clown  and  tottering  Pantaloon. 
Now  away !  begin  your  magic  sfiort. 
And  briug  mo  buck  a  good  reporL' 

Then  I  cried,  *  Hulloa!  here  we  are !'  and  the 
sports  begin. 

"The  first  iripy  as  we  calls  it — a  dance,  to 
use  your  terms — is  Harlequin  comes  in  with 
Columbine  for  a  hornpipe.  If  he  cant  dance, 
Clown,  as  soon  as  he  begins,  cries,  *  Here  we 
ai-e ! '  and  rushes  in  and  drives  them  ofil 

"After  that,    Clown  runs    on    and    8ays» 

*  Hero  we  ore  I '  and  knocks;  Pantaloon  down  i 
whi^  exclaims,  *  Oh  !  ain't  I  got  the  tooth-ache ! 
Clown  says,  *  Let  me  feel  your  tooth.  Oh,  it's 
quite  loose !  I'll  get  a  bit  of  string  and  soon 
have  it  out.'  Clown  goes  off  for  string.  Pan- 
taloon singing  out,  *  Murder !  murder ! '  Clovra 
returns  with  string  and  a  pistol,  and  then 
ties  the  string,  and  cries,  *  Here  goes  one,  end 
now  it's  two,  and  hero  goes  three,'  and  fiiea 
and  pulls  a  wooden  tooth,  as  big  as  your  fist, 
with  four  sharp  prongs  to  it.  Ivo  had  the» 
teeth  often  as  big  as  a  quartern  loaf,  but 
I'm  talking  of  my  first  appearance.  Pai'« 
t^oon  says,  *  Here,  that's  my  tooth !'  on  1 
Clown  replies.  *  So  it  is,'  and  hits  him  on  tha 
head  with  it.  Then  he  asks  Pantaloon  if  he'j 
iMJtter ;  but  he  answers,  '  No,  l"m  W(/rse.  Oh ! 
oil!  I've  got  a  cold  in  my  gum ! '  Then  a  red- 
hot  poker  id  introduced,  and  he  bums  him  with 
it  all  round  the  stage.  That  concludes  the 
first  scene.  Tlien  there's  another  trip,  a  would- 
be  polka  or  so;  and  then  comes  the  bundle - 
scene.  Enter  a  York.Hhiremon — it's  mostly 
Harlequins  do  this,  liocause  most  of  the  others 
are  outside  parading,  to  keei)  the  crowd 
tof^etlier — he's  got  a  amockfrock  on  and  russet 
boots  at  Johuson's,  and  he  says,  *  I've  coome  up 
hero  to  Lunnon  to  see  my  Dolly.  I  feel  rather 
drj',  and  I'll  just  gi'  in  here  to  get  half-o-point 
of  yale.  I'll  just  leave  mybunnel  outside,  and 
keep  a  strict  eye  on  it,  for  they  say  as  how 
Lunnon  has  plenty  of  thieves  in  it*  Enter 
Clown,  very  cautiously.  He  sees  the  bundle, 
and  calls  Pantaloon.  He  tells  Pantaloon,  *  I 
must  have  it,  because  I  want  iL*  He  goes  and 
picks  up  the  bundle,  and  says  to  Pantaloon, 

*  I  shoiddn't  wonder  but  what  this  bundle  be- 
longs to •  *  Me,'  the  Yorkshireman  says, and 

the  Clown  says,  *Ah,  I  thought  so;'  and  then 
he  takes  Pantaloon's  hand,  and  says,  *  Come 
along,  little  boy,  we  shall  get  into  trouble,'  and 
leads  him  ofi".  They  come  on  again,  and  tliis 
time  Clown  tells  I^antaloon  to  get  it ;  so  he 
goes  and  picks  up  the  bimdle,  and  Yorkshire- 
man  knocks  him  down.  Clown  runs  ofi"  and 
Pantaloon  after.  Clown  tlien  returns  on  his 
belly,   drawing  himself  on  with  his  hands. 


128 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


He  <;ots  tlic  bnndle  in  his  mouth,  and  is  just 
gni]i«;  off  when  Yorkshireman  turns  roand,  and 
CliAvn  seeing  liim,  fi^ves  the  bundle  to  Pan- 
taloon, and  says,  *  Hold  this.*  Yorkshireman 
seizes  Clown  and  tells  him  he  wants  his  bundle. 
Pantalfjon  having  run  away  with  it.  Clown 
says,  *  I  haven't  got  it,  starrh  me'  (that  means, 
•  search  me') ;  and  there  is  a  regular  run  over 
the  <itai?e  rrjing  *  Hot  beef!  hot  beef!*  (in- 
stead of  *St(ip  thief!*)  The  Yorkshireman 
collars  Pantaloon,  and  says,  *  I'll  take  you  to 
the  station-house,'  and  Clown  exclaims,  *  Yes, 
and  111  take  this  bundle  down  the  lane'  (mean- 
ing Petticoat-lane,  because  there  is  a  sale  for 
any  tiling  there).  Then  comes  the  catch-scene 
lis  we  rnll  it ;  that  is,  they  all  come  on  in  the 
dark,  Clown  singing,  *  J  Miss,  puss  I  have  you 
seen  my  pussy*'  Thfn  in  pops  tlie  fair}',  and 
erics,  •  Hold  I  your  ningic  sports  is  run,  and 
thus  I  step  l»etweon.'  Pantaloon  adds,  *Aye, 
it's  all  so  gay;'  and  Clown  cries,  'Yes,  and 
oil  serene; '  and  the  fair}'  says,  *  And  witli  my 
magic  wand  I  change  the  scene.'  Then  every- 
body sings : — 

'  Xow  our  pontoniime's  douc. 
Here's  ftn  end  to  our  fun, 
TVo  slmll  nhortly  couiinunco  again  : 
Our  tricks  arc  o'er. 
And  wo'ro  friends  onco  more. 
Wo  shall  shortly  commcuco  :kg:uu.' 

"  Thon  the  curtain  falls,  and  Clown  puts  his 
head  out  on  one  side  and  exclaims,  *  It's  all,' 
and  Pantaloon  pops  out  at  the  other  side  and 
adds,  *  over.' 

"  The  handing  man,  who  has  done  Robert, 
then  shouts  out  from  tlie  top,  *  Pass  out ! '  in  a 
sepulchral  voice,  and  a  door  opens  in  the  side 
of  the  stage  for  the  people  to  leave  by.  That 
day  I  was  with  old  .Tohnson  —  we  used  to  call 
him  *  Snutfy  Johnson,'  'cos  he  carried  a  lot  of 
snuff  in  his  waistcoat  pocket — we  were  very 
busy,  and  there  was  a  good  many  people 
waiting  on  the  outside  to  come  in,  so  we 
only  did  about  two  of  them  regular  per- 
formances ;  and  then  about  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening  the  crowd  got  so  great,  old  Johnson 
used  to  hollow  through  the  parade-door,  over 
people's  heads,  *  John  Aderley,'  just  as  we  had 
commenced  pla}'ing,  and  that  meant  *  Cut  it 
short.'  We  used  to  finish  it  up  sharp  then,  and 
finish  all  up  in  six  or  seven  minutes.  We  used 
to  knock  liobert  the  Devil  into  a  very  little 
space,  doing  the  scenes,  but  cutting  them 
shoil;  and  as  for  the  pantomime,  wo  had 
scarcely  commenced  witli  *  Two  more  slaves 
will  I  rise  fn)m  out  the  unfathomable  deep,' 
than  we  were  singing,  *  Our  pantomime's  done, 
here's  an  end  to  our  fun.'  Sometimes  the 
people  would  grumble  awful,  and  at  others 
they  laughed  to  see  how  they  was  swindled. 

*•  I  got  on  very  fair  on  my  first  appearance 
as  Clown,  considering  the  circumstances,  but 
I  had,  you  see,  four  of  the  best  parading  comic 

men  opposing  me.  There  was  Teddy  W as 

Silly  Billy,  and  Black  Sambo  as  Black  Fop, 
and  Funny  Felix  as  ring  clown,   and  Steve 


Sanderson,  another  clown,  at  Frazier's  Ciis 
cus,  next  door  to  us;  and  we  didn't  stand 
much  chance  at  clowning  alongside  of  them, 
as  they're  the  best  panulers  ont  Besides, 
Frazier's  booth  took  nearly  all  the  ground  up ; 
and  as  we  drawed  up  on  the  ground  (that  is, 
with  the  parade-cmriages)  late  on  Sunday 
evening,  we  were  obliged  to  have  a  plot  next  to 
the  Circus,  and  we  had  the  town  pump  right  in 
the  audience  part,  close  to  the  first  seat  in  the 
gallery,  and  the  Obelisk — or  rather  a  cross  it 
is — took  up  one  side  of  the  stage,  wliich  next 
day  we  used  as  the  castle  in  Blue  Beard,  when 
the  girl  gets  up  on  a  ladder  to  the  top  of  th« 
railings,  which  had  a  shutter  on  'em,  and  that 
was  Fatima  looking  out  from  the  spire  of  the 
castle  for  her  Salem.  Ah !  'twas  a  great  hit, 
for  we  put  an  old  scene  round  it,  and  it  had  a 
capital  etfect. 

•*  What  we  do  when  we  go  out  clowning  to  a 
travelling  theatro  is  this.  This  is  what  I  did 
at  Enfield:  wi^  anivc<l  late  and  drawed  up  the 
pnrodo-carriages  on  the  ground,  which  tba 
gov.  had  gone  cm  a-head  to  secure.  Then 
we  went  to  sleep  for  awhile — pitched  on  a 
shutter  underneath  the  parade-carriages,  for 
it  ha<l  been  wet  weather,  and  we  couldn't  sleep 
on  the  canvas  for  the  booth,  for  it  had  been 
sopped  with  rain  at  Edmonton  fair.  As  soon 
as  it  was  break  of  day  we  begun  getting  up 
the  booth,  and  being  short-handed  it  took  na 
till  three  o'clock  before  we  was  ready.  YisA 
we  had  to  measure  our  distances  and  fix  tha 
parade-waggons.  Then  we  planted  our  king 
pole  on  tho  ono  in  the  centre ;  then  we  pot 
our  back -polo  on  the  one  near  the  parade; 
then  wo  put  on  our  ridge  at  top,  and  our  side- 
rails;  and  then  we  put  our  side-ridges,  and 
sling  our  rafters.  We  then  roll  the  tilt  up, 
which  is  for  the  roof,  and  it  gets  heavy  with 
dirt,  and  we  haul  it  up  to  the  top  and  unndl 
it  again  and  fasten  it  again ;  then  we  fix  the 
sides  up,  with  shutters  about  six  feet  square, 
which  you  see  on  the  top  of  the  travelling 
parade-carriages.  We  fixes  up  the  theatre 
and  the  seats  which  we  take  with  us.  All  the 
scenes  roll  up,  and  is  done  up  in  bundles. 
The  performci-s  drop  under  the  parade-waggons, 
and  there's  a  sacking  up  to  divide  the  men's 
part  from  the  women.  There's  a  looking- 
glass — sometimes  an  old  bit  or  a  two-pennj 
one  starred,  or  any  old  thing  we  can  get  hold 
of — and  the  gov.  gives  you  out  your  dress. 
We  always  provide  our  own  slips  and  such- 
like. 

**When  we  panule  outside,  it  all  depends 
upon  what  kind  of  Pantaloon  you\e  got  with 
you,  OS  to  what  business  you  can  make. 
TMien  we  first  come  out  on  the  parade  all 
the  company  is  together,  and  we  march  round, 
form  a  half-circle,  or  dress  it,  as  we  say,  while 
the  band  pla}'8  '  Rule  Britannia,'  or  some  other 
operatic  air.  Then  the  manager  generally 
calls  out,  '  Now,  Mr.  Menry'man,  state  the 
nature  of  the  performances  to  be  given  here 
to-day.*    Then  I  come  forward,  and  this  is  the 


LONnON  LABOUR  AKD  THE  LONDOyf  POOR, 


129 


•us :  *  Well,  ITr.  Martin,  whot  am  I  to  tell 
?•  •  The  truth,  sir !  what  they'll  see  here 
'.'  *  Well,  if  they  stop  long  enough 
I  see  a  great  many  people,  I  shouldn't 
er.'      'Xo,  no,   sir,  I  want  you  to  tell 

iriiot  they'll  see  inside  our  theatre.* 
,  sir,  they'll  see  a  splendid  drama  by  first- 
performers,  of  Robert  Dookc  of  Nor- 
y,  with  a  variety  of  singing  and  dancing, 
a  gfirgeous  and  comic  piuitomime,  with 
dresses  and  scenen%  and  everjlhing 
ine;l  to  make  this  such  an  entertainment 
s  never  before  witnessed  in  this  town,  and 
•r  the  small  charge  of  three  shillings.' 
no,  Mr.  Menyman,  threepence.'  *  What ! 
pence  ?  I  shan't  perform  at  a  threepenny 
.•     And  then  I  pretend  to  go  down  the 

as  if  lea\ing ;  he  pulls  me  back,  and  says, 
te  here,  sir;  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?' 
jn't  spoil  my  deputation  playing  for  three- 
!/     *  But  you  must  understand,  Merry- 

we  intend  giving  them  one  and  all  a 
,  that  the  working  -  classes  may  ei^joy 
selves  as  well  as  noblemen.'  *  Then  & 
\  the  case  I  don't  mind,  but  only  for  this 

lien  I  begin  spouting  again  and  again, 
rs  ending  up  with  *  to  be  witnessed  for  the 
rharge  of  threepence.'  Then  Pantaloon 
8  up  to  say  what  he's  going  to  do,  and  I 
bim  the  '  nap,'  and  knock  hun  on  his  back. 
lies  •  I'm  down,'  and  I  turn  him  over  and 
him  up,  and  say,  *And  now  you're  up.' 
I  the  company  form  a  half  set  and  do  a 
cille.  When  they  have  scrambled  through 
down  will  do  a  comic  dance,  and  then 

burlesque  statues.  This  is  the  way 
ftatues  are  done :  I  go  inside  and  get  a 
-broom,  and  put  a  large  piece  of  tilt  or 
loth  round  me,  and  stand  just  inside  the 
ins  at  the  entrance  from  the  parade, 
•  to  come  out  when  wanted.  Then  the 
portion  of  the  company  get  just  to  the 
/the  steps,  and  Pantaloon  says  to  one  of 
,  *Did  yon  speak?*  He  says,  *When?' 
Pantaloon  says,  *Now;'  and  the  whole 
ake  a  noise,  hollowing  out,  *  Oh,  oh,  oh ! ' 

they  was  astonished,  but  it's  only  to 
!t  attention.  Then  the  gong  strikes,  and 
TODpets  flourishes,  and  everybody  shouts, 
hi !  look  here  I '  Then,  naturally,  all  the 
e  turn  towards  the  caravan  to  see  what's 
Then  they  clear  a  passage-way  from  the 
to  the  entrance  and  back,  and  bring  me 
with  this  bit  of  cloth  before  me.  The 
3  flourishes  again,  and  they  mnke  a  tre- 
lous  tumult,  crying  out, '  Look  here !  look 
!'  and  when  aJl  are  looking  I  drop  the 
,  and  then  I  stand  in  the  position  of 
oles,  king  of  Clubs,  with  a  birch-broom 
8  my  shoulders,  and  an  old  hat  on  a-top 
y  wig.  Then  the  band  strikes  up  the 
e  music,  and  I  goes  through  the  statues; 
as  AJax  defying  the  lightning,  and  Cain 
ig  his  brother  Abel;  and  it  finishes  up 
the  fighting  and  d^ing  Gladiator.    As  a 


finale  I  do  a  back-fall,  and  pretend  to  be  dead. 
The  company  then  picks  me  up  and  carry  me, 
lying  stiff,  on  their  shoulders  round  the 
parade.  They  carry  me  inside,  and  shout  out, 
*A11  in  to  begin;  now  we  positively  com- 
mence.' Then  they  drive  everybody  in  off  the 
parade.  When  the  public  have  taken  their 
seats  then  we  come  strolling  out,  i>ne  at  a 
time,  till  we  all  get  out  on  the  parade  again, 
because  the  place  isn't  sufficiently  full.  It's 
what  wo  call  *  making  a  sally.'  The  check- 
takers  at  the  door  prevent  anybody  leaving  if 
they  want  to  come  out  again. 

"  Then  I  get  up  to  some  nonsense  again. 
Perhaps  I'll  get  up  a  lot  of  boys  out  of  the 
fair,  and  make  'em  sit  on  the  parade  in  a  row, 
and  keep  a  schr)ol,  ns  I  call  it.  I  get  an  old 
property  fiddle,  and  I  tell  them,  when  I  play 
they  must  sing.  Then  I  give  out  a  hymn. 
The  bow  has  a  lot  of  notches  in  it,  and  there's 
a  bit  of  wood  sticking  up  in  the  fiddle;  bo 
that  when  I  plays  it  goes  '  ricketty,  ricketty,' 
like.    This  is  the  hymn  I  gives  out: — 

*  When  I  cftn  shoot  my  rifle  clear 

At  pi^Ds  in  the  skiee, 
I'll  bid  ukrcwoU  to  pork  and  pc;\s, 
And  live  on  pigeon  pies.' 

"  Of  course,  when  they  sings,  they  make  a 
horrible  noise,  or  even  if  they  dont,  I  begin 
to  wallop  them  with  my  bow.  I  then  tell 
them  I  must  teach  them  something  easier 
first.    Then  I  give  them — 

'  Alas  I  old  Grimes  is  dead  and  orotic, 
We  no'or  ahull  soe  him  more ; 
Ho  used  to  wear  a  old  great  coat 
^Vll  buttoned  down  before.' 

Then  I  finish  up  by  putting  on  the  boys  a 
lot  of  masks,  and  some  have  old  soldiers' 
coats;  and  I  give  them  implements  of  war, 
such  as  old  brooms  or  sticks,  and  then  I  put 
them  through  their  military  exercises.  I 
stand  in  front,  with  the  birch -broom  as  my 
gun,  and  I  tell  them  they  must  do  as  I  do. 
Then  I  cry,  *  File  arms,'  and  all  mark  their 
own  muskets.  I  tell  them  to  lay  them  all 
down;  and  after  they  have  laid  down  their 
arms  I  tell  them  to  shoulder  arms,  which 
makes  a  shout,  because  they  haven't  got  no 
arms.  One  boy,  who  is  put  up  to  it,  says, 
*  Fve  got  no  arms ; '  I  go  up  to  him  and  catch 
hold  of  his  arms,  and  ask  him  what  he  calls 
'  these  here.'  Then  I  make  him  put  them  on 
his  shoulders,  and  tell  him,  that's  '  shoulder 
arms.'  Then  I  tell  them  to  ground  arms, 
and  I  do  it  at  the  time,  stooping  down  and 
putting  my  arms  on  the  ground.  I  then  call 
them  to  attention,  and  up  comes  the  Pan- 
taloon on  a  basket-horse,  and  I  tell  them 
they  are  going  to  be  re\iewed  by  the  Duke, 
I  give  them  all  the  implements  again,  and 
put  them  to  stand  attention.  Pantaloon 
gallops  round  them,  reviewing.  He  wears 
a  large  flap  cocked-hat  and  soldier's  old  coat. 
He  makes  a  bit  of  fun  with  his  horse,  making 


180 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR 


it  kick,  and  breaking  the  ranks  of  my  sol- 
diers. '  Then  I  quarrel  with  him  about  that, 
and  he  says,  *  He's  a  right  to  do  as  he  likes, 
because  he's  my  superior  horse-ifer.'  Then 
he  orders  me  to  the  other  end  of  the  parade, 
to  stand  attention,  with  my  back  towards 
the  boys.  Then  he  tells  them  to  ride  about 
face  and  charge,  and  they  all  run  and  charge 
me  in  behind.  They  run  two  or  three 
times  round  the  parade,  still  charging  mc, 
until  I  run  inside  to  the  theatre,  and  all  tlie 
company  shout  out,  *  All  in  to  begin ;  we  are 
now  positively  to  commence.'  We  then  get 
them  in  off  the  parade  again,  and  if.  the  place 
is  full  begin ;  if  not,  we  gradually  crawl  out 
again  one  by  one,  and  one  of  the  girls  dunces 
a  hompiiMJ  or  a  Highland  fling.  We  then 
make  a  sally,  'All  in  again,'  and  by  that  time 
we  generally  begin. 

"  This  is  the  parade  business  that  is  most 
popular  at  fairs;  we  do  a  few  other  things, 
but  they  are  all  much  of  a  muchness.  It's 
ver>'  liard  work;  and  I  have  worked,  since 
being  Yiixh  Snuffy  Johnson,  seventeen  hours 
of  a-day  ;  but  then  we  have  not  had  so  much 
to  do  on  the  outside.  Sometimes  I've  been 
so  tired  at  night,  that  I've  actually  laid  down 
in  my  dress  and  never  washed,  but  slept  like 
that  all  night. 

*'  The  general  pay  for  a  clown,  during  fair- 
time,  is  5s.  or  G«.  a-day,  but  that  usually  ends 
in  your  moving  on  the  first  day ;  then  4«.  on 
the  second,  and,  perhaps,  d«.  on  the  third.  The 
reason  is,  that  the  second  and  third  day  is 
never  so  good  as  the  first  The  excuse  is, 
that  business  is  not  so  good,  and  expenses  are 
hea\7 ;  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  you  needn't 
come  again.  They  don't  stand  about  what 
you  agree  for ;  for  instance,  if  it's  a  wet  day 
and  you  don't  open,  there's  no  pay,  Richard- 
son's used,  when  the  old  man  was  alive,  to 
be  more  money,  but  now  it's  as  bad  as  the 
rest  of  'em.  If  you  go  on  shares  with  a 
sharing  company  it  averages  about  the  same. 
We  always  share  at  the  drum-head  at  night, 
when  all's  over.  It's  usually  brought  out 
between  tho  stage  and  the  bottom  seat  of 
the  gallcrj'.  The  master  or  missus  counts 
out  the  money.  The  money  on  the  dnmi- 
head  may,  if  it's  a  good  fair,  come  to  10/. 
or  18/.,  or,  as  it  most  usually  is.  0/.  or  10/. 
I  have  known  us  to  sliare  1/.  a-piece  afore 
now ;  and  I've  known  what  it  is  to  take  \0d. 
for  a  share.  We  usually  take  two  fairs  a- 
week,  or  we  may  stay  a  night  or  two  after  tlio 
fair's  over,  and  have  a  bespeak  night.  The 
wages  of  a  clown  comes  to  —  if  you  average 
it —  1/.  a- week  all  the  year  round,  and  that's 
puffing  it  at  a  good  salary,  and  supposing 
you  to  be  continually  travelling.  Very  likely, 
at  night  we  have  to  pull  do'wn  the  booth 
after  performing  all  day,  and  be  off  that  night 
to  another  fair  — 15  or  16  miles  off  it  may 
be — and  have  to  build  up  again  by  the 
next  afternoon.  The  women  always  ride  on 
the  top  of  the  parade  carriages,  and  the  men 


occasionally  riding  and  shoring  op  behind  tlia 
carriages  up  hill.  The  only  comfort  in  tn- 
veiling  is  a  short  pipe,  and  many  a  time  Tie 
drowned  my  woes  and  troubles  in  one. 

**  The  scene  of  sharing  at  the  drum-head  is 
usually  this, — wliile  the  last  performance  is 
going  on  the  missus  counts  up  the  money ;  and 
she  is  supposed  to  bring  in  all  the  money  aha 
has  token,  but  that  we  don't  know,  and  we 
are  generally  fiddled  most  tremendous.  When 
the  theatre's  empty,  she,  or  him,  generally 
says,  *  Now  lads,  please,  now  ladies !  it's  get- 
ting late ;'  and  when  they  have  all  mustered 
it's  generally  the  cry,  *  We've  had  a  bad  fair  I' 
The  i)eople  seldom  speak.  She  then  takes 
the  numlHjr  of  the  company, — wo  generaHy 
averages  some  sixteen  performers,— and  aftes 
doing  so  she  commences  sharing,  taking  im 
two  or  three  shares,  according  to  tlie  grouna* 
rent ;  one  then  to  herself  for  taking  money;  then 
for  the  husband  being  there,  (for  they  dont 
oflon  perform) ;  then  they  takes  shares  for  the 
children,  for  they  makes  them  go  on  for  tlia 
fairies,  and  on  our  parade.  Snuffy  Johnaon 
used  to  take  two  shares  for  the  wardrobes  and 
fittings,  and  that  is  the  most  reasonable  of 
any  of  'em,  for  they  mostly  take  double  that; 
indeed,  we  always  took  six.  Then  there  an 
two  shares  for  groimd-rent,  and  two  for  travel- 
ling expenses.  The  latter  two  shares  depend 
entirely  upon  the  fair ;  for  the  expenses  an 
just  the  some  whether  we  takes  money  or  nol| 
so  that  if  it's  a  bad  fair,  more  has  to  be  de- 
ducted, and  that's  the  worse  for  us,  on  both 
sides.  That  makes  twelve  or  thirteen  shttes 
to  be  deducted  before  the  men  touch  a  penny 
for  themselves.  Any  strolling  profesaional 
who  reads  that  will  say,  *  Well,  'tis  yery  oflo- 
siderate;  for  it's  imdcr  tho  mark,  and  not 
over.' 

"  When  we  have  finished  at  one  fair,  if  vs 
want  to  go  to  another  the  next  day,  as  soon 
as  tho  people  have  gone  in  for  the  last  peiibr- 
mance  we  commence  taking  down  the  pay- 
box, and  all  tho  show-fittings  on  the  outside, 
and  all  that  isn't  wanted  for  the  perfbrmanee. 
As  soon  as  the  mummers  have  done  their  fijst 
slang,  if  they  are  not  wanted  in  the  panto- 
mime  they  change  themselves  and  go  to  worit 
pulling  down.  When  the  pantomime's  over, 
every  one  helps  till  all's  packed  up;  then 
sharing  tikes  place,  and  we  tramp  on  oy  night 
to  the  next  fair.  Wc  then  camp  as  well  as  we 
can  till  daylight,  if  it  isn't  morning  already, 
and  to  work  wc  go  building  for  the  lair ;  anil 
in  general,  by  the  time  we've  done  building, 
it's  time  to  open. 

"  I've  travelled  witli '  Star's  Theatre  Royal,* 
and  *  Smith  and  Webster's,'  (alias  Bichard- 
son's),  and  *  Frederick's  Theatre,'  and  *  Baker's 
ra\'iliou,'  and  *  Douglass's  travelling  Shak- 
spearion  Saloon;*  (he's  got  scenes  from 
Shokspeor's  plays  all  round  the  front,  and  it's 
the  most  splendid  concern  on  the  road),  and 
I've  done  ii^iQ  comic  business  at  all  of  them. 
They  are  all  conducted  on  the  same  principle, 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


131 


and  do  the  some  kind  of  business,  as  that  I've 
de?cril>ed  to  you. 

•*  When  we're  travelling  it  depends  upon 
the  business  as  to  what  we  eat.  They  talk  of 
stTi  tiling  actors  li>-ing  so  joUily  and  well,  but 
I  never  knew  it  fall  to  my  share.  "NVhat  we 
call  a  mummer's  feed  is  potatoes  and  herrings, 
and  thpy  always  look  out  for  going  into  a  town 
where  there's  plenty  of  fresh  herrings.  A  fol- 
low we  e:dled  Nancy  Dawson  was  the  best 
hand  at  herrings.  I've  known  him  go  into  a 
tavern  and  o-sk  for  the  bill  of  fore,  and  shout 
oQit  *  WlU,  Landlord,  what  have  you  got  for 
dinner?  Perhaps  he'd  say,  *  There's  beef  and 
Tral,  sir,  very  nice — just  ready;'  and  then 
be'd  say,  '  No,  I'm  sick  of  meat;  just  get  mo 
a  nice  bloater  I '  and  if  it  came  to  much  more 
than  a  penny  there  was  a  row.  If  we  are 
doing  bad  business,  and  we  pass  a  field  of 
5wedt:s,  there's  a  general  rush  for  tlie  pull.  Tlie 
beil  judges  of  turaips  is  strolling  professionuls. 
I  recollect,  in  Hampshire,  once  getting  into  a 
swede  Held,  and  they  was  all  blighted:  we 
pulled  up  a  hundred,  I  should  think,  but  when 
▼e  cut  them  open  tliey  was  nil  flaxy  inside, 
iDd  we,  after  all,  had  to  eat  the  rind.  We 
couldn't  1,'et  a  fee^l.  Sausages  and  fagots 
(that's  made  of  all  the  stale  sausages  and 
Sivaloys,  and  unsightly  bits  of  meat  what 
wont  scdl)  is  what  we  gi?ts  hold  of  princi- 
pally. The  women  have  to  make  sliifts  as  we 
dft.  We  always  get  plenty  of  beer,  even  when 
we  can't  get  money ;  fur  we  can  sing  a  song  or 
80,  and  then  the  yokels  stand  something: 
Iteiddef^  there's  hardly  a  town  we  gf)  into 
without  some  of  the  yokels  being  stage-struck,. 
and  they  feel  quite  delighted  to  be  among  tlie 
prc'fiessionals,  and  will  give  us  plenty  of  beer 
if  wv'll  talk  to  them  about  acting. 

"  It's  impossible  to  say  how  many  clowns 
there  are  working  at  canvas  theatres.  There's 
80  many  meddling  at  it, — not  good  uns,  but 
tzring  to  be.  I  can  mention  fifty,  I  am  sm-e, 
by  nam?,  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  exagge- 
rate, if  you  was  to  say  there  was  from  one 
hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  who  call 
th«iis^?lves  clowns.  Many  of  the  first-rate 
cli»v.7is  now  in  London  have  becnui  at  stroll- 
m-^.  There's  Herring,  and  Lewis,  and  Nel- 
MD.  and  plenty  more,  doing  well  now. 

"  It's  a  hard  life,  and  many 's  the  time  we 
fqu-»edg*^  a  laugh  out,  when  it's  like  killing  us  to 
do  iu  I've  never  known  a  man  break  down 
at  a  fair,  done  up,  for,  you  see,  the  beer 
keeps  us  up ;  but  I've  kiumn  one  chnp  to 
ftint  on  the  parade  from  oxliausiion,  and  then 
gel  up.  as  queer  as  could  be.  and  draw  twopence 
and  go  and  have  a  fish  and  bread.  A  woman 
tt  an   oyster-stall   alongside   of   the   theatre 

give  him  a  rlrop  of  beer.  He  was  hearty  and 
unjjT}-,  and  had  only  Joined  lately,  —  regular 
hard  up ;  so  he  went  two  days  witliout  food. 
When  we  shared  at  night  he  went  and 
bought  a  ham-bone,  and  actually  eat  himself 
•deep,  for  he  dropped  off  with  the  bone  in 
lushand." 


The  Penny-Ciecus  Jesteb. 

A  MAN  who  had  passed  many  years  of  his 
life  ns  jester  at  the  cheap  circuses,  or  penny 
equestrian  shows  frequenting  the  fairs  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  London,  obliged  me  with  the 
following  details: — 

**  There  are  only  two  kinds  of  clowns,  the 
stage  and  the  circus  clown,  only  there  is  dif- 
ferent denominations:  for  instance,  the  clown 
at  the  fair  and  the  clown  at  the  regular  theatre, 
as  well  as  the  j)enny  gatf  (when  they  give  pan- 
tomimes there),  are  one  and  the  same  kind  of 
clo^^-n,  only  better  or  worse,  according  to  the 
pay  and  kind  of  performance ;  but  it's  the  same 
sort  of  business.  Now  the  circus  clown  is  of  the 
same  kind  as  those  that  go  about  with  schools 
of  acrobats  and  negro  serenaders.  He  is  ex- 
pected to  be  witty  and  say  clever  things,  and 
invent  anything  he  can  for  the  evening's  per- 
foniiauce  ;  but  the  theatre  cloT^-n  is  expected 
to  do  nothing  but  what  enters  into  the  biL«»iness 
of  the  piece.  Them  two  are  the  main  distinc- 
tions we  make  in  the  perfession. 

"  I've  travelled  nlong  with  only  two  circuses ; 
but  then  it's  the  time  you  stop  with  them,  for 
I  was  eighteen  months  along  Avith  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Johnson,  who  performed  at  the  Albion, 
AVhitechapel,  and  in  5luseum-street,  opjiositc 
Drury-lane  (he  had  a  penny  exhibition  then), 
and  for  above  two  years  and  a  half  along 
vTiih  Veale,  wlio  had  a  circus  at  the  Birdcage, 
Hackney-road,  and  at  Walworth. 

*'  At  ^luseum-street  we  only  had  one  *  prad,' 
which  is  slang  for  pony,  although  we  used  to 
introduce  all  the  circus  business.  We  had 
jugglers,  and  globe-nmners,  and  tight-rope 
dancers  also.  We  never  ha<l  no  ring  bmlt, 
but  only  sawdust  on  the  stage,  and  all  the  wings 
taken  out.  They  used  to  begin  with  a  chant  and 
a  hop  (singing  and  dancing),  after  which  there 
was  tight-rope  hopping.  As  soon  a<<  ever  the 
rope  was  drawn  up,  Johnson,  who  had  a  whip  in 
his  hand,  the  same  as  if  it  was  a  rejnihu*  circus, 
used  to  sny, '  Now,  Mr.  Merrjinan.'  Tlien  I'd  nm 
on  and  answer,  'Here  I  am,  sir,  aU  of  a  lump, 
as  the  old  man  said  what  found  the  sixpence. 
I'm  up  and  dressed, like  a  watchbox.  WhatshaU 
I  have  the  pleasure  for  to  come  for  to  go,  for  to 
go  for  to  fetch,  for  to  fetch  for  to  carrj',  to 
oldige  you  ? '  I  usually  wore  a  ring  dress,  with 
red  rings  round  my  tmnks,  and  a  fly  to  cor- 
lespond.  The  tights  had  straight  red  lines. 
My  wig  was  a  white  one  with  a  red  comb.  Then 
Johnson  would  say,  '  Have  the  pleasure  to 
announce  ^Madame  Leone.'  Then  I  give  it: 
'  Larlies  and  gentlemen,  this  is  Madame  Leone, 
a  young  lady  that  threw  her  clothes  into  bed 
and  hung  herself  upon  the  door-nail.'  Then  sho 
just  gets  up  on  the  rope,  and  I  go  and  sit  down 
as  if  I  was  going  to  sleep.  Mr.  Johnson  then 
says, 'Come,  sir,you're  going  to  sleep ;  you've  got 
your  eyes  shut.'  I  answer,  *  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  I  was  not  asleep.'  And  then  he  says  I  was, 
and  I  contradict  him,  and  add,  *  If  I  had  my 


132 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


eyes  shut,  I  am  the  first  of  the  family  that 
went  to  sleep  so.'  Then  he  asks  how  that  is  ? 
and  I  reply,  *  Because  they  were  afraid  of 
ha\ing  their  pockets  picked;*   and  he  says, 

*  Nonsense!  all  your  family  was  ver>'  poor, 
tliere  was  nothing  in  their  pockets  to  pick  ;  * 
and  I  add,  *  Yes,  but  there  was  the  stitches 
though.'  All  these  puns  and  catches  goes 
immense.  *  Now,  sir,'  he  continues, '  chalk  the 
rope.'  I  say,  *  Whose  place  is  it?*  and  he  re- 
plies, *  The  fool's.'  *  Then  do  it  yourself,'  I 
answer.  And  then  we  go  on  in  this  style.  He 
cries,  *  What  did  you  say,  sir?'  *  I  said  I'd  do 
it  mj-self.'  *  Now,  Madame  Leone,  are  you 
ready?'  and  she  nods;  and  then  I  tell  the 
music  to  toodelloo  and  blow  us  up.  She  then 
does  a  step  or  two — a  little  of  the  polka — and 
retires,  and  I  am  told  to  chalk  the  rope  again, 
and  this  is  our  talk  ;  *  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  tliere's 
no  rest  for  the  wicked.  Sir,  would  you  lie  so 
kind,  so  obliging,  as  to  infonn  mo  why  I  chalk 
the  top  of  the  rope  ?'  *  To  prevent  the  young 
lady  from  slipping  down,  sir.'  '  Oh,  indeed  1 
then  I'll  chalk  undcmeatli  the  rope.'  He  then 
asks,  *What  are  you  doing  of,  sir?'  'Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  when  I  chalked  the  top  it's 
to  prevent  the  yoimglady  from  slipping  down  ? ' 

*  Yes,  sir.'  *  Then  I  chalked  underneath,  to 
prevent  her  ftova.  slipping  up  again.  Would 
you  oblige  mo  with  your  hand?'  Then  I  look 
at  it  and  say,  *  Plenty  of  corns  in  it;  you've 
done  some  hard  work  in  your  time.'  '  I  have, 
sir.'  '  Beautiftd  nails,  too;'  and  then  I  rub 
the  chalk  on  his  hand,  and  when  he  asks  what 
I'm  doing  of,  I  say  '  Chalking  it.'  *  "VMiat  for, 
sir?'  *  Why,  sir,  to  keep  it  from  slipping  into 
other  people's  pockets.'  Then  he  gives  me  a 
click  of  whip  and  says,  *  Out  of  the  way,  sir! 
Now,  Madame  Leone,  proceed.' 

**^Nlien  she's  finished  tlie  dance  I  cry, 
*Now  I'll  get  on  the  rope  and  have  a  try,* 
and  I  mount  very  courageously,  crying, 

'  I'd  bo  a  batcher'4  bov. 
Bom  in  the  Borough, 
Beef-steaks  to-day 
And  mutton  chopn  to-morrow.' 

"  Then  I  find  the  rope  move,  and  pretend 
to  be  frightened,  and  cry,  *  0  Lord,  don't ! 
it  shakes.'  Then  I  ask,  *  Mr.  Johnson,  will 
you  chalk  my  pulse  and  hand  me  up  tlie 
barber's-pole  ? '  and  when  I've  got  it  I  say, 

*  Here's  a  nice  ornament  on  a  twelfth-cake.' 
I  also  ask  him,  *  I  say,  sir,  did  you  ever  know 
some  of  my  friends  was  first-rate  rope-dancers?' 

*  No,  sir.'  *  Oh  yes,  sir.  they  danced  to  some 
of  the  large  houses.'  *  What  house  was  that, 
sir  ?  was  it  Victoria  ?'  *  I  know  nothing  about 
Victoria,  sir;  you  must  ask  Albert.'  *  Perhaps, 
sir,  it  was  the  Garrick.*  *  Oh,  catch  my 
brother  dancing  in  a  garret'  *  Perhaps,  sir, 
it  was  Covent  Garden.*  *  No,  sir,  he  never 
danced  in  no  garden,  nor  a  lane  neither.' 
'  Perhaps,  sir,  it  was  the  Haymarket'  '  No. 
sir;  nor  the  Corn-market.*  *  I  see,  sir,  you 
can't  remember  the  house.*     *No,  sir;   I'll 


tell  you,  sir,  it's  a  high  stone  building  between 
Holbom  and  Newgate-market.'  *  Oh,  you 
mean  Newgate.'  *Yes,  sir;  don't  you  re- 
member we  were  botli  in  there  for  pot  steal- 
ing?'  'Come  down  here,  sir,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  flogging.'  *  You  mean  to  say,  sir,  yoxOl 
give  me  a  flogging  if  I  come  down  ?'  •  Yes, 
sir.'  *  Then,  sir,  I  shall  remain  where  I  am.' 
I  then  tell  the  music  to  toodelloo  and  blow 
us  up,  and  I  attempt  to  dance,  and  he  lets  the 
rope  down,  which  throws  me  on  to  my  back. 
He  asks,  *  Are  you  hurt?'  and  I  reply,  •  No, 
I'm  killtid.'  *Get  up,  sir.'  'I'll  not  move, 
sir.'  *  I'll  give  you  Uie  whip,  sir.'  *  That's  no 
use,  sir ;  I've  made  a  bargain  with  it,  that  if 
I  don't  touch  it  it  won't  touch  me.  Oh, 
ain't  I  bad  I  I've  got  the  cobbler's  marbles,  or 
else  the  hen-flew-out-f»f-the- window.'  *  Here's 
a  policeman  coming!'  and  then  I  jumps  up 
in  a  minute,  and  ask,  *  Where  ?' 

"Then  I  go  to   his  whip,  and   touch  it 
'  Whafs  this,  Mr.  Johnson  ? '    *  My  whip,  sir.' 

*  111  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr.  Johnson,  111  bet 
you  a  bottle  of  blacking  and  a  three-out  brush, 
that  you  can't  say  *  my  whip '  to  three  questions 
that  I  shall  put  to  you.'  *  I'll  tike  you,  sir.' 
I  then  take  the  whip  from  him,  and  sty, 

*  Pronding,  sir,  you  was  to  meet  a  i)oor  blind 
old  man,  and  you  was  to  give  him  a  ha'penny, 
and  you  was  to  meet  me  and  make  me  a 
present  of  a  ft/,  note,  what  would  you  deserve  ?' 
He  says,  *  My  whip,  sir.'  *  Yes,  sir;  that's  one 
to  you.  I  say,  sir,  you've  got  a  daughter,  and 
if  she  was  to  marry  and  get  a  great  deal  of 
money,  what  would  you  deserve  ?'  *  My  wh^, 
sir.'  *•  Certainly,  sir;  that's  two  to  yoo.  Kov, 
sir,  providing  you  was  a  top  of  that  rope,  md 
I  was  to  undo  the  rope  and  let  yon  down,  mnI 
I  was  to  give  you  tlio  cobbler's  marbles  with 
the  lien-flew-out-of-the-window,  and  tell  you 
that  a  policeman  was  a-coming,  what  should 
I  deserve  ?'  Then  ho  don't  like  to  say,  •  My 
whip,'  and  stammers  out;  at  last  he  says  it, 
and  then  I  beat  him  round  the  stage  Ull  he 
nms  off".  Then  I  lay  it  down  and  cry  cock-a- 
doodle-do,  crowing  for  victory,  and  he  creeps 
in  and  gets  the  whip  again,  and  then  lashes 
me. 

"  After  juggling  and  globes,  we  alwa^'S  did 

*  a  laughable  sketch  entitled  Billy  Button's 
ride  to  Brentford,'  and  I  used  to  be  Jeremiah 
Stitchem,  a  servont  of  Billy  Button's,  that 
comes  for  a  *  sitiation.*  It  opens  this  way. 
Jeremiali  makes  applications  for  this  situa- 
tion. He  asks,  *  What  can  you  do  ? '  •  E veiy- 
think  and  nothink.'    '  Can  you  clean  plates?' 

*  I  can  break  'era.'  *  Can  you  run  errands  ?' 
'  All  ways.'  He  is  engaged  at  4«.  a- week  and 
his  board ;  and  then  comes  some  comic  busi- 
ness about  a  letter  coming  by  post.  Billy 
tells  him  to  bring  him  a  light  to  read  this 
letter,  and  he  sets  fire  to  it.  This  letter  is 
from  Brentford,  saying  that  his  sister's  ill  and 
that  he's  wanted  directl}'.  He  goes  to  a  liveiy 
stable  and  asks  for  a  lady's  pony,  at  the  sama 
time  saying  he  wants  it  quiet     The  mtn 


LOKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


J33 


la.Ts  lie*8  got  thxee :  one  that  is  blind,  and 
threw  the  last  gentleman  that  rode  it  into  a 
ditch,  and  BiUy  won't  have  that.  The  other 
is  lame  of  one  leg,  and.  he  don't  Hke  that,  fur 
he  wants  a  lady's  pony  that  is  very  quiet. 
Then  this  stable-keeper  recommends  this 
pony,  saying  it's  vezy  quiet,  but  it's  a  kicker. 
Then  fint  he  gets  ap  the  wrong  way,  and  the 
Lead  comes  round  to  the  t<iil  of  the  horse ; 
Jerxy  ihen  tells  him  he's  wrong,  and  then  offers 
X/j  give  him  a  *  bimg  up,'  and  chucks  him  right 
over  the  pony's  back  on  to  the  grotmd  on  the 
other  side.  Ue  then  gets  on  properly,  ready 
for  starting,  and  tells  Jerry  he  may  expect 
him  home  in  a  day  or  two.  He  tries  to  Ktai't 
the  pony,  but  it  won't  go.  Jerry  takes  a 
Dccdlti  and  pretends  to  stick  it  into  tlie  puny's 
lUnk,  which  causes  it  to  kick  and  rear  until 
he  throws  Billy  Button  oif ;  and  then  the  pony 
chases  Jerry  round  the  stage  with  his  mouth 
open  to  bite  him.  Then  there's  a  regular 
confusion,  and  that  winds  it  up. 

•'  If  that  pony  catched  you  he'd  give  it  you, 
too.  He  caught  hold  of  me  one  niglit  by  my 
tT'^users,  and  nearly  shook  my  life  out  of  me. 
It  hurt  me,  but  ever}'body  roared  and  thought 
it  all  right.  Alter  that  I  hit  upon  a  dodge. 
I  used  to  have  a  roll  of  caUco  tacked  on  to 
mv  back,  and  the  pony  would  catch  hold 
ot  it  and  pull  out  about  four  yards  of  what 
IcH-ked  hke  a  bhirt.  Those  ponies  are  very 
playful,  and  may  be  taught  anything. 

"  The  stage-clown's  dress  is  what"  we  term 
ftill  dresses,  with  a  wig  and  a  tail,  but  the 
circus  clown's  is  merely  the  top.  knot,  and 
the  ring  dress,  as  if  they  are  spangled  they 
are  always  on  the  twist,  something  in  the 
Myle  of  tlie  serpent.  They  don't  do  tlie  red 
hulf-moon  on  the  cheek,  like  stage  clowns, 
but  tliey  have  just  a  dab,  nmniug  up  to  the 
cheek-bone.  A  stage-clown's  dress  costs  irom 
frum  bL  to  10/. ;  but  a  circus  clown  can  make 
i  suit  complete,  with  pumps  and  all,  for  from 
3Us.  to  d3«.  There's  such  a  thing  as  fourteen 
or  fifteen  yards  of  canvas  in  a  stage-clown's 
full  dress ;  and  tliot's  without  exaggerating. 

"  Veal's  was  the  best  circus  I  wus  at ;  tlicre 
tbevhadsix  prads  (horses)  and  two  ponies, 
and  the  performers  were  the  best  then  of  the 
day;  for  they  had  Monsieur  Ludowic,  aFrench- 
mun«  and  the  best  bare-bock  juggler  about. 
Mr.  Moffat's  troupe,  and  JMr.  Enier>''8,  was 
there  also.  Mr.  Douglas  wus  clown  along 
^iiii  me,  and  little  Nod  and  Sam  was  the 
tumblers.  We  hud  a  large  tent  and  regular 
ciruas,  and  could  accommodate  1500  or  IGOO 
people.  I  had  35s.  a-weok  uU  the  time  I  was 
there,  (near  2\  years),  and  it  wasn't  much, 
considering  the  work,  for  I  had  to  produce 
ftil  the  pantomimes  and  act  as  ballet-muster 
*^  well. 

"  It  is,  and  it  ain't,  difficult  to  ride  roimd 
s  drous  standing  up.  I've  known  one  man, 
vbo  had  never  rode  before  in  all  his  life, 
and  yet  went  on  one  night,  when  they  were 
short  of  hands,  and  done  the  Olympians  to 


the  best  of  his  abilities,  without  falling  ofl^ 
though  he  felt  very  nervous.  For  these  scenes 
they  go  slowly.  You  have  to  keep  your  eye 
fixed  on  the  horse's  head.  I've  been  in  a 
circus  so  long,  and  yet  I  can't  ride.  Even 
following  the  horse  round  the  ring  makes  me 
feel  so  giddy  at  times,  that  I  have  had  to  catch 
hold  of  the  tent-pole  in  the  middle  just  to 
steady  myself. 

*'  I  wasn't  the  regular  principal  clown  at 
Veal's  —  only  on  occasions ;  I  was  the  speak- 
ing clown  and  jester.  I  used  to  do  such  things 
as  those : — Fc»r  instance,  there  is  a  act — ^which 
is  rode  —  culled  *  Tlie  Shipwrecked  Sailors,' 
where  he  rides  roimd  the  ring,  introducing  the 
shipwreck  hornpipe,  and  doing  a  pantomime 
of  gi\'ing  a  imitation  of  the  sinking  of  the 
ship,  and  his  swimming  and  returning  safe  on 
shore.  Between  the  parts  I  used  to  say  to 
the  ring-master,  •  Are  you  aware,  sir,  that 
I've  been  to  sea  ? '  He'd  say,  *  No.  sir.'  Tlien 
we'd  go  on  :  *  Yes,  sir ;  I  once  took  a  voyage 
to  the  Ickney  Nockney  Islands,  off  Bulbusen, 
just  by  the  Thames'  Tunnel,  in  the  mud.' 
'  Indeed,  sir  I'  *  Yes,  sir ;  and  I've  seen  some 
wonderful  sights,  sir,  in  my  time.'  *  Indeed, 
sir  ! '  *  Yes,  sir :  on  this  occasion  it  come  so 
cold,  that  as  the  captain  was  on  the  quarter- 
deck, as  he  gave  the  word  of  command  to  the 
men,  the  words  dropped  out  of  his  mouth 
lumps  of  ice  on  the  deck.  The  ship  would 
have  been  lost,  had  I  not  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  pick  the  words  up,  put  them  into 
a  fr>ingpan,  and  warm  them  over  the  galley- 
lire  :  and  us  they  thawed,  so  I  gave  the  woixl 
of  command  to  the  men.'  *l)ear  me,  sir! 
that  was  a  wonderful  sight!'  'It  wus  in- 
deed, sir  I '    *  I  don't    believe  a  word  of  it.' 

*  Ah,  sir,  if  you'd  have  been  there,  you'd  have 
seen  it  yourself.'  *  I  don't  beUeve  a  word 
of  it,  Mr.  Merryman.*  *  Oh !  come,  sir,  you 
must  beheve  some.'  *  Well,  I  believe  a  part 
it/  *  Then  I  believe  the  other  part,  sir,  and 
so  that  makes  tlie  lot.'  '  That's  right,  sir.* 
'  Well,  su:,  I  went  for  another  voyage ;  and 
going  through  the  Needles  our  vessel  sprung 
a  leak ;  not  an  onion,  a  leak ;  and  she  got  a 
hole  in  her  side.'  *  She,  sir  ?  *  *  Yes,  sir, 
the  ship ;  so  the  pumps  was  put  to  work ; 
but  as  fust  as  they  pumped  the  water  out 
it  came  in  at  the  hole,  and  Uie  ship  was  sink- 
ing, when  the  captain  come  on  deck  and 
asked  if  there  was  any  man  courageous  enough 
to  stop  the  hole.    Of  course,  sir,  I  was  there.' 

*  But  you're  not  courageous.'  *  Ain't  I,  sii*? 
try  me.'  *  Now,  says  lie,  *  if  there's  any  man 
\i-ill  stop  this  hole,  to  him  will  I  give  the  hand 
of  my  daughter  and  150/.  So  away  I  went 
down  in  the  hold,  and  there  was  more  tliau 
about  15  foot  of  water,  and  I  p«)p8  my  head  i}\ 
the  hole  until  they  got  tlie  ves.s«.4  ashoi-e.  So 
you  see,  sir,  I  had  the  hand  of  his  daughter 
and  the  150/.'  *  That  was  a  good  job  for  you, 
Mr.  Menyman.'     •  No,  sir ;  it  was  a  bad  job.' 

*  How  was  that,  sir?'  'Because  when  I 
was  married  I  found  that  she  was  a  cream 


134 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


of  Urtar.'  '  Then,  sir,  you  had  the  money ; 
that  was  a  good  job  for  yoii.'  *  No,  sir ; 
that  was  a  bad  job,  sir.'  *  How  so  ? '  'I 
bought  some  sheep  and  oxen,  and  they  died 
of  the  rot'  '  Ah !  that  was  a  bad  job,  Mr. 
Meriyman.'  '  Ko,  sir ;  it  was  a  good*job ;  for 
shoes  were  veiy  dear,  and  I  sold  the  hides 
for  more  than  I  gave  for  the  cattle.'  « Well, 
that  was  a  good  job.'  '  No,  sir,  that  was  a 
bad  job :  for  I  built  houses  with  the  money 
and  they  got  burned  down.'  *  Indeed,  sir ! 
that  was  a  very  bad  job  for  you.'  *  Oh  no, 
sir ;  it  was  a  very  good  job,  because  my  wife 
got  burnt  in  them,  and,  you  see,  I  got  rid  of 
a  tormenting  wife.' 

**  Tlicre's  another  famous  gag  ring-jesters 
alwa>-s  do,  and  I  was  very  successful  with  it. 
After  the  act  of  horsemanship  is  over,  when 
the  ring-master  is  about  lea%ing  the  ring,  I 
say,  *  Allow  me  to  go  first,  sir ; '  and  he  re- 
plies, •  No,  sir,  I  never  follow  a  fool.'  Then 
we  go  on  : —  *  I  always  do,'  meaning  him. 
*  Wliat  did  you  say,  sir  ? '  *  That's  quite 
true,  sir.*  *  I  say,  sir,  did  ever  you  see  my 
sweetheart?'  *  No,  sir.'  'There  she  is,  sir; 
that  nice  young  girl  sitting  there.'  '  I  don't 
see  her.' — *Yes,  there,  sir,  a- winking  at  me 
now.  Ah !  you  little  duckscy,  ducksey,  duck- 
eey  !  *  'I  don't  see  her,  sir.'  Then  I  gets  him 
to  the  middle  of  the  ring,  and  whilst  he  is 
pretending  to  stare  in  the  direction  I  pointed 
to,  I  bolt  off,  saying,  *  I  never  follows  a  fool.' 

"  At  fairs  we  do  pretty  well,  and  a  circus 
always  pays  better  than  an  acting-booth. 
We  are  idwa}'s  on  salaries,  and  never  go  upon 
shares.  The  actors  often  say  we  look  down 
upon  them,  and  think  them  beneath  our 
notice;  and  I  dare  say  it's  true,  to  a  great 
extent.  I've  heard  our  chaps  cxy  out,  *  Won't 
you  bo  glad  when  herrings  are  cheap?'  or, 
'  How  were  you  off  for  bits  of  candle  and 
lumps  of  coke  last  night  at  sharing?'  Then, 
no  doubt,  we  live  better  at  circuses,  for  we 
do  our  steaks  and  onions,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing ;  and,  i>erhaps,  that  makes  us 
cheeky.* 

"  Some  jesters  at  circuses  get  tremendous 
engagements.  Mr.  Barry,  they  say,  had  10/. 
a-week  at  Astlcy's;  and  Stonalfe,  with  his 
dogs,  is,  I  should  think,  equal  to  him.  There's 
another.  Nelson,  too,  who  plays  on  the  bar- 
monicon,  and  does  tunes  on  bits  of  wood — 
the  same  as  went  on  the  water  in  a  tub  drawn 
by  geese,  when  the  bridge  broke  down  at 
Yarmouth — ^he's  had  as  much  as  15/.  a-week 
on  a  regular  travelling  engagement 

"  There  ain't  so  many  jesters  as  timibling 
clowns.  I  think  it's  because  they  find  it 
almost  too  much  for  them ;  for  a  jester  has 
to  be  ready  with  his  tongue  if  anything  goes 
wrong  in  the  ring.  I  shouldn't  think  there 
was  more  than  from  thirty  to  forty  jesters 
in  England.  I  reckon  in  this  way.  There 
are  finom  ten  to  fifteen  circuses,  and  that's 
allowing  them  two  jesters  each.  In  the  three- 
penny circus,  such  as  Clarke's  or  Fhizier's, 


the  salary  for  a  jester  is  about  2/.  »>week,  take 
the  year  round." 

Silly  Billt. 

The  character  of  "Silly  Billy"  is  a  kind 
of  clown,  or  rather  a  clown's  butt;  biit  not 
after  the  style  of  Pantaloon,  for  the  port 
is  comparatively  juvenile.  Silly  Billy  is  sup- 
posed  to  be  a  schoolboy,  although  not  dress*  d 
in  a  charity-boy's  attire.  He  is  verj'  pq>u- 
lar  with  the  audience  at  the  fairs;  indeed, 
they  cannot  do  wthout  him.  **  The  people 
like  to  see  Silly  Billy,"  I  was  told,  "much 
more  than  they  do  Pantaloon,  for  he  gets 
knocked  about  more  though,  but  he  gives 
it  back  again.  A  good  Silly,*'  said  my  in- 
formant, **■  has  to  imitate  all  the  ways  of  a 
little  boy.  When  I  have  been  going  to  a  fair, 
I  have  many  a  time  stopped  for  hours  watch- 
ing boys  at  play,  learning  their  various  games, 
and  getting  their  sayings.  For  instance,  some 
will  go  about  the  streets  singing : 

*  Eh.  hiffgcty,  «h  ho  I 
Billy  lut  the  water  Ko  !  ' 

which  is  some  song  about  a  boy  pulling  a  tap 
fVom  a  water-butt,  and  letting  the  water  ruu. 
There's  anotlier : 

'  Kicky  nickey  nito. 
rUstrikeallght!' 

I  got  these  both  from  watching  children  whilst 
pla}'ing.  Again,  boys  will  swear  *  By  the  liver 
and  lights  of  a  cobbler's  lapstone ! '  and  their 
most  regular  desperate  oatli  is, 

•  Ain't  thin  wot?  ain't  it  dry  ? 
Cat  my  throat  if  I  tells  a  he.' 

They'll  say,  too  *  S'elp  my  greens !  *  and  *  Upon 
my  word  and  say  so ! '  AM  these  savings  I 
used  to  work  up  into  my  Silly  Billy,  and  they 
had  their  success. 

**  I  do  such  things  as  these,  too,  which  is 
regularly  boyish,  such  as  *  Give  me  a  bit  of 
your  bread  and  butter,  and  I'll  give  you  a  bit 
of  my  bread  and  treacle.'  Agaiu,  I  was 
watching  a  lot  of  boys  plnying  at  pitch-buttou, 
and  one  says,  *  Ah,  you're  up  to  the  rigs  of 
this  hole ;  come  to  my  hole — ^you  can't  play 
there!'  I've  noticed  them,  too,  playing  at 
ring- taw,  and  one  of  their  exclamations  is 
*  Knuckle  doiivn  fodr,  and  no  funking.'  All 
these  sayings  are  very  useflil  to  make  the 
character  of  Silly  Billy  perfect  Bless  you, 
sir,  I  was  two  years  studying  boys  before  I 
came  out  as  Silly  Billy.  But  then'l  persevere 
when  I  take  a  thing  in  hand ;  and  I  stick  so 
close  to  nature,  that  I  can't  go  far  wrong  in 
that  line.  Now  this  is  a  regular  boy's  answer : 
when  somebody  says  '  Does  your  mother  know 
you're  out?'  he  replies, '  Yes,  she  do;  but  I 
didn't  know  the  organ-man  had  lost  his 
monkey ! '    That  always  went  immense. 

'*  It's  impossible  to  say  when  Silly  Billy  first 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


135 


come  out  at  furs,  or  who  first  supported  the 
character.  It's  been  popular  ever  since  a  fair 
nn  l>e  remembered.  The  best  I  ever  saw  was 
Teddy  Waiters.  He's  been  at  all  the  fairs 
roond  the  universe — England,  Ireland,  Scot- 
Undf  Wales,  and  France.  Ho  belonged  to  a 
circas  when  he  went  abroad.  He's  done  Silly 
Billy  these  forty  year,  and  he's  a  great  comic 
singer  beside.  I  was  reckoned  very  clever  at 
iL  I  used  to  look  it  by  making  up  so  young 
for  it.  It  tires  you  very  much,  for  there's  so 
maeh  exertion  attached  to  it  by  the  dancing 
and  cax)ering  about.  I've  done  it  at  t)ie  fairs, 
and  also  with  tumblers  in  the  street;  only, 
when  you  do  it  in  the  street,  you  don't  do  one- 
half  the  business. 

'^The  make-up  for  a  Silly  Billy  is  this: 
Short  white  trousers  and  shoes,  with  a  strap 
round  the  ankle,  long  white  pinafore  with  a 
frill  round  the  neck,  and  red  sleeves,  and  a 
bojs  cap.  We  dress  the  head  with  tlio  hair 
behind  the  ears,  and  a  dab  of  red  on  the  nose 
and  two  patches  of  black  over  the  eyebrows. 
>Vhen  I  went  to  the  fair  I  always  took  three 
pairs  of  wliite  trousers  ^-ith  me.  The  girls 
usal  to  get  up  pla}'ing  larks  with  me,  and 
smearing  my  white  trousers  with  gingerbread. 
It  3  a  very  favourite  character  with  the  women 
—they  stick  pins  into  you,  as  if  you  were  a 
pin-cushion.  I've  had  my  thighs  bleeding 
sometimes.  One  time,  during  Greenwich,  a 
n;;ly  old  woman  came  on  the  parade  and 
lossed  me,  and  made  me  a  present  of  a  silver 
tiipence,  which,  I  needn't  say,  was  soon  spent 
in  porter.  Why,  I've  brought  home  with  me 
sometimes  toys  enough  to  last  a  child  a  fort- 
night, if  it  was  to  break  one  every  day,  such  as 
carts  and  horses,  cock  and  breeches,  whistles, 
M.  You  see.  Silly  Billy  is  supposed  to  be  a 
thiexish  sort  of  a  character,  and  I  used  to 
take  the  toys  away  from  the  girls  as  they  were 
goin^  into  the  theatre,  and  then  I'd  show  it  to 
the  Clown  and  say,  *  Oh,  look  what  that  nice 
lady's  give  me !  I  shall  take  it  home  to  my 
mother.' 

"  I've  done  Silly  Billy  for  Richardson's,  and 
near  every  booth  of  consequence.  The  general 
»ages  is  from  5«.  to  7«.  6rf.  the  day,  but  my 
terms  was  always  the  three  half-crowns.  When 
there's  any  fairs  on,  I  can  always  get  a  job.  I 
always  made  it  a  rule  never  to  go  far  away 
from  London,  only  to  Greenwich  or  Gravesend, 
hut  not  farther,  for  I  can  make  it  better  in 
town  working  the  concert-rooms.  There  are 
«ome  who  do  nothing  but  Silly  Billy ;  and 
then,  if  you  take  the  year  round,  it  comes  to 
three  days'  work  a-week.  The  regular  salary 
doesn't  come  to  more  than  a  pound  a-week, 
^ut  then  you  make  something  out  of  those 
▼ho  come'  up  on  the  parade,  for  one  will 
chuck  you  G<^.,  some  \s,  and  2«.  6</.  We  call 
those  parties  *prosses.'  I  have  had  such  a 
^g  as  55.  give  to  me.  We  ore  supposed  to 
share  this  among  the  company,  and  we  gene- 
rally do.  These  are  the  *  nobbings,'  and  may 
Bend  tip  your  earnings  to  as  much  as  25«.  a- 


week,  besides  drink,  which  you  can  have  more 
given  to  you  than  you  want, 

"  When  we  go  about  the  streets  with  tum- 
blers, we  mostly  only  sing  a  song,  and 
dance,  and  keep  the  ring  whilst  the  perform- 
ance is  going  on.  We  also  *  nob,'  or  gather  the 
money.  I  never  heard  of  a  Silly  Billy  going 
out  busking  in  tap-rooms  and  that.  The 
tumblers  like  the  Silly  Billy,  because  the  dress 
is  attractive  ;  but  they  are  getting  out  of  date 
now,  since  the  grotesque  clown  is  so  much  in 
the  street.  I  went  about  vfith  a  school  termed 
*  The  Demons,'  and  very  clever  they  was, 
though  they've  all  broke  up  now,  and  I  don't 
know  what's  become  of  them.  There  were 
four  of  them.  We  did  middling,  but  we  could 
always  manage  to  knock  up  such  a  thing  as 
20s.  each  a-week.  I  was,  on  and  off,  about  six 
months  with  them.  After  their  tumbling,  then 
my  turn  would  begin.  The  drummer  would 
say :  *  Ttmi  and  turn  about's  fair  play.  Billy, 
now  it's  your  turn.  A  song  from  Billy ;  and 
if  we  meet  ydth  any  encouragement,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  the  young  man  here  will  tie 
his  legs  together  and  chuck  several  summer- 
sets.' Then  I'd  sing  such  a  song  as  *  Clemen- 
tina Clements,'  which  begins  like  this  : 

'  You  taUc  of  modest  girls. 
Now  I've  seen  a  few. 
But  there's  noao  licks  the  oue 

I'm  sticking  up  to. 
But  some  of  her  fiiults 

Would  make  some  chaps  ill ; 
But,  with  all  her  faults, 
Yes,  I  l«n'e  her  stUl. 
Such  a  delicate  duck  was  Clementina  Clements  ; 
Such  a  delicate  duck  I  never  did  see.* 

**  There's  one  verse  where  she  won't  walk 
over  a  potato-field  because  they've  got  eyes, 
and  another  when  she  faints  at  seeing  a  Dutch 
doll  without  clothes  on.  Then  she  doesn't 
like  tables'  legs,  and  all  such  as  that,  and  that's 
why  she  is  *  such  a  delicate  duck.'  That  song 
always  tells  with  the  women.  Then  I  used  to 
sing  another,  called  *  What  do  men  and  wonien 
marry  for  ? '  which  was  a  very  great  favourite. 
One  verse  that  went  very  well  was : 

*  If  a  good  wife  you've  got, 

(But  there's  very  few  of  those.) 
Your  money  goes  just  like  a  shot : 

They're  everlasting  wanting  clothes. 
And  when  you've  bought  'em  all  you  can. 

Of  course  you  cannot  buy  them  more  ; 
They  cry.  Do  you  call  yourself  a  man  ? 

Was  this  what  we  got  married  for  ?  ' 

•'When  I  danced,  it  was  merely  a  comio 
dance — what  we  call  a  *  roley  poley.'  Some- 
times, when  we  had  been  walking  far,  and 
pitching  a  good  many  times,  the  stones  would 
hurt  my  feet  awful  with  dancing. 

"Pitching  with  tumblers  is  nothing  com- 
pared to  fair-parading.  There  you  are  the 
principal  of  the  comic  men  after  Clown,  for 
he's  first.  We  have  regular  scenes,  which 
take  twenty  minutes  working  through.  When 
the  parade  is  slack,  then  comes  the  Silly  Billy 
business.  There's  a  very  celebrated  sketch,  or 


180 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB. 


•whatover  you  call  it,  which  Gown  and  Silly 
Billy  do  together,  taking  oiT  mesmerism. 

"Clown  comes  on,  dressed  up  in  a  tall  white 
hat,  and  with  a  cloak  on.  He  says  that  he  has 
just  arrived  from  the  island  of  Mititti,  and 
that  he's  the  great  Doctor  Bokanld,  the  most 
celehrated  mesmeriser  in  the  worid.  He  says, 
*Look  at  me.  Here  I  am.  Aint  I  mes- 
merised elephants  ?  Ain't  I  mesmerised  mon- 
keys ?  and  ain't  I  going  to  mesmerise  him  ?  * 
He  then  tells  Silly  Billy  to  sit  in  the  chair. 
Then  he  commences  passing  his  hands  across 
his  eyes.  He  asks  Billy,  *  What  do  you  see, 
Billy  ? '  He  turns  his  face,  with  his  sliut  eyes, 
towards  the  crowd,  and  says,  *  A  man  with  a 
hig  nose,  sir,  and  such  a  many  pimples  on  his 
face.'  *And  now  what  do  you  see,  Billy?' 
'  Oh,  ain't  tliat  gal  a- winking  at  me !  Ton  he 
quiet,  or  I'll  tell  my  mother.'  *  Now  what  do 
you  see,  Billy  ? '  *  Nothink.*  Then  the  doctor 
turns  to  the  crowd,  and  says,  *  Now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  I  shall  touch  him  on  the  fakement 
at  the  hack  of  his  head  which  is  called  a  bump. 
Oh,  my  eyes!  ain't  Billy's  head  a-swelling! 
This  bimip,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  called  a 
organ — not  a  church  nor  yet  a  chapel  organ, 
nor  yet  one  of  tliem  they  grind  in  the  street. 
And  here's  another  organ,'  ho  says,  putting 
his  hand  on  Billy's  stomach.  *  This  here  is 
called  liis  nvitUing  department  organ,  or  where 
he  puts  liis  grub.  I  shall  now  touch  liim  on 
another  fakement,  and  make  him  sing.'  Then 
he  puts  liis  finger  on  Bill^^'s  head,  and  Billy 
sings: 

•  As  I  one  day  won  hawkinfr  my  ware, 
I  thouifht  I'd  invent  something  novel  and  rare : 
For  as  I'm  not  fn^wn.  And  I  know  what's  o'clock. 
So  111  hove  a  go  in  at  tlio  pinenipplo  rock. 
Tol  do  ro  lay,  tol  de  ro  lay.' 

"  Tlien  Billy  becomes  quiet  again,  and  Uie 
doctor  says,  *  111  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
touch  him  on  another  fakement,  and  cause 
Bill>'  to  crj'.  This  liore  is  his  organ  of  the 
liondling  department.'  Then  he  takes  Bflly's 
tingiT  fliid  bites  it,  and  Billy  begins  to  ronr 
liko  a  town  bull.  Then  the  doctor  says,  *  I'll 
now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  touch  him  on  ano- 
ther fakement,  when^by  the  youth  can  tell  mo 
what  I've  got  in  my  hand.'  He  then  puts  his 
hand  in  his  coat-tail  pocket,  and  says,  *  Billy, 
what  have  I  got  in  my  hand  ? '  and  Billy  says, 
•  Ah,  you  nasty  beast  I  why  it's  a— it's  a— it's  a 
— oh,  I  don't  like  to  say !  *  They  do  this  a  lot 
of  times,  Billy  always  replying,  *  Oh,  I  don't 
like  to  say  I '  until  at  last  he  promises  that,  if 
he  won't  tell  his  mother,  he  will ;  and  then  he 
says,  *  It's  a  small-tooth  comb.'  *  Very  right, 
BiUy ;  and  what's  in  it?  *  *  Why,  one  of  them 
•ere  Uiings  that  crawls.'  *  Very  right,  Billy ; 
and  what  is  it?'  ''Why,  it's  a — ^it's  a  black- 
beetle.'  *  Very  right,  Billy ;  look  again.  Do 
3-ou  see  anything  else? '  *  There's  some  crumbs.' 
Then  lie  tells  Billy,  that  as  he  is  such  a  good 
boy  he'll  bring  him  to ;  and  Billy  says, '  Oh, 
don't,  please,  sir;  one's  quite  enough.'  Then 
he  brings  him  to,  and  Billy  says,  *  Oh,  ain't  it 


nice  I  Oh,  it's  so  goDy !  Here,  you  young 
woman,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  touch  your 
bumps.'  Then,  if  the  people  laugh,  he  adds, 
'  You  may  laugh,  hut  it  gives  you  a  all-over 
sort  of  a  feeling,  aa  if  yoa  had  drunk  three 
pints  of  pickling  Tinegar/ 

"  That's  a  very  nyourite  Mene ;  but  I 
haven't  give  it  yon  all,  for  it  would  fill  a 
volume.  It  always  makes  a  hit;  and  BiUy 
has  a  rare  chanee  of  working  comio  attitudet 
and  so  on  when  the  doctor  touches  his  bomp^ 

^  There's  another  vexy  celehrated  scene  iiar 
Silly  Billy.  It's  what  we  call  the  preachina 
scene.  Silly  Billy  mounts  up  a  ladder,  ani 
Clown  holds  it  at  the  bottom,  and  looks 
through  the  steps.  Clown  has  to  do  the  derk 
to  Billy's  parson.  Billy  begins  by  telling  the 
clerk  that  he  mnst  say '  Barley  sugar'  at  the 
end  of  every  sentence  he  preaches.  Billy  be- 
gins in  this  way : — ''  Keyind  brethren,  and  yoa 
fair  damsels,'  and  he's  supposed  to  be  address* 
ing  the  chaps  and  gals  on  the  parade,  *  I  hope 
that  the  text  I  shall  give  yon  will  be  a  monl 
to  you,  and  prevent  you  from  eating  the  foii- 
bidden  sweets  of — '  *  Barley  sugar  I'  *No^ 
you  fool — sin!  and  that  wiU  put  you  in  the 
right  path  as  you  walk  through  the  fields 
of — '  'Barley  sugar!'  *No;  virtue,  you 
fool !  My  text  is  taken  from  the  epistle  of 
Thomas  to  the  Etliiopians,  the  first  chapter, 
and  two  first  slices  off  a  leg  of  mutton,  where 
it  saj-R  so  beautifully — '  '  Barley  sugar ! '  *  No^ 
no ;  that's  not  it !  Now  it  come  to  go  along  in 
the  first  year  in  the  first  month,  two  days  he- 
fore  that,  as  we  was  journeying  tlirough  the 
land  of—'  « Barley  sugar ! '  •  No,  no,  you 
fool !  keep  quiet  Flowerpotamia,  we  met  a 
serpent,  and  from  his  mouth  was  issuing—' 

*  Barley  sugar !  '  *  No,  no !  fire.'  Then  all 
the  people  on  the  parade  jump  np  and  shoot, 

*  Where  ? '  Then  Billy  says,  •  Oh,  my  sistef^s 
tom-cat,  here's  a  congregation!  Sit  down.' 
^Vhen  they  are  all  quiet  again,  Billy  goes  on : 

*  Now  this  I  say  unto  you — *    *  Barley  sugar  !* 

*  Keep  quiet,  "n-ill  you ! '  and  he  hit«  Clown  with 
his  foot.  *  Two  shall  l>e  well  and  two  shall  be 
queer.  Oh,  ain't  I  ill  I  Go,  men  of  little  un. 
dcrstanding,  and  inherit  a  basin  of  pea-soup  at 
the  cook-shop,  together  frith—'  'Barley 
sugar!'  *No  such  thing! — my  blessing. 
Unto  you  will  I  give  nothing,  and  unto  you 
just  h  alf  as  much — '  *  Barley  sugar  I '  *  Hold 
your  tongue!  You  that  have  had  nothing 
shall  give  it  back  again,  and  you  that  had 
notliing  at  all,  you  shall  keep  it  Now  let 
us  sing — '  *  Barley  sugar ! '  *  No ;  a  song.' 
Then  Billy  tells  them  to  get  their  books,  and 
they  take  up  pint  pots,  or  whatever  they  can 
get  <  Let  us  sing,  'and  they  fdl  jump  up,  and 
they  all  begin: 

'  If  I  was  a  dmyman'a  bono 
One  quarter  of  the  year, 
I'd  put  my  tail  where  my  head  ought  to  be, 
And  I'd  drink  np  all  the—' 

'Bariey  sugar!' — '  Hold  your  tongue!— beer.' 


ZOXDOX  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


I.i7 


After  ftll  of  them  hare  sang,  Billj  saj-s.  •  Now 
Id  vs  SET/  and  all  of  them  howl,  <  Aye,  aje.' 

*  Vow  is  fha  wintflr  of  onr  duDontent— 
We  have  not  CDOugrb  mooey  to  pAjr  our  rait ; 
ind  by  mil  tbe  clouda  that  tip  our  hooMv 
VeVo  uoC  euoc^h  lood  tolDod  a ' 

•Biriey  sagorl'  'Yes,  barley  sugar/  says 
My.  Then  aU  tlie  congregation  cries — ''O 
— 0— o — o;*  and  Clown  sa,\'8,  *Bar — bar — 
bn^-liariey  sogar/  and  he  is  so  much  atfected 
be  weeps  and  goes  to  wipe  his  eyes,  and  lets  the 
liUer  fall,  and  down  comes  Billy.  He  gives 
imdiy  kicks,  and  then  pretends  to  be  dying. 
nie  congregation  say,  'Peace  be  with  you, 
BQ^T/  and  he  answers,  *  Yes,  pcas-pudiling 
ud  fined  taters  ;*  and  the  Clown  howls  out, 
'Baiiey  sugar  2*  When  Billy  is  dead,  if  busi- 
aess  isn't  very  good,  they  put  the  body  on 
the  ladder,  and  form  a  procession.  The  music 
goes  at  the  head  and  plays  a  hornpipe,  slowly, 
lad  then  they  leave  the  booth,  and  parade 
Ifanm^h  the  fair  among  the  people,  with  Clown 
M  ebef  mourner.  The  people  are  bursting 
tkdr  sides,  and  wherever  we  go  they  follow 
■ftff.  All  the  mourners  keep  cning,  *  Oh,  oh, 
oh,BiU>-'e  deadr  and  then  Billy  turns  round, 
■od  sometime*)  says,  *  Don't  bo  fools !  it's  only 
lUik:*  or  else,  *  Don't  tell  mother;  she'll 
give  me  a  hiding.'  This  i)rocession  business 
ttvs^TS  brings  a  dork  behind  us,  and  tills  the 
theatre,  or  gues  a  great  way  towards  it.  AMien 
1  have  been  Silly  Billy,  and  representing  this 
leene,  and  been  carried  through  the  fair,  I've 
been  black  and  blue  from  the  girls  coming  up 
and  pinching  me  through  the  ladder.  The 
gicis  are  wonderfully  cheeky  at  fairs,  and  all 
iat  a  laik.  They  used  to  get  me  so  precious 
vid,  I  couldn't  help  coming  to  life,  and  say, 
'(l^et*  you  hussies ! '  But  it  were  no  good,  for 
tliqf'd  follow  you  iJl  about,  and  keep  on  uip- 
|Ng  a  fellow. 

"Another  celebrated  scene  or  sketch  is  the 
tflSloUl  one,  and  a  rich  one  it  is.  Billy  is 
nqiposed  to  have  joined  the  temperance  par- 
lies He  calls  fur  a  tub  to  preach  upon,  and 
he  lays  he  will  consider  it  a  favour  if  they 
6oaldlet.it  he  a  water-butL  They  lift  Billy 
«n  to  the  tub,  and  a  cove — Clown  generally — 
BIS  under  to  take  the  choir  of  the  meeting. 
:   Then  the  poraders  stand  about,  and  I  begin : 

*  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  waking  fricn<ls,  and 
lazy  eoeniiea,  and  Mr.  Chairman,  what  I'm 
about  to   tell  you  I'm  a  stanch  teetotider.' 

*  Hear,  hear,  hear,'  everybody  cries.  *  I  have 
been  so  for  now  two — '  and  the  Clown  sug- 
gests •  Years.'    *  No,  minutes.     I'd  have  you 

>   avoid  water  as  you  would  avoid  u  bull  that 
WMn't  iu  a  choney-shop.'    *  Hear,  hear,  hear.' 

*  I  once  kuew  a  friend  of  mine  who  dnmk  water 
I   till  be  was  one  solid  mass  of  ice ;  aod  he  drunk 

t<^ii  till  the  leaves  grew  out  of  his  nose.'    *  Oh, 

I   oh,  hear,  hear.'    '  He  got  so  fut,  you  couldn't 

I   ^  him.     This,  my  friends,  comes   of  tcu- 

dzuking  I '    *  Hear,  hear,  hear.'    *  I  hope,  kind 

incDds,  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  ayoid 


drinking  too  much' — Tlien  the  chairman 
jumps  up  and  says,  *  Beer  I '  *  No,  no  ;  tea. 
Drink  in  moderation,  and  never  drink  more 
than  I  do.  Two  pots  of  ale,  three  pints  of 
porter,  four  glasses  of  gin,  five  of  mm,  and  six 
of  brandy,  is  enough  for  any  man  at  one  time. 
Don't  drink  more,  please.'  *  Hear,  hear,  hear.* 
*  That  will  cause  you  to  be  in  the  heiglit  of 
bloom.  Your  nose  will  bhissom;  your  eyes 
will  be  bright  as  two  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket ; 
your  head  ^^-ill  swell  till  no  hat  will  fit  it. 
These  are  facts,  my  friends :  undeniable  facts, 
my  kind  friends.'  *  Ii«Mir,  hear,  hear.'  *  You 
will  get  so  fat,  youll  tske  np  the  puvemont  to 
walk.  I  believe,  and  I  trust,  that  what  I  have 
said  \**ill  not  conxince  you  that  teetotolism 
and  cuifeetotalism  are  the  best  things  ever 
invented.  Sign  the  pledge.  The  pledge-book 
is  here.  You  must  all  jwiy  a  pemiy;  and  if 
you  dont  keep  up  your  pu\-ments,  you  will  be 
scratched.  With  these  few  remarks  I  now 
conclutle  my  address  to  you,  hoping  that  every 
friend  imioug  you  is  so  benevolent  as  to  sub- 
scribe a  pot  (if  beer.  I  shall  be  hajipy  to  drink 
it,  to  show  you  how  awful  a  thing  it  is  not  to 
become  a  teetotaller.'  Then  they  all  rush 
f«^n^•a^d  to  sign  the  plodife,  and  they  knock 
Clown  over,  and  lie  tumbU^s  Silly  Billy  into 
the  barrel  up  to  his  neck.     Then  we  all  sing 

*  I  Hk«s  a  dn»p  of  (foo.l  l)oer, 
I  likca  a  dn-p  of  p.KHi  bwir  ; 
And  hau^  thoir  cyca  If  over  th*>y  tries 
To  rub  a  pour  man  of  hia  btior.' 

And  that  ends  the  meeting. 

"  I  was  in  Greenwich  fair,  doing  Silly  Billy, 
when  the  c<4ebrated  disturbimce  with  the 
Holdiers  to<^»k  place.  I  was  at  Smith  and  Web- 
ster's booth  (Uichnrdsdn's  that  was),  and  OUT 
clown  was  l*aul  Petro.  He  hail  been  a  bit  of 
a  fighting  man.  lie  was  binding  down  fi>r 
Silly  Billy  to  toko  a  jump  over  him,  and  soma 
of-  the  soldiers  ran  up  ami  took  the  back. 
They  knocked  his  bock  as  they  went  over,  and 
he  got  shirtey.  Then  canio  a  row.  Foiu:  of 
them  pitched  into  Paul,  and  he  cries  out  for 
help.  The  mob  be;,'an  to  pelt  the  soldiers,  and 
they  called  out  to  their  comrades  to  assist 
them.  A  regular  confusion  ensued.  The 
soldiers  timibled  us  about,  and  took  off  their 
belts.  They  cut  Paul's  forehead  right  open. 
I  was  Silly  Billy,  ond  I  got  a  broomstick,  and 
when  one  of  the  8oldi<?rs  prave  mc  a  lick  over  the 
face  with  his  belt,  I  pitclied  him  over  on  the 
mob  with  my  broomstick.  I  was  tumbled 
down  the  steps  among  the  mob,  and  hang  mo 
if  they  didn't  pitch  into  mo  tool  I  got  tho 
awfullest  nose  you  ever  see.  U'here  was  I,  in 
my  long  pinafore,  a- wiping  up  the  blood,  and 
both  my  eyes  going  as  black  as  plums.  I  cut 
up  a  side  place,  and  then  I  sat  down  to  tiy 
and  put  my  nose  to  rights.  L<^rd,  how  I  did 
look  about  for  plaster !  "NVlien  I  came  back 
there  was  all  the  fair  a  fighting.  The  fighting- 
men  came  out  of  their  bootlis  and  let  into  tlio 
soldiers,  who  was  going  about  flourishing  their 


138 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


belts  and  hittiDg  eveiybody.  At  last  the 
police  came ;  two  of  them  ivas  knocked  down, 
und  sent  back  on  stretchers :  but  at  last,  when 
u  picket  was  sent  for,  all  the  soldiers  —  there 
was  about  forty  of  them — were  walked  oflf. 
They  got  from  six  to  nine  months'  impri^^on- 
mont;  and  those  that  let  into  tho  police, 
eighteen  iiiontlis.  I  never  sec  such  a  sight. 
It  was  all  up  with  poor  Silly  Hilly  for  that  fair, 
for  I  had  to  wrap  my  face  up  in  plaster  and 
ilannel,  and  keep  it  ko  for  a  week. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  there  were  more  than  a 
dozen  Silly  Billys  going  about  at  tlie  present 
time ;  jmd  out  of  them  there  ain't  above  throe 
lirst-raters.  1  know  neiurly  all  of  thein.  When 
fairs  ain't  on  they  go  about  the  streets,  either 
with  schools  of  tumblers  or  serenaders;  or 
else  tlicy  turn  to  singing  at  the  concerts.  To 
be  a  good  Silly  Billy,  it  requires  a  man  vi\\\\ 
heaps  of  funniment  and  plouty  of  talk.  He 
must  also  huvo  a  young-looking  face,  and  tlie 
taller  tin.'  man  the  better  for  it.  When  I  go 
out  I  always  do  my  own  gug,  and  I  try  to 
knock  out  something  new.  I  can  take  a  candle, 
or  a  straw,  or  a  piece  of  gingerbread,  or  any 
mortal  thing,  and  lecture  on  it.  At  fairs  we 
make  our  talk  rather  broad,  to  suit  the  au- 
dience. 

"Our  best  sport  is  where  a  giil  comes  up 
on  tlie  parade,  and  stands  there  before  going 
inside — we  havo  immense  fun  witli  her.  I 
oiler  to  marry  her,  and  so  does  Clown,  and  we 
quarrel  as  to  who  proposed  to  the  young 
woman  first.  I  swear  she's  my  gal,  and  he 
does  the  same.  Then  we  appeal  to  her,  and 
tell  her  what  we'll  give  her  as  presents.  It 
makes  immense  fun.  The  girls  always  take 
it  in  good  p.'trt,  and  seem  to  e^joy  it  as  much 
as  the  mob  in  front.  If  we  see  that  she  is  in 
any  ways  shy  we  drop  it,  for  it's  done  for  mer- 
riment, and  not  to  insult ;  and  we  always  strive 
to  amuse  and  not  to  abuse  our  friends." 

Billy  Baillow. 

**  Billy  Barlow,"  is  another  supposed  comic 
character,  that  usually  accompanies  either  tho 
street-dancers  or  acrobats  in  their  peregrina- 
tions. The  dress  consists  of  a  cocked-hat  and 
red  feather,  a  soldier's  coat  (generally  a  ser- 
geant's with  sash),  whit^  trowsers  with  the  legs 
tucked  into  Wellington  boots,  a  large  tin  eye- 
glass, and  an  old  broken  and  ragged  umbrella. 
The  nose  and  cheeks  are  coloured  bright  red 
with  vermilion.  The  "  comic  business"  con- 
sists of  the  songs  of  the  ^*  Merry  Month  of 
May,"  and  "Billy  Barlow,"  together  with  a 
few  old  conundrums  and  jokes,  and  sometimes 
(where  the  halfpence  are  very  plentiful)  a 
"  comic  "  dance.  The  following  statement  con- 
cerning this  peculiar  means  of  obtaining  a 
living  I  had  from  a  man  whom  I  had  seen 
performing  in  the  streets,  dressed  up  for  the 
part,  but  who  came  to  me  so  thoroughly  altered 
in  appearance  that  1  could  hardly  recognise 
him.    In  plain  clothes  he  had  almost  a  re- 


spectable appearance,  and  was  remarkably 
clean  and  neat  in  his  attire.  Altogether,  in 
his  undress,  he  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
a  better  Idnd  of  mechanic.  There  was  a 
humorous  expression,  however,  about  his 
month,  and  a  tendency  to  grimace,  that  toM 
the  professional  buffoon.  **!  go  about  now 
as  Billy  Barlow,**  he  said ;  "  the  character  of 
Billy  Barlow  was  originally  played  at  the  noes 
by  a  man  who  is  dead.  He  was  about  ten 
years  at  the  street  business,  doing  nothing  else 
than  Billy  Barlow  in  the  public  thoroughfares, 
and  at  fairs  and  races.  He  might  have  mads 
a  fortuue  had  he  took  care  on  it,  sir;  but  hs 
was  a  great  drunkmrd,  and  spent  all  he  got  in 
gin.  He  died  seven  years  ago — ^where  most 
of  the  street-performers  ends  their  daj-s — in 
the  workhouse.  He  was  formerly  a  potmin 
at  some  public-house,  and  got  discharged,  and 
then  took  to  singing  comic  songs  about  the 
streets  and  fairs.  Tho  song  of  *  Billy  Barlow' 
(which  was  very  popular  then)  was  among 
the  lot  that  he  sung,  and  that  gave  his  name. 
He  used  to  sing,  too,  the  song  of  *  I  hope  I 
don't  intrude ; '  and  for  that  he  dressed  up  as 
Paul  Pit,  which  is  the  reason  of  the  old  nzn- 
brella,  the  eye-glass,  and  the  white  trowsets 
tucked  into  the  boots,  being  part  of  the  cos- 
tume at  present  Another  of  his  songs  was 
tlie  *  Merry  Month  of  May,*  or  *  Follow  the 
Drum ; '  and  for  that  he  put  on  the  soldier^ 
coat  and  cocked-hat  and  feather,  which  we 
wears  to  this  day.  After  this  he  was  called 
*  General  Barlow.'  "When  he  died,  one  or  two 
took  to  the  same  kerachtcr,  and  they  died  in 
the  workhouse,  like  us  aU.  Two  months  ago 
I  thought  I'd  take  to  it  myself,  as  there  was  a 
vacancy  in  the  purfession.  I  have  been  for 
thirty  years  at  the  street  business,  off  and  on. 
I  am  fifty  now.  I  was  a  mufiin  and  bisenit- 
baker  by  trade ;  but,  like  the  rest  on  us,  I  got 
fond  of  a  roving  life.  My  father  was  a  taflar 
by  traile,  but  took  to  being  a  supemumeniy 
at  Covent  Garden  Theaytor,  where  my  uncle 
was  a  performer,  and  when  I  was  nine  jean 
old  I  playcnl  tlie  part  of  the  child  in  *■  Hzairoi' 
and  after  that  I  was  one  of  the  devils  whil 
danced  romid  my  uncle  in  *  Mother  Gooee.^ 
When  I  was  fourteen  year  old  my  uncle  ap- 
prenticed me  to  the  muffin  business,  and  I 
stuck  to  it  for  five  years ;  but  when  I  was  out 
of  my  time  I  made  up  my  mind  to  cut  it,  and 
take  to  performing.  First  I  played  clown  at  a 
booth,  for  I  had  always  a  taste  for  the  comio 
after  I  had  played  the  de\-il,  and  danced  round 
my  uncle  in  the  Covent-garden  pantomime. 
Some  time  after  that  I  took  to  play  the  drum 
and  pipes ;  and  since  then  I  have  been  chiefly 
performing  as  musicianer  to  different  street 
exhibitions.  When  business  is  bad  in  the 
winter  or  wet  weather,  I  make  sweetmeats, 
and  go  about  the  streets  and  sell  them.  I 
never  made  muffins  since  I  left  the  business ; 
you  see,  I've  no  stove  nor  shop  for  that,  and 
never  had  the  means  of  raising  them.  Sweet- 
meats takes  little  capital — tofiy,  brandy-ballSy 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


130 


md  Albert  rock  isn*t  ezpensiTe  to  get  up.  Be- 
lideft,  I'm  known  well  among  the  children  in 
the  streets,  and  they  likes  to  patronise  the 
pmfession  for  sweetmeats,  even  though  they 
vont  giye  nothing  while  you're  a  performing ; 
I\q  done  much  the  same  since  I  took  to  the 
KUy  Barlow,  as  I  did  before  at  the  street 
business.  We  all  share  alike,  and  that's  what 
I  did  as  the  drum  and  pipes.  I  never  dress 
It  home.  My  wife  (I'm  a  married  man)  knows 
the  part  I  play.  She  came  to  see  me  once, 
md  langhed  at  me  fit  to  bust.  The  landlord 
Mr  the  fellow-lodgers  where  I  live — I  have  ft 
iwunto  myself — ain't  awaro  of  what  I  do;  I 
ineiks  my  things  out,  and  dresses  at  a  public - 
house.  It  costs  us  a  pot  for  dressing  and  a 
pot  for  ondressing.  We  has  the  use  of  the 
tip-room  for  that.  I'm  like  the  rest  of  the 
vorid  at  home — or  rather  more  serious, 
maybe, — though,  thank  God,  I  don't  want  for 
food;  things  is  cheap  enough  now;  and  if  I 
can't  get  a  living  at  the  buffooner}'  business, 

I  vby  I  tries  sweetmeats,  and  between  the  two 
I  do  manage  to  grab  on  somehow,  and  that's 

I  aore  than  many  of  my  purfession  can  do. 

I  My  pardner  (a  street-dancer  whom  he  brought 
vith  him)  must  either  dance  orstar\'e;  and 

I  there's  plenty  like  him  in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don. I  only  know  of  one  other  Barlow  but  me 
in  the  business,  and  he's  only  taken  to  it  oiler 
Bie.  Some  jokes  ain't  fit  for  ladies  to  listen  to, 
bat  wot  I  says  is  the  best-approved  jokes — such 
as  has  been  fashionable  for  many  years,  und 
can't  give  no  offence  to  no  one.  I  say  to  the 
moiuciso,  *  Well,  master,  can  you  tell  me  why 
STB  Che  Thames  Tunnel  and  Hungcrford  Sus- 
pension Bridge  like  two  joints  badly  done  ? ' 
ball  say,  '  No,  Mr.  Barlow ;'  and  then  I  give 
him  the  answer :  '  Because  one  is  over-done, 
nd  the  other  is  under-done.'  Then  I  raise 
a^wnbrella,  saying,  ^I  think  I'm  pumided 
uninst  the  weather ; '  and  as  the  umbrella  is 
dtom  and  slit,  it  raises  a  laugh.  Some  days 
I  get  six  shillings  or  seven  shillings  as  my 
ihtze ;  sometimes  not  a  quarter  of  the  money. 
fohaps  I  may  average  full  eighteen  shillings 
a-veek  in  the  summer,  or  more;  but  not  a 
poDnd.  In  the  winter,  if  there's  a  subsistence, 
that's  all.  Joking  is  not  natural  to  me,  and 
I'm  a  steady  man;  it's  only  in  the  way  of 
bmtinefiB,  and  I  leave  it  on  one  side  when  I've 
gotmy  private  apparel  on.  I  never  tliink  of  my 
public  character  if  I  can  help  it,  until  I  get 
ay  show-dress  on,  and  I'm  glad  to  get  it  oti' 
tt  night ;  and  then  I  think  of  my  liome  and 
cfaiUiien,  and  I  struggle  hard  for  them,  and 
ieel  disgust  oft  enough  at  having  been  a  tom- 
fool to  street  fools." 

Stbollino  AcTons. 

'VTbat  are  called  strolling  actors  are  those  who 
go  about  the  country  and  play  at  the  various 
fkin  and  towns.  As  long  as  they  are  acting 
in  a  booth  they  are  called  canvas  actors ;  but 
iopposing  they  stop  in  a  town  a  few  days 


after  a  fair,  or  build  up  in  a  town  where  there 
is  no  fair,  that  constitutes  what  is  tenued 
private  business. 

"  We  call  strolling  acting  *  mumming,*  and 
the  actors  *  mummers.'  All  spouting  is  mum- 
ming. A  strolling  acU^r  is  supposed  to  know 
something  of  everything.  He  doesn't  always 
get  a  part  given  to  him  to  leara,  but  he's 
more  often  told  what  character  he's  to  take, 
and  what  he's  to  do,  and  he's  supposed  to  be 
able  to  find  words  capable  of  illustrating  the 
character ;  in  fact,  he  has  to  *  gag,'  that  is, 
make  up  words. 

**  When  old  Richardson  was  alive,  lie  used 
to  make  the  actors  study  their  parts  regularly; 
and  there's  Tliome  and  Bennett's,  and  Dou- 
glas's, and  other  large  travelling  concerns, 
that  do  so  at  the  present  time ;  but  where 
there's  one  that  does,  there's  ten  that  don't 
I  was  never  in  one  that  did,  not  to  study  the 
parts,  and  I  have  been  mumming,  on  and  off, 
these  ten  years. 

"There's  very  few  penny  gaff^  in  London 
where  they  speak;  in  fact,  I  only  know  ono 
where  they  do.  It  ain't  allowed  by  law,  and 
the  police  are  uncommon  sewere.  They  gener- 
ally play  ballets  and  dumb  acting,  singing 
and  dancing,  and  such-like. 

*'  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  canvas 
theatre  being  prosecuted  for  having  speaking 
plays  perfonned,  so  long  as  a  fair  is  going  on, 
but  if  it  builds  at  other  times  I  have  known 
the  mayor  to  object  to  it,  ond  order  the  com- 
pany away.  Wlien  we  go  to  pitch  in  a  town, 
we  always,  if  it's  a  quiet  one,  ask  permission 
of  the  mayor  to  let  us  build. 

"  The  mummers  have  got  a  slang  of  their 
own,  which  pailies  connected  with  the  perfes- 
sion  generally  use.  It  is  called  *  mummers' 
slang,'  and  I  have  been  told  that  its  a  com- 
pound of  broken  Italian  and  French.  Some 
of  the  Romance  is  also  mixed  up  with  it. 
This,  for  instance,  is  the  slang  for  •  Give  me  a 
glass  of  beer,' — *Your  nabs  8i)arkle  my  nabs,' 
'  a  drop  of  beware.'  *  I  have  got  no  money ' 
is,  *  My  nabs  has  nanti  dinali.'  I'll  give  you  a 
few  sentences. 

"  *  Pami '  is  rain ;  and  *  toba '  is  ground. 

"  *  Nonti  numgare '  is — No  food. 

"  '  Nanti  fogare'  is — No  tobacco. 

"  *  Is  his  nabs  a  bona  press?' — Is  he  good  for 
something  to  drink  ? 

"  '  Nanti,  his  nabs  is  a  ketcva  homer ' —  No, 
he's  a  bad  sort. 

'*  '  The  casa  will  parker  our  nabs  multi ' 
means. — This  house  will  tumble  down. 

'*  Vada  the  glaze'  is — Look  at  the  window. 

"  These  arc  nearly  all  the  mummers'  slang 
words  we  use;  but  they  apply  to  different 
meanings.  We  call  breaktast,  dinner,  tea, 
supper,  all  of  them  *  numgaro ;'  and  all  beer, 
brandy,  water,  or  soup,  are  *  beware.'  We  call 
everjbody  *his  nabs,'  or  Mier  nabs.'  I  went 
among  the  penny-ice  men,  who  are  Italian 
chaps,  and  I  found  that  they  were  spealdng  a 
lot  of  mummers'  slang.     It  is   a  good   deal 


IM 


LOSDON  LABOUR  JND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Italian.  We  think  it  must  have  originated 
from  Italians  who  went  about  doing  panto- 
mimes. 

"  Now,  the  way  we  count  money  is  neaily  all 
of  it  Italian;  from  one  farthing  up  to  a 
shilling  is  this  :— 

^  '  Patina,  nadsa,  oni  soldi,  dney  soldi,  tray 
soldi,  quatro  soldi,  chinqui  soldi,  say  soldi, 
seter  soldi,  otter  soldi,  novra  soldi,  deshra 
soldi,  lettra  soldi,  and  a  biouk.'  A  half-crown 
is  a  *  metsa  carroon ;'  a  *  carroon '  is  a  crown ; 
<met5apunta'  is  half-a-sovereign ;  a  *pimta' 
is  a  pound.  Even  with  these  few  words,  by 
mixing  them  up  witli  a  few  EngUsh  ones,  we 
can  talk  away  as  fast  as  if  we  was  using  our 
own  language. 

"  Mumming  at  fairs  is  harder  than  private 
business,  because  you  have  to  perform  so 
many  times.  You  only  wear  one  dress,  and 
all  the  actor  is  expected  to  do  is  to  stand  up 
to  the  dances  outside  and  act  in.  Hell  have 
to  dance  perhaps  sixteen  quadrilles  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  act  about  as  often 
inside.  The  company  generally  work  in 
shares,  or  if  they  pay  by  the  day,  it's  about 
four  or  five  shillings  a-day.  When  you  go  to 
get  engaged,  the  firat  question  is,  <  What  can 
you  do  ?'  and  the  next,  *  Do  you  find  your  own 
properties,  such  as  russet  boots,  your  dress, 
nat  and  feathers,  Sec  V  Of  course  they  like 
vour  dress  tlic  better  if  it's  a  showy  one ;  and 
It  don't  much  matter  about  its  corresponding 
with  the  piece.  For  instance,  Henry  the 
Second,  in  '  Fair  Bosamond,'  always  comes  on 
with  a  cavalier's  dress,  and  nobody  notices 
the  difference  of  costume.  In  fact,  the  same 
dresses  are  used  over  and  over  again  for  the 
same  pieces.  The  general  dress  for  the  lathes 
is  a  velvet  skirt  with  a  satin  stomacher,  with  a 
gold  band  round  tlie  waist  and  a  pearl  band 
on  the  forehead.  They,  too,  wear  tlie  same 
dresses  for  all  the  pieces.  A  regular  fair  show 
has  only  a  small  compass  of  dresses,  for  they 
only  goes  to  the  same  places  once  in  a  year, 
and  of  course  their  costumes  ain't  remem- 
bered. 

*'  The  principal  fair  pieces  are  *  Blue  Beard,' 

*  Robert,  duke  of  Normandy,'  and  *  Fiir  Bosa- 
mond, or  the  Bowers  of  Woodstock.*  I  recol- 
lect once  they  played  *  Maria  Maitin,'  at  a 
fair,  in  a  company  I  was  with,  and  we  ])layed 
that  in  cavalior  costume ;  and  so  we  did  *  I'he 
Murder  at  Slautield  Hall,'  Bush's  attair,  in 
dresses  of  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second. 

**  An  BMJtors  share  •will  average  for  a  fair  at 
five  shillings  a-day,  if  the  fair  is  auythiuj?  at 
all.  When  we  don't  work  we  don't  pot  pai«l, 
so  that  if  we  only  do  one  fair  a-weck,  tliats 
fifteen  shillings,  unless  we  stop  to  do  a  day 
or  two  private  business  after  the  fair. 

"  *  Fair  Bosamond '  isn't  so  good  a  piece  as 

*  Blue  Beard,'  for  that's  a  great  fair  piece,  and 
a  never-faihng  draw.  Five  years  ago  I  was 
with  a  company — Star  and  Lewis  were  the 
acting  managei's.  Then  *Blue  Beard'  was 
our  favourite  piece,  and  we  played  it  five  fairs 


out  of  six.  *  Fair  Bosamond '  is  too  sent 
tal.  They  like  a  comedy  man,  and  tli 
in  ' Fair  Bosamond'  isnt  nothing.  The 
the  secret- chamber  scene  in  *  Blue  Beard 
generally  done  by  the  scene  rolMng  n] 
discovering  another,  with  skeletons  paint 
the  back,  and  blue  fire.  We  always  c 
that  scene  with  us  wherever  we  went,  ai 
the  other  pieces  the  same  scenes  did 
Star's,  our  scenes  were  somewhat  abm 
feet  wide  and  eight  feet  high.  They  all 
up,  and  there  were  generally  about  ft 
working  order,  with  the  drop  curtain, 
made  five. 

•'You  may  put  the  price  of  a  goo< 
theatrical  booth  down  at  from  fifty  pom 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  There's 
of  them  more  expensive  still.  For  ins^ 
the  paintings  alone  on  the  fk>nt  of  Doc 
Shakesperian  theatre,  must  have  cost  sc 
pounds ;  and  his  dress  must  have  cost  i 
for  he's  got  a  private  theatre  at  Boltoc 
he  works  them  there  as  well  as  at  fairs. 

"  The  *  Bottle  Imp '  is  a  very  eflfbctiT 
piece.  It  opens  with  a  scene  of  Venic« 
Willebald  and  Albert,  which  is  the  ec 
man  and  the  juvenile.  The  comic 
principal  lino  is,  *  I'll  tell  your  mother,' 
time  Albert  wants  to  go  and  see  his  i 
heart,  or  if  he's  doing  anything  that  he  1 
improper.  In  the  first  act  Albert  goes  1 
sweetheart's  house,  and  the  father  conse 
their  imion,  pro^-ided  he  can  gain  so 
ducats.  Albert  then  finds  out  a  strangei 
is  Nicolo,  who  asks  him  to  gamble  with  1 
dice :  Albert  says  he  is  poor.  Nicolo  si 
once  was  poor,  but  now  he  has  ijreat  w 
He  then  tells  Albert,  that  if  he  likes  he  ( 
rich  too.  He  says,  *Have  you  ni»t  hef 
imps  and  bottle  imps  T  *  Stuff!'  says  A 
*  me,  indeed !  a  poor  artist ;  I  have*  hea 
such  things,  but  I  heed  them  not.* 
boy,'  sa}-s  Nicolo,  *  I  have  that  in  my  possi 
will  moke  you  rich  indeed;  a  drop  o 
elixir  in  this  bottle,  rubbed  on  the  ob 
will  give  you  all  you  require ;  and  if  ere 
wish  to  part  with  it,  you  must  sell  it  fb: 
tlian  you  gave.'  He  gives  three  ducats 
and  as  he  gives  the  money  the  demon  li 
from  the  side,  *Ha!  ha!  ha!  mine,  n: 
Albert  looks  amazed.  Nicolo  says, 
youth !  may  you  know  more  happiness  t 
have  whilst  I  had  that  in  my  possession : 
then  ho  goes  off.  ^Vlbert  then  tries  the  ] 
of  the  bottle.  He  says,  *What,  ho!  I 
for  wine,'  and  it's  shoved  on  from  the 
As  he  is  drinking,  Willebald  exclaims 
dear,  O  dear !  I've  been  looking  for  my  m 
O  that  I  were  only  safe  back  again  in  Tl 
neetUe-stroet !  Ill  never  go  hunting  ] 
girls  again.  Oh,  won't  I  tell  his  mo 
'  How  now,  caitiff!  —  Leave  me  I'  says  k 
'  All  right,'  says  Willebald  ;  *  Til  leave  ; 
won't  I  tell  your  mother !' 

**  When  Willebald  goes,  Albert  wish< 
sleep,  and  the  Bottle  Imp  replie<^  '  All 


LONDON  LABOUR  AKD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


lU 


Irishes  shall  he  gratified,  excepting  one.  Sleep 
jou  cairaot  have  while  I  ani  in  yonr  posses- 
non.'  The  demon  then  seizes  him  by  the 
throat,  and  Albert  falls  on  Htage,  demon 
exulling  over  him.  Enter  Willebald,  who, 
teeing  the  demon,  crie», '  Harder !  nuirder ! 
Oh,  won't  I  tell  their  mothers !'  and  that  ends 
the  first  act. 

••In  the  second  and  lost  act,  Albert  gives 

TTiUehald  instmctinns  to  sell  the  bottle  ;  *  but 

it  is  to  be  for  less  than  tbree  dnoats.'    Wille- 

bald   says,    *  No    mariue-storekecpcr    woidd  1 

give  three  ducats  for  an  old  bottle ;'  but  lie  | 

goes  off  shontinpr,  out  *  Who'll  buy  a   bottle  ?  j 

Wholl  buy   a  Ixittle?*      In   thrt  next  scene, 

Willebald  is  still  shouting  his  bottle  for  sole, 

witlk  folks  laughing?  oft'  sin.qe  and  clogs  b.-u-k- 

iBg.    He  says,  *  Ab  !  laugh  nwny.    Its  wrll  to 

be  merrj',  but  Fm  obliged  to  cry — Who'll  buy 

a  bottle?*       He  thcrn    snys  he's  'not  goiii^' 

wilking  abont  all  day  selling  a  bottle ;'  and 

then  he  says  he's  got  two  ducats,  and   hfj'll 

buy  tlie  bottle  himself,  sooner  ibnn   tnidge 

ikiot  Venice.     Then  he  sny.s,  *  Ob,  'Mr.  Bottle. 

heK  are  the  dncats :  now  you  are  mine.*  Tben 

the  demon  cries,  'IMinr*,  mine!'     lie  snys  it 

WiB  only  the  wind.  Then  he  snys,  *  Oh,  bow  I 

iriih  I  was  at  home  la^xm,  and  ht.-iird  my  little 

brothera  and  sisters  bin^nrig !'    And  instantly 

from  the  sides  you  liear.  •  Hoys  and  girls  come 

on  to  play !'     Then  Willfbfdd  snys,  •  I  wish 

you'd  hold  yonr  tongue,  you  littlo  brutes !'  and 

they  oeaae.    Next  he  complains  that  he's  so 

poor,  and  he  wishes  it  would  rain  gold  on  him, 

md  then  down   comes  a  shower.    Tben  in 

eomea  Albert,   who  usks  whether  the  bottle 

haa  been  sold  :    and  Willebald  replies  that 

it's  an  right.     *  Thank  benvons.'  crios  Albert ; 

*  bat  yet  I  pity  the  misoruble  wretch  who  bos 

bought  it.'     •  What  do  you  mean  ?     O   deiir, 

Odear!   to  frighten  ono   so!     Ill  t«.»ll  your 

Bother!*     *  Know  ye  not,  caitilF! '  continues 

Albert,  '  that  tliat  bottle  contains  a  demon  ? 

0  what  a  weipht  hast  thou  removed  from  my 

heart!'     As   Willebald  is   deploring  his  lot, 

€Mer  a  poor  man.  who  asks  for  a  drink  of 

ynu^r ;  and  Willebald  tells  him  lie  can't  give 

bim  any  water,  but  he  has  an  elixir  he  hIhiII 

biTc  very  cheap.    The  old  man  replies  tliat 

be  hasn't  got  more  than  a  petnni,  which  is  the 

sitietb  part  of  a  farthing.    However,  WiUe- 

Wd  sells  liim  the   bottle ;    and  as  it's  the 

•mallest  coin  in  the   worbl,   and  the  bottle 

cm't  go  no  cheaper,  the  demon  rushes  in  and 

•axes  the  beggar,  who  turns  out  to  be  Nicolo, 

^  ftrst  who  sold  the  bottle.    As  he  is  being 

cvritMl  off,  Willebald  cries  out,  *  For  shame, 

yon  agly  devil !  to  treat  the  old  gentleman  like 

tbit  •    Wont  I  tell  your  mother  I'  and  down 

ctmes  the  cnrtain. 

**The  *  Bottle  Imp'  is  a  very  succcssfiU 
romantic  drama.  There's  plenty  of  blue  fire 
in  it.  The  'Bottle  Imp'  have  it  at  every 
cotnnce  that  fellow  do.  There  is  some  booths 
that  are  fonder  of  the  *  Bottle  Imp'  than  any 
odwr  piece.    We  played  it  at  Bill  Weale'a 


No.  LXIII. 


theatre  more  than  any  other  drama.  The 
imp  is  always  acted  by  a  man  in  a  cloak  with 
a  mask  on.  Yon  can  see  his  cavalier  boots 
under  his  cloak,  but  that  dont  matter  to 
holiday  folk  when  once  they  know  it's  intended 
to  be  a  demon. 

"It's  a  voiy  jolly  life  strolling,  and  I 
wouldn't  leave  it  for  any  other  if  I  had  my 
choice.  At  times  it's  hord  lines ;  but  for  my 
part  I  prefer  it  tn  any  other.  It's  about  tilteen 
shillings  a-week  for  certain.  If  you  can  make 
up  your  mind  to  sleep  in  the  booth,  it  aint 
such  bad  poy.  But  the  most  of  the  men  go  to  I 
lodgings,  and  they  don't  foi-get  to  boast  of  it.  \ 
'Where  do  you  lodge?'  one  11  ask.  *  Oh,  I  j 
lodged  at  such  a  place,'  says  another;  for 
we're  all  tirst-rate  fellows,  if  you  can  got  any- 
body to  believe  us. 

"Mummers'  feed  is  a  herring,  which  we 
call  a  pheasant.  After  performance  we  gene- 
rally disperse,  and  those  who  have  lotlginga 
go  to  'em  ;  but  if  any  sb»cp  in  the  booth,  turn 
in.  I'erhnps  there's  a  batch  of  coftee  brmight 
forwards,  a  sul^scription  supper  of  three.  I'he 
coffee  and  sugar  is  put  in  a  kettle  and  boiled 
up,  and  then  served  up  in  what  we  can  get : 
either  a  saucepan  lid,  or  a  cocoa-nut  shell,  or 
a  publican's  jjot,  or  whatever  they  can  get. 
Mummers  is  the  pooi-est,  llashest,  and  most 
independent  race  of  men  going.  If  y(»u  was 
to  offer  some  of  them  a  shilling  tliey'd  refuse 
it,  though  the  most  of  them  would  take  iL 
Tlio  generality  of  them  is  cobblers'  lads,  and 
tailors'  apprentices,  and  clerks,  and  they  do 
accoimt  for  that  by  tlieir  having  so  much  time 
to  study  over  tlieir  work. 

"  Private  business  is  a  better  sort  of  acting. 
There  we  do  nearly  tlie  entire  piece,  with  only 
the  diflicult  parts  cut  out.  We  only  (li>  the 
outline  of  the  story,  and  gag  it  up.  We've 
done  various  plays  of  Shakspeare  in  this  w.i}-, 
such  as  ^Ilamlct'  or  '  Othello,'  but  only  on 
benefit  occasions.  Then  we  go  as  near  as 
memory  will  let  us,  but  we  must  never  ajipear 
to  be  stuck  for  words.  Our  prices  of  admis- 
sion  in  the  country  for  private  business  is 
threepence  and  sixpence,  or  sometimes  six- 
pence or  one  shilling,  for  it  all  depends  upon 
the  town,  but  hi  l.ondon  it's  oftener  one 
p«.nny  and  twopence.  We  only  go  to  the  out- 
skirts and  act  there,  for  they  won't  allow  us  in 
the  str<fets.  The  principal  parts  for  pitching 
the  booth  for  private  business  in  I/mdon,  is 
about  LoclwS-fields,  Walworth.  We  opened 
there  about  six  years  ago  last  Easter. 

'*  Onr  rehearsals  for  a  ])iece  are  the  funniest 
things  in  tho  worliU  Perhaps  we  are  going 
to  play  *  The  Floating  Beacon,  or  The  Weird 
Woman  of  the  Wreck.'  The  manager  will, 
when  the  night's  perfonnan re  is  over,  call  the 
company  together,  and  he'll  say  to  the  low- 
comedyman,  *  Now,  you  play  Jock  Jimk,  and 
this  is  your  part:  you're  supposed  to  fetch 
Frederick  for  to  go  to  sea.  Frederick  geU 
capsized  in  the  boat,  and  gets  aboard  of  the 
fiooting  beaoun.    Yon  go  to  search  for  him. 


Vw 


142 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


and  the  smnggleiB  tell  yon  he's  not  aboard, 
and  they  give  yon  the  lie;  then  you  say, 
<  What,  the  lie  to  a  English  sailor ! '  and  you 
chuck  your  quid  in  his  eye,  saying,  *  Tve  had 
it  for  the  last  fourteen  days,  and  now  I  scud  it 
with  a  ftill  sail  into  your  lubberly  eye/  Then 
you  have  to  get  Frederick  ofL* 

"•  Then  the  manager  will  turn  to  the  juve- 
nile, and  say,  *  Now,  sir,  you'll  play  Frederick. 
Now  then,  Frederick,  you're  in  love  with  a  giil, 
and  old  Winslade,  the  father,  is  very  fond  of 
you.  Tou  get  into  the  boat  to  go  to  the  ship, 
and  you're  wrecked  and  get  on  to  the  beacon. 
You're  very  faint,  and  stagger  on,  and  do  a 
back  fall.  You're  picked  up  by  the  weird  wo- 
man, and  have  some  dialogue  with  her;  and 
then  you  have  some  dialogue  with  the  two 
smugglers,  Ormaloff  and  Augerstoff.  You 
pretend  to  sleep,  and  they're  going  to  stab  you, 
when  the  wild  woman  screams,  and  you  awake 
and  have  some  more  dialogue.  Then  they 
bring  a  bottle,  and  you  begin  drinking.  You 
change  the  cups.  Then  there's  more  dialogue, 
and  you  tackle  Ormaloff.  Then  you  discover 
your  mother  and  embrace.  Jack  Junk  saves 
you.  Form  a  picture  with  your  mother,  the 
girl,  and  old  Winslade,  and  Jack  Junk  over 
you.* 

**  That's  his  part,  and  he's  got  to  put  it  to- 
gether and  do  the  talk. 

^  Then  the  manager  turns  to  Ormaloff  and 
Augerstofi^  and  says :  *  Now,  you  two  play  the 
smugglers,  do  you  hear?  You're  to  try  and 
poison  the  young  fellow,  and  you're  defeated.' 

**  Then  he  say  to  the  wild  woman  :  '  You're 
kept  as  a  prisoner  aboard  the  beacon,  where 
your  husband  has  been  murdered.  You  have 
refused  to  become  the  wife  of  Ormaloff  Your 
child  has  been  thrown  overboard.  You  dis- 
cover him  in  Frederick,  and  you  scream  when 
they  are  about  to  stab  him,  and  also  when  he's 
about  to  drink.  Make  as  much  of  it  as  you 
can,  please ;  and  dont  forget  the  scream.' 

**  *  Winslade,  you  know  your  part.  You've 
only  got  to  follow  Junk.' 

**' You're  to  play  the  lady,  you  Miss. 
You're  in  love  with  Frederick.  You  know  the 
old  business:  *What!  to  part  thus?  Alas! 
alas !  never  to  this  moment  have  I  confessed 
I  love  you ! ' ' 

^  That's  a  true  picture  of  a  mimiming  re- 
hearsal, whether  it's  fair  or  private  business. 
Some  of  the  young  chaps  stick  in  their  parts. 
They  get  the  stage-fever  and  knocking  in  the 
knees.  We've  had  to  shove  them  on  to  the 
scene.  They  keep  on  asking  what  they're  to 
say.  <0h,  say  anything!'  we  tell  'em,  and 
push  'em  on  to  the  stage. 

**  If  a  man's  not  gifted  with  the  gab,  he's 
no  good  at  a  booth.  I've  been  with  a  chap 
acting  *  Mazy  Woodbine,'  and  he  hasn't  known 
a  word  of  his  part  Then,  when  he's  stuck, 
he  has  seized  me  by  the  throat,  and  said, 
*  Caitiff!  dog !  be  sure  thou  provest  my  wife 
unfaithful  to  me.'  Then  I  saw  his  dodge,  and 
I  said,   '  Oh,  my  lord ! '  and  he  continued — 


*  Give  me  the  proof,  or  thou  hadst  best  been 
bom  a  dog.'  Then  I  answered,  *My  lord, 
you  wrong  your  wife,  and  torture  me ; '  and  he 
said,  *  Forward,  then,  liar !  dog!'  and  we  both 
rushed  off. 

"  We  were  acting  at  Lock's-fields,  Walworth, 
once,  doing  private  business,  when  we  got 
into  trouble,  and  were  all  put  into  prison  foe 
playing  without  a  license.  We  had  built  up 
in  a  piece  of  private  ground — in  a  dust-yard 
known  as  Calf's — and  we  had  been  thers 
eleven  months  doing  exceedingly  weU.  We 
treated  the  policeman  eveiy'night,  and  gave 
him  as  much,  with  porter  and  money,  that  was 
equal  to  one  shilling  a-night,  which  was  taken 
up  from  the  company.  It  was  something  like 
a  penny  Srpiece  for  the  policeman,  for  we 
were  rather  afraid  of  something  of  the  kind 
happening. 

"  It  was  about  the  time  that  *  Oliver  Twist' 
was  making  such  a  success  at  the  oAer 
theatres,  and  so  we  did  a  robbery  from  it,  and 
brought  out  our  version  as  *  The  Golden  Far- 
mer.' Instead  of  having  an  artfiU  dodge,  we 
called  our  oomio  character  Jimmy  Twitdier, 
and  made  him  do  all  the  artful-dodgery  bua- 
ness.  We  had  three  performanoes  a-nigh(  ia 
those  days.  We  was  in  our  second  perfoim* 
ance,  and  Jimmy  Twitcher  was  in  Uie  act  of 
getting  through  the  window,  and  Hanuner, 
the  auctioneer,  was  asleep,  saying  in  his  sleep, 

*  Knock  'em  down !  gom^ !  going !  gone !  * 
when  I  saw  the  police  in  pnvate  clothes  rising 
from  the  front  seats,  and  coming  towards  tht 
stage.  They  opened  the  side  door,  and  let 
the  other  police  in,  about  forty  of  them.  Theni 
the  inspector  said,  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I 
forbid  any  of  you  to  move,  as  I  arrest  thon 
people  for  performing  without  a  Ucense.*  No- 
body moved.  Three  police  took  hold  of  me, 
one  at  each  arm,  and  one  at  the  back  of  the 
neck.  They  wouldn't  allow  us  to  change  onr 
dresses,  nor  to  take  our  other  clothes,  though 
they  were  close  by.  They  marched  us  off  to 
the  Walworth  station,  along  with  about  a 
hundred  of  the  spectators,  for  some  of  them 
got  away.  My  wife  went  to  fetch  my  dothet 
for  me,  and  they  took  her,  too,  and  actoaUy 
locked  her  up  all  night,  though  she  was  to 
near  her  pregnancy  that  the  doctor  orderad 
her  pillows  to  sleep  on.  In  the  morning  thej 
took  us  all  before  the  magistrate.  The  au- 
dience were  fined  one  shilling  a-head,  or-seven 
days;  but  they  paid  the  shilling.  We  wen 
all  ^ed  twenty  shillings,  or  fourteen  daja. 
Some  paid,  but  I  couldn't  raise  it,  so  I  wis 
walked  oflL 

**  We  were  all  in  an  awful  fright  when  wo 
found  ourselves  in  the  police-cell  that  night 
Some  said  we  should  get  six  months,  others 
twelve,  and  all  we  could  say  was,  *  What  on 
earth  will  our  o/d  women  do?' 

*'  We  were  all  in  our  theatrical  costumai* 
I  was  Hammer,  the  auctioneer,  dressed  in  ft 
long  white  coat,  with  the  swaUow-tailS  toodh- 
ing  the  ground,  and  blue  bottoms.    I  had  * 


LOlfbON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR 


143 


long  figtired  chintz  waistcoat,  and  a  pair  of 
teb  knee-breeches,  grey  stockings,  and  low 
ikoes,  and  my  hat  was  a  white  one  with  a  low 
cfown  and  broad  brim,  like  a  Quaker's.  To 
coaiplete  it,  I  wore  a  fiill  bnshy  wig.  As  we 
▼ere  being  walked  off  from  Walworth  to 
K«mington-lane,  to  go  before  the  magistrate, 
the  tops  of  the  houses  and  the  windows  were 
ftil  of  people,  waiting  to  see  us  come  along  in 
onr  druses.  They  laughed  more  than  pitied 
-QB.  The  police  got  pelted,  and  I  caught  a 
«vere  blow  by  accident,  from  a  turnip  out  of 
a  greengrocer's  shop. 

**  I  served  all  the  time  at  Kingston,  in  my 
llMatrical  dress.  I  had  nothing  but  bread  and 
▼iter  all  the  time,  with  gruel  for  breakfast 
nd  sapper.  I  had  to  pick  oakum  and  make 
■•ts.  I  was  only  there  two  days  before  I  was 
'  Mde  deputy- wardsman,  for  they  saw  I  was  a 
decent  sort  of  fellow.  I  was  very  much  cut 
up,  thinking  of  the  wife  so  near  her  confine- 
ment It  was  very  hard,  I  thought,  putting 
« in  prison  for  getting  our  bread,  for  we  never 
kid  any  warning,  whatever  our  master  may 
kire  had.  I  can  tell  you,  it  was  a  nail  in  my 
Mfci,  these  fourteen  days,  and  one  of  us,  of 
the  name  of  Chau,  did  actually  die  through 
it,  for  he  was  of  a  very  delicate  constitution, 
nd  the  cold  laid  hold  of  him.  Why,  fellows 
ef  our  life  and  animation,  to  be  shut  up  like 
ihit,  and  not  allowed  to  utter  a  word,  it  was 
dicaidAd  severe. 

**  At  this  time  a  little  penny  work  came  out, 
•Blitled  the  *  Groans  of  the  Gallows.'  I  Tt  as 
voridng  at  an  establishment  in  Whitechapel, 
and  it  was  thought  that  something  fresh  would 
be  a  draw,  and  it  was  suggested  that  we  should 
play  this  •  Groans  of  the  Gallows,'  for  eveiy- 
ttiag  aboat  hanging  was  always  a  hit  There 
¥■  such  a  thing  as  ten  people  in  the  piece, 
iodfive  was  prominent  characters.  We  got  it 
written  by  one  of  the  company,  and  it  was 
ciQed  '  The  Groans  of  the  Gallows,  or  The 
Hangman's  Career,  illustrated  with  pictures.' 
tWs  is  how  we  brought  it  out.  After  an 
^fttture,  the  curtain  rose  and  discovered  a 
iranp  on  the  stage,  all  with  pots  and  pipes, 
fin  measures,  «tc  They  sing,  *  We  won't  go 
home  till  morning,'  and  *Kightly's  a  jolly 
food  fellow.'  Here  the  hangman  is  carousing 
vidi  them,  and  his  wife  comes  in  and  upbraids 
Mm  with  his  intoxicating  habits,  and  tells 
him  that  he  spends  all  the  money  instead  of 
forriding  food  for  the  children.  A  quarrel 
«isiies,  and  he  knocks  her  down  with  a  quart 
fotand  kills  her.  I  was  the  hangman.  There 
•then  a  picture  of  amazement  from  all,  and 
he's  repenting  of  what  he's  done.  He  then 
lays,  '  This  comes  of  a  little  drinking.  From 
As  half-pint  to  the  pint,  from  the  pint  to  the 
M  and  so  on,  till  ruin  stares  me  in  the  face. 
AoC  content  with  starving  my  children,  I  have 
miirdered  ray  wife.  Oh  that  this  may  bo  a 
Boraltoall!' 

,  **The  officers  come  in  and  arrest  him,  when 
CBtns  the  sheriff^  who  tells  him  that  he  has 


forfeited  his  life ;  but  that  there  is  a  vacancy 
for  the  public  executioner,  and  that  if  he  will 
accept  the  office  his  life  shall  be  spared.  He 
accepts  the  office,  and  all  the  characters  groan 
at  bun.  This  ends  the  first  scene.  In  the 
second  enters  Kightly  and  two  officers,  who 
have  got  him  and  accuse  him  of  murder.  He 
is  taken  off  proclaiming  his  innocence.  Scene 
the  third.  Kightly  discovered  at  table  in  con- 
demned cell,  a  few  months  supposing  to  have 
elapsed.  The  bell  is  tolling,  and  the  hour  of 
seven  is  struck.  Enter  sheriflfe  with  hangman, 
and  they  tell  him  to  do  his  duty.  They  then 
leave  him,  and  he  speaks  thus :  *  At  length, 
then,  two  little  months  only  have  elapsed,  and 
you,  my  friend  and  pot- companion,  aye,  and 
almost  brother,  are  the  first  victim  that  I 
have  to  execute  for  murder,' — and  I  shudder 
you  know — *  which  I  know  you  are  innocent  of. 
Am  /  not  a  murderer,  and  do  I  not  deserve 
hanging  more  than  you?  but  the  law  will 
have  it's  way,  and  I,  the  tool  of  that  law,  must 
carry  it  into  force.  It  now  becomes  my  painful 
duty  to  pinion  your  arms.'  Then  I  do  so,  and 
it  makes  such  a  thrill  through  the  house.  '  I 
now  take  you  from  this  place  to  your  execu- 
tion, where  you  will  be  suspended  for  one 
hour,  and  then  it  is  my  duty  to  cut  you  down. 
Have  you  any  request  to  make?'  He  cries 
*  None  I'  and  I  add,  *  Then  follow  me.'  I  always 
come  on  to  that  scene  with  a  white  night-cap 
and  a  halter  on  my  arm.  All  the  audience  was 
silent  as  death  as  I  spoke,  and  with  tears  in 
their  eyes.  Scene  the  fourth.  Gallows  being 
erected  by  workmen.  That's  a  picture,  you 
know,  our  fixing  the  top  beam  with  a  hammer, 
another  at  the  bottom,  and  a  third  arranging 
the  bolt  at  the  top.  The  bell  still  tolling,  you 
know.  Ah,  it  brought  it  home  to  one  or  two 
of  them,  I  can  tell  you.  As  soon  as  the  work- 
men have  finished  they  go  off.  Enter  pro- 
cession of  sheriff,  parson,  hangman,  and  the 
victim,  with  two  officers  behind.  The  parson 
asks  the  victim  if  he  has  any  request  to  make, 
and  he  still  says  '  None,'  only  he  is  innocent 
The  sherifis  then  tell  the  hangman  to  do  his 
duty.  He  then  places  the  white  cap  over  the 
man's  head,  and  the  noose  about  his  neck, 
and  is  about  leaving  to  draw  the  bolt,  when  I 
exclaim,  *  Something  here  tells  me  that  I 
ought  not  to  hang  this  man.  He  is  innocent, 
and  I  know  it  I  cannot,  and  I  will  not  take 
his  life.'  Enter  officer  in  haste,  with  pardon 
for  Kightly.    I  then  say,  *  Kightly,  you  are 

free ;  live  and  be  happy,  and  I  am '  Here 

the  sheriff  adds,  *  Doomed  to  the  galleys  for 
life.'  That's  because  I  refused  to  kill  him,  you 
know.  I  then  exclaim,  *  Then  I  shall  be 
h^PPy*  knowing  that  I  have  not  taken  this 
man's  life,  and  be  thus  enabled  to  give  up  the 
office  of  executioner  and  it's  most  horrid 
paraphernalia.'  Then  there's  blue  fire  and 
end  of  piece. 

*•  That  piece  was  very  successful,  and  run 
for  three  weeks.  It  drew  in  a  deal  of  money. 
The   boys   used  to   run    after   mo   in   the 


144 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  P0OJL 


stteets  and  call  me  Caloraft,  80  great  was 
the  fait  I  miule  in  the  part.  On  one  oo- 
casion  a  woman  was  to  be  himg,  and  I  was 
goioK  along  Newgate,  jnist  the  prison,  on  the 
Sundiiy  evening.  There  waft  a  qnantily  of 
peojilo  congrrguteil,  and  some  of  the  lads 
then  rccognisetl  me  from  seeing  me  act  in  the 

*  Gronns  Irum  the  Gallows,'  and  they  sung  out 

*  Here  comes  (Jalcralt!*  Eveiy  eye  was  turned 
towards  me.  Some  said, '  No,  no ;  that  ain't 
him :'  but  tlie  boys  replied,  *•  Oh,  yes  it  is ; 
that's  the  man  that  placed  it  at  the  gaff.'  Of 
course  I  mizzled,  for  fear  of  a  stone  or  two. 

'*Tlie  pay  of  an  actor  in  private  business 
rarioK  from  two  shillings  and  sixpence  to 
three  sliillings,  and  each  man  is  also  supposed 
to  sin^  two  songs  in  each  perfoimance,  wliich 
mokes  three  ])urformances  a  night  besides 
perfonuing  a  sketch.  Your  engagement  lasts 
as  long  ns  you  suit  the  audience  ;  for  if  you'ra 
a  fuvotuite  you  may  have  such  a  tiling  as  nine 
months  at  a  time.  Whenever  we  have  a 
henotit  it's  a  tii-ket  one,  which  amounts  to 
two  hmidred  tickets  and  your  night's  salar>', 
which  gcnerslly  biings  you  in  a  pound,  with  your 
pay  incluiled.  There's  one  in  the  company 
generally  has  a  benefit  every  Thursday,  so 
that  your  turn  comes  once  in  about  six  montlis, 
for  the  musicians,  and  the  checktokers,  and  all 
has  their  turn. 

**  The  expense  of  putting  a  new  piece  on  f  lie 
stage  is  not  more  than  a  pound,  and  tliat  in- 
clud«;snew  scenery.  They  never  do  such  a  thing 
as  buy  new  dw^sses.  rerhn]»3  they  pay  sucli 
a  thinir  as  six  shillings  a-wcek  for  their  ward- 
i-oliO  to  hire  the  dresses.  Some  gives  as  much 
as  ten  shillings  ;  but  then,  naturally,  the  cos- 
tume is  more  showj'.  All  that  we  an»  sup- 
posed to  find  is  russet  boots,  a  set  of  llesh- 
ing;4,  a  ballot  shirt,  and  a  A\ig. 

"  T<)wn  w«irk  is  the  m(»re  quiet  and  moro 
general-business  like.  Then?'s  no  casualty  in 
it,  for  you're  not  in  shares,  but  on  salaries, 
and  after  your  work  there's  your  money,  for 
we  are  paid  nightly.  I  have  known  as  much 
as  thirty-live  sliillings  a-weok  given  at  «)ne  of 
these  theatres,  when  tlie  admission  is  only  a 
penny  and  twojTencc.  "Where  I  was  at  it 
would  hold  from  six  to  seven  himdred  people, 
and  there  was  throe  performances  a-night ; 
and,  indeed,  on  Saturdays  and  Mondays  t'ene- 
rally  four.  We  have  no  extra  pay  for  extra 
performances.  The  time  allowed  for  each 
representation  is  from  one  hour  to  nn  hour  and 
three-quarters.  If  we  find  tliere  is  a  likeli- 
hofjd  of  a  fomth  house,  wo  leave  out  a 
s<mg  each  sinjjrer,  and  that  saves  half  an 
hour.  As  soon  as  one  house  is  turned  out 
onotlier  comes  in,  for  they  anj  always  waiting 
outside  the  doors,  and  there  is  a  rush  imme- 
diately the  house  is  empty.  We  begin  at  six 
and  are  over  by  a  few  minutes  before  twelve. 
When  we  do  si>eaking  pieces  wo  have  to  do  it 
on  the  sly,  as  we  should  be  stopped  and  get 
into  trouble." 


BaLLBT  PSBIOBXEBf. 

**  The  Ballet,"  said  a  street-daaeer  to  me,  *'  u  « 
▼617  ikvourito  amuBement  with  the  people  who 
go  to  cheap  penny  theatras.  They  are  all 
comic,  like  pantomimes;  indeed,  they  oome- 
under  that  term,  only  there's  no  oomic  acenet 
or  troosfomiations.  They're  like  the  stoiy 
of  a  pantfimime,  and  notliing  else.  Neaii; 
all  the  popular  downs  are  famous  for  their 
ballet  iierformances ;  they  take  the  comic  parts 
mostly,  and  the  pantaloons  toko  the  old  men's 
parts.  Ballets  have  been  favourites  in  this 
uountr}'  for  forty  or  fifty  year.  There  is  alwayv 
a  comic  part  in  every  ballet.  I  have  known. 
ballctH  to  be  vor}'  popiUar  for  ever  since  I  cin 
rememluir, — and  Uiat's  thirty  years.  AtaU 
tlie  gatrs,  where  tliey  are  afhiid  to  speak 
their  parts  tliey  always  have  a  balleL  Eveiy 
one  in  London,  and  tliero  are  plenty  of  them» 
have  one  every  nijrht,  for  it's  ver}-  seldom  they 
ventiure  upon  a  talking  play. 

"  In  all  ballets  tlio  costume  is  fnuciful.  The 
yomig  ladies  come  on  in  short  petticoat^,, 
like  them  at  the  opera.  S<imo  of  the  gurk. 
wo  have  ixre  the  siimo  as  have  been  in  the 
o])era  cori>s-de-ballet.  ^Ir.  Flexmore,  the  ce- 
lebrated clown,  is  a  ballet  performer,  and 
then*'K  not  a  greater  man  going  for  the  ballet 
tliat  he  appears  in.  called  ^  The  Dancing  Scotoh* 
man.'  There's  I*aul  Herring,  too;  lie's  veiy 
famous.  U(.>'s  the  only  man  I  know  of  that 
can  play  I'uuch,  for  ho  works  the  speaker  in 
his  mouth ;  and  he's  been  a  great  Punch-and> 
Judy  man  in  bis  time.  lie's  very  clever  !& 
•  The  Sprite  of  tlie  Vineyanl,  or  tlio  Meny 
Devil  of  Como.'  They've  brcn  playing  it  at 
Crt* mome  laUily,  and  a  very  successful  allair 
it  was. 

**  When  a  professional  goes  to  a  ffaff  to  gel 
an  cngaKemeiiU  they  in  general  inquires  whe- 
ther lit!  is  a  gooil  ballet  performer.  Kveri'thing 
depends  upon  tliut.  The\'  also  acts  ballets  at 
some  of  the  cjucert-rooms.  At  the  Bisinjf 
Sun,  Knightsbridge,  as  well  as  the  Brown 
Bear,  lv.nightsbri<lge.  they  play  them  for  A. 
week  at  a  time,  and  then  drop  them  for  a  tart- 
nigiit  for  a  change,  and  p(>rhaps  have  tumblera. 
instead;  then  they  have  tlir'iti  again  for  a  weok^ 
and  so  on.  In  Botditfo  Highway,  at  Ward's 
Hoop  and  Grapes,  and  also  the  Albion,  and 
the  Prince  lU^gent,  they  always  play  ballets  at 
stilted  intervals.  Also  the  Kfilngham  Saloon, 
Whitechapel,  is  a  celebrated  bidlei- house.  The 
admission  to  all  Uiese  hoimes  is  ^(i.  I  be- 
lieve. At  the  Highway,  when  the  sli^g  ave 
u])  and  the  sailors  ashore,  business  is  YCfj 
biisk,  and  they  are  admitted  to  the  rooms  gra- 
tuitously ;  and  a  fine  thing  they  make  of  them^ 
for  they  are  good  hearted  fellows  and  don't 
mind  what  money  they  bpeud.  I've  known  one 
who  was  a  little  way  goiu;  to  chuck  ]ialf-a> 
crown  on  the  stage  to  some  actor,  and  Tv^ 
known  others  to  spend  a  ])Ound  at  one  bit,—- 
standing  to  all  round!    Qnu  night,   when  I 


LOVDON  LABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


14A 


erforming  ballets  at  the  Bising  Snn, 
tiibiidge,  Mr.  Hill,  the  Queen's  coach- 
hrewiue  two  half-crowns  on  to  the  stage, 
d  been  supposed  to  be  fighting, — I  and 
kte, — and  to  hare  got  so  exhausted  we 
)WB,  and  Mr.  Hill  come  and  poured 
glasses  of  port-wine  negus  down  our 
»  aa  we  laid.  I've  repeatedly  had  It. 
.  thrown  to  mo  b^  the  grooms  of  the 
nt  people  of  nobility,  such  as  the  Bus- 
nd  various  other  families. 
good  ballet  performer  will  get  averaging 
.  pound  to  3djr.  arweek.  They  call  Pai^ 
ig  a  star,  and  he  la  one,  for  he  always 
wherever  he  goes.  I  goneitdly  get  my 
hats  my  running  price,  though  I  try  for 
I. ;  but  '25«.  is  about  my  mark.  1  have 
,  modt'  Paul  Herring  my  stuily,  and  I 
get  to  perform  with  Iiim,  for  he's  the 
own  of  thi?  day,  and  a  credit  to  work  with. 

8  impossible  to  say  how  many  ballet 
mers  th«*re  are.  There  are  such  a  host 
m  it's  impossible  to  state  that,  for  they 
}  so.  Then  a  great  many  are  out  of  em- 
ent  untU  Christmas,  for  that  gt-nendly 
e  vacancies  up.  My  wife  does  a  little  in 
,  though  sho  is  i)rineipally  a  poses  plas- 
jirl,    1  married  my  wilo  otl*  the  table. 

le  of  the  most  kuccpssIuI  biill(»ts  is  tlie 
Blanche.  It  has  been  perfonned  at 
Lheatre  in  London,  both  the  cheap  and 
*gular.  The  Surrey  is  an  enormous 
or  it.  It  came  out,  I  believe,  in  Giimuldi's 
It  was  played  a  fortnight  ago  at  the 
:,  and  I  took  the  port  of  the  old  man, 
was  very  successful;  so  far  so,  that  I 
dtuation  for  Christmas.  lt*s  nn  excel- 
lot,  and  runs  an  hour  and  a  quarter  to 

begins  with  a  romantic  view,  with  a 
i  on  the  right  hand,  and  whitu  palings 
it,  ond  a  »iuantity  of  straw  laying  on  the 
The  villagers  and  the  lover  come  on. 
goes  to  cottage  door  and  knocks  three 

when  lady  appeal's  atwind<»w.  Ho  bal- 
t  her,  *  Will  you  come  down  here  and 
f  *  Slie  comes,  and  th«*y  all  do  a  country 
At  the  end  of  the  dance  the  old  man 
rd  to  cough  inside  cottage.  He  opens 
Bdow  and  sees  the  girl  outside,  and 
I  his  fist  at  her.  The  lover  hides  be- 
3C  lady.  Ho  comes  out  and  sends  his 
Ler  into  cottage,  and  sends  tlie  lover  off 

his  business.  Ho  refuses  to  do  so. 
Id  man  makes  a  blow  at  him  with  his 

he  makes  another,  wlien  lover  bobs 
ind  stick  strikes  Pierrot  in  the  face,  and 

9  him  down.    This  Pierrot  is  the  Simp- 
thc  bullet,  and  he's  dressed  in  white, 

30g  sleeves,  and  a  white  face,  and  white 
on  his  head.  The  ballot  is  from  the 
b,  and  its  real  title  is  '  La  Statue  Blanche,' 
li  we  call  it  *  The  Statue  Blanche.' 
9ver  is  driven  off  stage,  and  old  man 
up  Simpkin,  and  ballets  to  him  that  he's 
oixy  but  he  thought  it  was  the  lover,  and 


tells  him  to  hide  under  the  stxmw  which  ia  on 
the  stage,  and  that  if  the  lover  cornea  again  to 
lay  hold  of  him,  to  call  asmstancc.  Ha 
hides,  and  old  man  goes  into  cottage. 

^  Lover  comes  a^oin  with  viUof^ers  carrying 
flails,  and  they  begm  to  thresh  thu  straw  with 
Simpkin  under  it  They  thresh  him  round 
stage.  He  knocks  at  door  three  timea,  aad 
the  third  blow  knocks  oM  man  in  the  face. 
Out  he  comes  staggering.  The  old  man 
threatens  to  sack  lover.  He  goes  into  cottage 
and  brings  out  lover's  bundle,  and  throws  it  to 
lover,  and  sends  him  away.  The  lover  appeals 
to  old  man,  but  all  to  no  use.  The  lover  then 
ballets  to  him  that  ho  has  got  no  money,  so 
the  old  man  hands  his  purse,  which  Simpkia 
takes  and  carries  up  stage.  The  lover  atill- 
asks  for  money,  and  the  old  man  is  astoniabed,.. 
and  then  turns  round  and  sees  Simpkin,  and 
makes  him  return  it  Exit  old  man  and  Simp- 
kin into  cottage,  leaving  lover  on  stage.  He 
h?an8  against  wing  very  disconsolate,  when  an 
artist  comes  on  with  a  scrap-book  to  sketch 
the  scene.  He  asks  the  lover  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, and  then  he  tells  him  he  has  a  plan  if 
lover  will  become  a  skctcher ;  and  if  he  likes  to 
do  so,  he  will  make,  a  statue  of  him  and  sell 
him  to  the  old  man,  as  he  deals  in  antiquities, 
and  by  that  plan  he  will  be  able  to  gain  the- 
girl.  They  go  off,  and  another  obi  mnii  comes 
on  and  knocks  at  door,  which  old  father  opens, 
and  tldnking  it  is  lover  tumbles  him  over.  Ho 
then  says  he's  very  sorry  for  mistaking  him  for 
the  lover.  They  make  it  up,  and  the  old  man 
says  he  has  plenty  of  money,  and  has  come  to 
marrj'  the  daughter.  They  embrace,  and  old 
father  invites  old  man  to  8t4>p  inside  and  have 
something  to  drink.  As  the  setrond  old  man 
is  going  in,  the  Simpkin  jumps  over  his  head 
and  hides ;  and  old  man  swears  it  is  the  lover, 
and  hunts  for  liim,  but  cant  find  him,  and 
enters  cottage.  The  second  scene  has  got  the^ 
tea  business  in  it,  and  the  blacking  of  the  old 
lover's  face.  The  comic  business  here  is,  they 
are  ha^'ing  tea,  and  Simpkin  is  waiting  on 
them,  and  does  every  thing  ver}*  clumsy.  He 
carries  on  the  old  business  of  stirring  the 
tea  up  with  a  candle,  and  then  he  puts  the 
dirty  kettle  on  the  cloth  and  mokes  a  mark ;  so 
he  thinks  for  a  minute,  and  then  wipes  the 
bottom  of  the  kettle  with  the  old  lovor'a 
handkeitihief  when  he  is  not  looking.  Then 
Simpkin  steals  the  milk-jug,  and  as  he  is 
drinking  the  old  father  hits  him  on  the 
stomach,  and  makes  him  sputter  in  old  lover's 
face,  whr)  instantly  snatches  up  the  dirty 
handkerchief  to  wipe  his  face,  and  blacks  it 
all  over  with  the  soot  from  the  bottom  of  the 
kettle.  Then  there  is  some  comic  businoaa 
about  Simpkin  breaking  tlie  tea-things,  and 
bursting  a  coat  in  two;  and  then  scene 
changes  to  a  romantic  view,  with  a  pedestal  in 
the  centre,  and  statue  on  it  The  old  father 
comes  on  with  the  girl  and  Simpkin,  and  the 
villagers,  who  have  all  come  to  riew  the  statue. 
The  old  wiftw  then  caJ[b  the  artist,  and  tells  him 


146 


LONDOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


to  wind  up  the  Btatae  that  he  may  see  how  it 
works.  The  statne  does  several  positions,  and 
the  old  man  hays  it  They  all  go  off  hut 
Simpkin,  the  lac^,  and  the  old  man.  (The 
statue  is  still  on  the  pedestal,  you  know.)  The 
old  man  cautions  Simpkin  not  to  touch  the  sta- 
tue,  for  he's  going  away.  As  soon  as  he  is  gone, 
Simpkin  goes  and  winds  it  up  until  he  hreaks 
the  spring.  Then  in  oomes  Uie  old  man  again, 
and  the  fool  goes  to  a  comer  and  protends  to 
be  asleep.  He  is  pulled  up  by  the  ear  and 
shown  what  he  has  done,  and  is  about  to 
be  beaten,  when  girl  intercedes  and  puts 
the  statue  to  rights.  They  go  off,  leaving 
Simpkin  with  the  statue.  Lady  returns,  and 
statue  jumps  down  and  embraces  her.  The 
statue  Uien  takes  off  his  helmet  and  wig,  and 
chucks  it  at  Simpkin,  and  rushes  off  with  girl, 
and  the  clown  mounts  tlio  pedestal.  Enter 
old  man,  who  ballets  that  he'll  Iiave  a  tium  as 
nobody  is  there.  He  goes  and  looks  at  statue, 
and  perceives  that  he  is  in  a  different  position. 
He  turns  the  handle  and  Simpkin  jumps  about, 
burlesquing  what  the  lover  has  done.  Then 
Simpkm  jumps  down,  and  pushes  the  old  man 
round  stage  with  a  club  in  his  hand.  Old 
man  sings  out '  Murder ! '  when  lover  returns 
with  girl  and  stops  Simpkin  from  knocking 
him  down.  They  tell  the  old  man  they  are 
married,  and  he  joins  their  hands,  and  a 
general  dance  winds  up  the  performance. 

**  That's  one  of  the  most  successful  ballets 
ever  imagined,  and  in  its  time  has  drawn 
thousands  and  thousands  to  see  it.  I  dont 
know  who  wrote  the  ballet,  but  I  should  ima- 
gine it  was  the  property  of  Grimaldi's  father, 
who  was  a  great  pantomimist. 

*'  There's  a  new  ballet,  called  *  The  Dream 
before  the  Wedding,  or  the  Ploughboy  turned 
Sailor.'  That  one  depends  more  upon  the 
lover  than  the  comic  man.  There's  another, 
called  *  The  Boatman  of  the  Ohio. '  That's  a 
comic  nigger  ballet,  in  which  the  banjo  and 
bones  are  introduced ;  and  there's  a  ver}-  funny 
duet  song,  to  the  tune  of  *  Roley  poley.'  They 
both  hide  in  a  clock-case  to  hide  from  the  old 
man,  and  they  frighten  each  other,  for  they  put 
their  ugly  black  faces  out  and  take  each  other 
for  the  devil.  Then  there's  *  The  Barber  and 
the  Beadle.'  The  barber  is  one  of  Paul  Her- 
ring's  favourite  characters.  I^'e  done  the 
beadle  to  his  barber.  There's  a  very  first- 
rate  scene  in  it  with  the  fop, — Jemmy  Green 
he's  called,  a  cockney  sort  of  a  fellow, — and 
this  barber  has  to  shave  him,  and  cuts  his 
nose,  and  ties  him  in  a  chair,  and  shoves  the 
soap-suds  in  his  mouth.  This  fop  is  arranging 
with  the  father  about  the  daughter,  and  the 
barber  ties  a  line  to  a  pole  and  fishes  off  the 
old  man's  wig.  The  beadle  is  the  father  of 
the  girl.  It  goes  immense.  I've  played  in  it 
during  my  time  more  than  400  times. 

**  Another  famous  ballet  is  *  The  Cobbler 
and  the  Tailor.'  There's  a  celebrated  fight  in 
that,  between  the  tailor  with  his  sleeve-board 
and  goose,  and  the  cobbler  with  his  clam  and 


his  awl.  The  tailor  tries  to  bum  me  with  the 
goose,  and  he  hunts  me  all  abouL  W«  are 
about  twenty  minutes  fighting.  It's  a  never- 
failing  fight,  that  is.  The  ueeve-boards  are 
split  to  mdie  a  noise  at  each  knock,  and  so  is 
the  clam.  There's  one,  two,  three,  four, 
and  a  crack  on  the  nob.  We  keep  it  up  till 
both  are  supposed  to  fall  down  exhausted. 
Then  there's  crowing  '  Cock-a-doodle-doo '  at 
each  other.  We  ei^oy  it  just  as  much  as  the 
audience  do,  for  it's  very  f\inny.  Although 
the  shirt  is  sticking  to  our  backs  with  perspur- 
ation,  we  enter  into  the  sport  quite  like  them 
in  front.  We  generally  prefer  winter  for  this 
ballet,  for  it's  hot  work ;  or  if  it's  in  the  open 
air,  like  in  gardens,  then  it's -'very  delightfrd. 

"  One  of  the  principal  things  in  ballet  per- 
forming is  to  be  able  to  do  the  raps,  or  slaps, 
well  and  quickly.  A  fellow  gives  me  a  clap 
on  the  face  in  the  piece,  then  I  have  to  slap 
my  hands  together,  and  make  a  noise  as  if  he 
had  given  me  a  tremendous  knock  down.  Of 
course,  the  closer  the  sound  is  to  the  blow, 
the  better  is  the  effect ;  and  the  art  is  to  do  it 
close.  That's  what  we  call  good  working. 
The  people,  of  course,  fbllow  with  their  eye 
the  fist  of  the  striker,  and  the  one  struck  has 
his  arms  down  in  front,  and  claps  them  to- 
gether. It  is  the  same  work  as  they  do  in 
the  pantomimes.  Another  trick  is  hitting 
the  knuckles  when  fighting,  also  striking  on 
the  head.  That's  done  by  holding  the  stick 
close  to  the  pate,  and  that  takes  the  blow. 
On  the  knuckles  the  striker  aims  just  above 
the  fingers.  It  wants  a  quick  eye.  A  fellow 
caught  me  on  the  nose,  at  the  Bower,  the 
other  night,  and  took  the  skin  off  the  tip ;  and 
there's  tlie  mark  now,  you  see.  The  pnncipal 
distinction  between  pantomimes  and  ballets  is 
that  there  are  more  cascades,  and  trips,  and 
valleys  in  pantomimes,  and  none  in  ballets. 

'*  A  trip  is  a  dance  between  Harlequin  and 
the  Columbine ;  and  cascades  and  vsdleys  aie 
trundling  and  gymnastic  performances,  such 
as  tumbling  across  the  stage  on  wheels,  and 
catching  hold  of  hands  and  twirling  round. 

'*  We  have  done  a  kind  of  speaking  ballet, 
where  there  is  a  little  singing  and  tallung  just 
to  help  out  the  plot.  It  is  a  kind  of  panto- 
mime sketch.  It  is  entitled,  *  The  Magie 
Mirror,  or  how  to  reclaim  a  dnmken  Sen-ant' 
I  was  the  author  of  it,  for  I'm  generally  en- 
gaged expressly  to  get  up  ballets,  and  occa- 
sionally they  expect  me  to  do  a  new  one  for 
them.  I  get  frx>m  25<.  to  dO<.  a- week  for  such 
an  engagement.  The  scene  opens  with  a 
chamber  in  the  fit>nt  of  the  stage,  with  a  candle 
on  the  table  nearly  burnt  out  The  clock 
strikes  four.  A  servant  in  liveiy  is  waiting  up 
for  liis  other  servant  He  yawns  and  does 
the  sleepy  business.  Then  he  says,  '  TMien- 
ever  it  is  Thomas's  day  out  he  stops  so  very 
late ;  master  has  threatened  to  discharge  him, 
and  he  will  get  the  sack.  Would  that  I  could 
reclaim  him !  I  will  endeavour  to  do  so.  I 
wish  he  would  return. '    And  that's  the  cue  for 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOM. 


147 


tier  one  off  the  stage  to  begin  singing 
een  roving,  I've  been  roving,*  &e.  Then 
mest  servant  says,   '  He  comes !    Now 

0  form  a  magic  looking-glass,  wherein 
L  see  his  errors.  Now  to  procure  four 
of  timber.'  He  does  so,  and  makes  a 
»  frame  or  strainer.    <  Now  for  a  few 

He  gets  them,  and  then  takes  a 
curtain  down  from  the  window,  and 
it  on  the  back  of  the  frame,  which  forms 
ing-glass.  Then  lights  is  turned  down 
ge,  and  he  puts  a  candle  behind  the 
',  which  illuminates  this  gauze,  you  see. 
en  hides  behind  the  glass, 
tiomas  comes  in  very  tipsy.  He  does 
ronken  business,  and  then  says,  '  I*ve 
Ike  best  of  cheer.  I've  been  down  to 
r  Cheer's,  and  had  the  best  of  ale,  and 
jood  gin,  and  better  brandy;'  at  which 
MXk  behind  the  frame  echoes,  '  Better 
f.*  Thomas  is  alarmed.  He  looks 
i  and  says,  *  That  was  the  echo.'  To 
the  voice  rephes,  *  That  was  the  echo.' 
they  repeat  this  business ;  Thomas  geU 
tin  more  nervous.  He  says,  '  Well,  I 
e,  I'm  getting  quite  melancholy.  I'll  see 
m^:ing  can  do  to  rouse  me  a  little. '  He 
•egms,— 

ris  lorm  that  rales  the  eoortfl  and  the  city, 
It  nilet  both  the  high  and  the  low ; 

tet  aometixDes—the  more  is  the  pity — 

TottOffCupid  won't  rosin  his  bow. 

won't  rosin  his  bow.' 

he  0»m  takes  up  '  Rosin  his  bo-o-o-o-w.' 
ime  this  is  going  on,  the  other  servant 
••Bing  himself  to  represent  the  other; 
Bg  hb  hair,  and  painting  his  face, 
reiything.  Thomas  gets  quite  I  don't 
tiow ;  and  he  says, '  I  wonder  if  I  look 
oed?'  And  he  goes  to  the  glass,  and 
ler  appears  at  the  same  time,  and  it 
ike  the  reflection  in  the  glass.  'I've  had 
fools  imagine  it  was  the  reflection. 
18  says  '  Oh,  I  look  very  nice ! '  and  as 
eaks  the  other  opens  his  mouth  too. 
rhomas  says,  *  Why  I've  got  some  black 
nose  ! '  and  he  goes  to  wipe  it,  and  the 
ehind  imitates  him. 

» then  goes  down  the  stage  and  returns 
!8  again.  There's  a  deal  of  business 
Ion.  At  last  Thomas  sees  the  figure 
jimd  whilst  he's  looking  in  front,  and 
e  exclaims,  *  That's  not  me !  My  waist- 
in't  split  up  the  back  !    I'll  smash  the 

He  knocks  down  the  gauze,  and  out 
he  figure,  yelling  '  Ah !  I'm  the  glass 

Thomas  falls  down  on  the  stage,  and 

1  imp  walks  about,  one  off  the  side  at 
ing  thumps  the  ground  at  each  step 
piece  of  wood,  to  mark  the  steps.  Then 
irvant  says,  '  Fe  fi  fo  fum,  I  smell  the 
of  an  Englishman;'  and  Thomas  an- 
'  Oh  no,  Mr.  Ghost,  I  sdn't  an  English. 

rm  a  Irish  woman ;'  and  there's  a  shout 
t,  of  course.    The  servant  continues,— 


'  Let  him  be  alive,  let  him  be  dead,' — and 
Thomas  says  '  I'm  as  dead  as  a  red  herring ! ' 
and  there's  another  shout  The  fellow-servant 
then  catches  hold  of  Thomas  by  the  hair  of 
the  head,  and  tells  him  to  follow  him  below. 
Thomas  replies  *  Oh  dont .'  please,  don't,  Mr. 
Ghost !  I'll  do  anything  but  foUow  you  be- 
low, though  you  are  so  good-looldng.'  '  Will 
you  promise  to  come  home  early  for  the  future?' 

*  I  will.'  '  And  never  drink  no  more  brandy 
nor  stout?'  *I  will.'  The  fellow-servant 
shouts  in  a  hoarse  voice,  '  Nay,  Slave !  not  I 
will,  but  I  will  not.'  •  Not'  *  Enough !  rise 
and  look  at  me.'  '  Oh,  I  wouldn't  for  the 
world.*  •  Don't  you  know  me  ? '  *  Oh  no !  no ! 
no !  I  never  saw  you  before.'  '  It's  all  right, 
I'm  your  friend  James :  your  fellow-servant ! ' 
Then  Thomas  gets  up  and  sees  him,  and  be- 
gins laughing.  '  Oh,  I  wasn't  frightened :  I 
knew  you  all  the  time. '  The  other  cove  then 
shouts,  *  Fe  fi  fo  film ;'  and  down  goes  Thomas 
on  his  face  and  screams  *■  Murder!  murder !  * 
Then  James  says,  *  Oh,  it's  only  me;  look!' 
Then  Thomas  looks  and  says,  *  Well,  I  declare 
I  thought  you  was  the  glass  imp.'  *  No,  I 
only  played  this  prank  to  reclaim  you.  Has 
it  had  its  effect?'  '  It  has.'  '  Then  I  have 
gained  my  end,  since  you  are  reformed ;  and 
I  hope  you  are  reformed.'  *  I  am ;  and  I  hope 
it  will  be  a  lesson  to  my  friends  in  front,  and 
that  they  will  never  take  a  drop  too  much.' 
Then  they  sing  together — 

'Trotiblas  all,  sreat  and  small, 

You  must  think  not  of  the  past ; 
For  life  is  short,  and  mirth  and  sport 
Cannot  ever  last 
Cannot  over  last 
Cannot  over  last.' 

*<  That  pantomimic  farce  always  goes  down 
with  wonderfiil  success.  It  has  a  regular 
round  of  applause,  which  is  everybody  dap- 
ping as  hard  as  they  can.  Some  of  the  tavern- 
keepers,  in  whose  concert-rooms  we  done  this 
ballet  pantomime,  don't  much  like  the  wind-up 
to  this  piece, — about  hoping  our  friends  wiU 
take  a  lesson,  and  not  drink  too  much.  At 
one  place  the  landlord  happened  to  come  just 
as  that  line  was  spoke,  and  he  told  me  he'd  fine 
me  sixpence  if  I  done  it  again.  '  Why,  I  ain't 
sold  a  dozen  pots  of  beer  through  it,'  he  says. 
So  I  agreed  with  him  to  alter  the  tag  to  this,— 

*  and  not  drink  no  more  than  you  can  carry, 
for  that  never  did  any  one  any  harm,  but 
more  is  injurious. '  At  some  of  these  rooms, 
if  a  song  is  going  too  long  and  no  drinking, 
the  landlord  will  come  in,  and  hold  his 
hand  up,  as  a  cue  for  us  to  leave  off  and  let 
the  drinking  begin  again.  Then  the  waiters 
looks  the  audience  up  again  with  their  *  Give 
your  orders,  gentlemen ;  give  your  orders.' 

'*  This  bcdlet  pantomime  was  quite  an  inno- 
vation, and  isn't  strictly  ballet,  but  in  the  same 
line. 

*<  Of  all  ballets,  the  one  that  has  found  the 
longest  ran  is  the  *  Statue  Blanche.'     I've 


148 


LONDON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


known  it  to  go  a  month.  All  the  young  ladie^* 
in  those  pifcos  ore  repular  ballet-girls,  rtiul  all 
*  tunitnl  out;'  thnt  is,  taught  to  stand  with 
their  dancing  position.  You  know  all  of  iheiu 
is  HujiiKwed  to  be  uhlc  tft  kick  thoir  nose 
with  thfir  knees.  You  know  they  crick  them 
when  young,  the  sanio  as  a  contortionist  or 
arobat.  They  are  always  practiKing.  You 
see  them  in  the  green-room  kicking  their  legs 
about.  The  men  have  to  do  the  Kanie,  except 
the  comic  characters  tliat  don't  dance.  I'aul 
Herring  is  very  clever  at  these  things,  and 
don't  wiuit  no  pnustising.  He  can  scruteli  his 
head  with  his  foot.  He's  the  finest  clown  Uiat 
ever  trod  in  shoe-leather. 

"  The  green-rooms  at  the  concert-rooms  are 
very  tidy.  Even  at  the  ])enny  gaffh  the  men 
and  women  have  separate  rooms.  Tlu?  women 
there  have  got  their  decency  the  same  as  at  u 
theatre,  and  tliey  wouldn't  go  there  if  there 
wasn't  separate  dressing-rooms.  In  fact,  they 
keep  themselves  more  from  tlte  mtm  than  the 
men  fh>m  them,  for  they  are  all  mailames ;  and 
tliough  they  only  keep  a  wheelbarrow,  they 
carr>'  themselves  as  if  they  had  a  coach. 

*^  At  the  concert-rooms  they  have  always 
a  useful  set  of  scenery,  about  similar  to  tliat 
at  the  penny  gafifs.  At  some  of  them  you  don't 
get  so  good  scenery  as  at  the  gafis.  There's  in 
general  a  romantic  scene,  and  a  cottage,  and 
BO  forth,  and  that's  all  that's  wanted.  There's 
a  regular  proscenium  to  the  theatres,  with 
lights  in  front  and  all.  The  most  usual  man- 
ner is  to  have  a  couple  of  fi(;ures  at  the  sides 
holding  lights,  and  curtains  behind  them,  l>e- 
cause  it  answers  for  the  ballets  and  also  for 
the  singinj:.  At  some  of  the  conc«'rt-rooms 
there's  no  side-entrance  to  the  st.ii^e,  and  then 
you  have  to  go  across  the  auilience  dress<>d  in 
your  costume,  befon.>y< mean  get  on  to  tlie  stage. 
It's  horrid,  that  is.  I've  done  it  many  and  many 
a  time  at  KiiiKhtsbridgc.  It's  verj-  l)ud,for  every- 
thing depends  upon  being  discovered  when  tlie 
curtain  (Iraws  up.  Some  of  the  p»?ople  will  say, 
*  Oh,  tliat's  nothing ;  I've  seen  him  liefore.' 

*'  I  hare  repeat^y  seem  people  in  front  go 
to  the  stage  and  offer  their  glass  to  tlio  actor 
to  drink.  We  arc  forbid  to  reuoive  them,  be- 
cause it  interferes  with  business ;  but  we  do 
take  it.  1*^-0  seen  drink  handed  on  to  tlie 
stage  from  three  to  four  times  a-night 

"  Sometimes,  when  a  dance  has  pleased  the 
audience,  or  an  acrobat,  or  a  bottle  equilibrist, 
they'll  throw  halfpence  on  to  the  stage,  to 
reward  tlie  performer.  We  sometimes  do  this 
for  one  another,  so  as  to  give  the  collection  a 
start.  We  are  forbidden  to  take  money  when 
it  is  thrown  on  to  us,  but  wo  do.  If  a  skpence 
comes,  we  in  general  clap  our  foot  on  to  it, 
and  then  your  mate  gives  you  a  rap  on  the 
face,  and  we  tumble  down  and  put  it  in  our 
mouth,  80  that  the  proprietor  shan't  see  us. 
If  be  saw  it  done,  and  he  could  find  it,  he'd 
take  it  away  if  he  could.  I  have  known  a  man 
pick  up  as  much  as  Sf.  after  a  dance.  Then 
thare  are  gananQj  some  one  who  is  not  en- 


gaged on  the  establishment,  sod  he  comes  for 

what  we  term  *  tlie  nobbings,'  that's  what  ii 
throw'd  to  him.  I've  known  a  clog-dancer,  d  \ 
the  name  of  Thompson,  to  earn  as  much  m  ! 
IOj.  of  a  night  at  tJie  various  oonoeTt-rooms.  \ 
lie's  ver}'  clever,  and  mi^r  be  seen  any  nightat  j 
the  Hoop  and  Grapes,  BatcliSe-highway.  Ha 
does  10»  different  steps,  and  51  of  them  as  ' 
on  his  toes.  | 

"  There's  in  general  firom  five  to  six  peopb  i 
engaged  in  a  concart-room  performances,  mI  | 
for  professionals  alone  that'll  come  to  fron  i 
;10<.  to  2/.  a-night  for  expenses  for  acton  sai 
singers.    That's  putting  down  nothing  for  ths 
conductor,  or  musicians,  or  gas.  Someofthim 
charge  2<<.  or  \d,  admission,  but  then  theirt  I 
something  extra  put  on  to  the  drink.    Portff  ^ 
is  bd.  a  pot,  and  fourpenny  ale  is  chaiged  6^  ' 
besides,  you  can't  have  less  than  (id,  worUicf  '■ 
gin-aiid-watcr.    At  such  a  room  as  the  Nig^  : 
Head  in  Oxford-street,  IVe  known  as  maqyjs 
from  '.iUU  to  .300  go  there  in  the  evening;  sal 
the  Standard,  Pimlico,  will  hold  from  400  to 
450  people,  and  I've  seen  that  frill  for  niglill 
together.    There  they   only  have  menuy  a 
platform,  and  seldom  do  ballets,  or  GnciB 
statues,  dancing,  gymnastics,  and  various  otkff 
entertainments,  such  as  ventriloquism.    ThflB 
the   admission  is  4(/.,  and  on  benefit  ooflt- 
sions  Gcj.' 

The  TiOHT-Bopc  Dikcebb  axd  Snu- 

YAUxaxuu 

"  I  AM  the  father  of  two  little  girls  who  per- 
form on  the  tight-rope  and  on  siUts.  Myirifo 
also  performs,  so  that  tlic  family  by  itadf  sai 
give  an  entertaiimient  that  lasts  an  hoar  snd  a 
half  altogether.  I  dtm't  .pcrfoim  myselC  bit  I 
go  about  making  the  arrangements  nod  engs^a- 
monte  for  thenu  Managers  write  to  mefinft 
the  country  to  get  up  entertainments  ficv  th«b 
and  to  imdertske  tlie  speculatLon  at  ao  moik 
Indeed  I  am  a  manager.  I  hixe  a  ph^s  of 
amusement,  and  hire  it  at  so  much;  crif  thcf 
wont  let  it,  then  I  take  an  .engagement  fir 
tlie  family.  I  never  fancied  any  profossicmsl 
work  myself,  except,  x>criiiV8»  a  kot  cf  sonlf- 
turc.  I  am  rather  pakial  to  the  .poses  pltf- 
tiques,  but  that's  all. 

"  Iloth  my  little  girls  are  under  eight  yssn 
of  age,  and  they  do  the  still- waltzing,  and  tkt 
eldest  does  tlie  ti^ht-roxie  business  oa  <mIL 
Their  motlier  is  a  tight-rope  danoer,  and  dosi 
the  same  business  as  Madame  fiayin  nssd  to 
appear  in,  such  as  the  ascension  on  the  rofs 
in  the  midst  of  fireworks.  We  had  man  a 
England  who  had  done  the  ascension  beCois 
Madame  Saj'in  came  out  atVaoxhall,  bat  I 
think  she  was  the  first  woman  that  ever  did 
it  in  tills  country.  I  remember  her  walL 
She  lodged  at  a  relation  of  mine  during  btf 
engagement  at  tlie  Cxardens.  She  was  «  u^ 
litUo  woman,  very  diminutive,  and  trsmsD- 
dously  pitted  with  the  small-pox.  She  «M 
what  may  be  oalled  a  hon^  woman,  very  toufh 
and  bo^y.    IVe  heard  my  father  and  motfMT 


LONDON  ZABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


148 


liad  5MML    a-nig^  at  Ysnxfa&ll,  and 

it  three  times  a-week;  but  I  can't 
V  this,  as  it  was  only  hearsay, 
ildest  little  girl  &:st  began  doing  the 

public  when  she  was  thrco-and  a-half 
i.  I  don't  suppose  she  was  much  more 
>-and-a-ha]f  years  old  when  I  first  put 
the  stilts.  They  were  particularly 
as  about  four  foot  from  the  grotmd,  so 

came  to  about  as  high  as  my  arms. 
he  funniest  thing  in  the  world  to  see 
le  hadn't  got  sufficient  strength  in  her 
3  keep  her  legs  stiff,  and  she  used  to 
about  just  hke  a  fellow  drunk,  and 
i  use  of  bis  limbs.  The  object  of 
ig  so  soon  was  to  accustom  it,  and  she 
y  on  for  a  few  minutes  once  or  twice 
She  liked  this  veiy  mrach,  in  fact  so 
bat  the  other  little  ones  used  to  cry 
Ees  because  I  wouldn't  let  them  haye 
t  them.  I  used  to  make  my  girl  do 
like  a  bit  of  fun.  She'd  be  laughing 
ick  her  sides,  and  we'd  be  laughing  to 

little  legs  bending  about.  I  had  a 
!88  made  for  her,  with  a  spangled 
md  gauze  skirt,  and  she  always  put 

when  she  was  practising,  and  that 
induce  her  to  the  exercise.  She  was 
as  Punch  when  she  had  her  fine 
on.    When  she  wasn't  good,  I'd  say 

•Very  well,  miss,  since  you're  so 
,  you  shan't  go  out  with  us  to  perform ; 
(ji  your  little  sister,  and  take  her  with 

leave  you  at  home.'  That  used  to 
*r  in  a  moment,  for  she  didn't  like  the 
laving  the  other  one  take  her  place, 
a  i>eople,  when  they  teach  then:  chil- 
'  any  entertainment,  torture  the  little 
DOBt  dreadftiL  There  is  a  great  deal 
rity  xn^actiBed  in  teaching  children  for 
ons  lines.  It's  yory  silly,  because  it 
^tens  the  little  things,  and  some  chil- 
;en  will  do  much  more  by  kindness 
osage.  Now  there  are  several  children 
aow  of  that  have  been  severely  iivjured 
eing  trained  for  the  Risley  business. 
ess  your  soul,  a  little  thing  coming 

it's  head,  is  done  for  the  remainder 
ife.  Tve  seen  tlicra  crying  on  the 
loblidy,  from  being  sworn  at  and 
where  they  would  have  gone  to  it 
%  if  they  had  only  been  coaxed  and 
3d. 

'  my  little  things  took  to  h  almost 
y.  It  was  bred  and  bom  in  them,  for 
jeac  was  in  the  profession  before  me, 
wife's  parents  were  also  perform(»rs. 
I  both  my  little  girls  on  the  stilts 
ley  were  three  years  old.  It's  astonish- 
soon  tlie  leg  gets  accustomed  to  the 
ir  in  less  than  three  months  they 
c  alone.  Of  course,  for  the  first  six 
lat  they  are  put  on  we  never  leave  go 
hands.  The  knees,  which  at  first  is 
id  wabbly,  gets  strong,  and  when  onco 
osed  to  the  pad  and  stump  (for  the 


stilts  are  fastened  on  to  Just  where  the  garter 
woiUdoome),  then  the  child  is  all  right.  It 
does  not  enlarge  the  knee  at  all,  and  instead 
of  CTOOoking  the  leg,  it  acts  in  a  similar  way 
to  what  wu  see  in  a  child  bom  with  the 
cricks,  with  irons  on.  I  should  say,  that  if  any 
of  my  children  have  been  bom  knock-kneed, 
or  bow-legged,  the  stilts  have  been  the  means 
of  making  their  legs  straight.  It  docs  not 
fatigue  their  ankles  at  oU,  but  tlie  principal 
strain  is  on  the  hollow  in  the  palm  of  the 
foot,  where  it  fits  into  the  tread  of  the  still, 
for  that's  the  thing  that  bears  the  whole 
weight.  If  you  keep  a  chfld  on  too  long,  it 
will  complain  of  pain  there ;  but  mine  were 
never  on  for  more  than  twenty  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  that's  not  long  enough  to  tire  the 
foot.    But  one  gets  over  this  feeling. 

"I've  had  my  young  ones  on  the  stilts 
amusing  themselves  in  my  back-yard  for  a 
whole  afternoon.  TheyH  have  them  on  and 
off  three  or  four  times  in  a  hour,  for  it  don't 
take  a  minute  or  two  to  put  them  on.  They 
would  put  them  on  for  play.  I've  often  had 
them  asking  me  to  let  them  stop  away  from 
school,  so  as  to  have  them  on. 

••  My  wife  is  very  clever  on  the  stilts.  She 
does  the  routine  of  militaiy  exercise  with 
them  on.  It's  the  gun  exercise.  She  takes 
one  stilt  off  herself,  and  remains  on  the  other, 
and  then  shoulders  the  stilt  she  has  taken  ofl^ 
and  ihows  the  gun  practice.  She's  the  only 
female  stilt^ancer  in  England  now.  Those 
that  were  with  her  when  she  was  a  girl  are  aU 
old  women  now.  AIL  of  my  family  waltz  and 
polka  on  stilts,  and  play  tamborines  whilst 
they  dance.  The  little  girls  dance  with  their 
mother. 

*•  It  took  longer  to  teach  the  children  to  do 
the  tight-rope.  They  were  five  years  old 
before  I  first  began  to  teach  them.  The  first 
thing  I  taught  them  to  walk  upon  was  on  a 
pole  passed  tlirough  the  rails  at  the  back  of 
two  chairs.  When  you're  teaching  a  child, 
you  have  not  got  time  to  go  driving  stakes  into 
the  ground  to  fix  a  rope  upon.  My  pole  waa 
a  bit  of  one  of  my  wife's  broken  balance- 
poles.  It  was  as  thick  as  a  broom  handle, 
and  not  much  longer.  I  had  to  lay  hold  of 
the  little  things'  hands  at  first  Tliey  had  no 
balance-pole  to  hold,  not  for  some  months 
afterwards.  My  young  ones  liked  it  very 
much ;  I  don't  know  how  other  persons  may. 
It  was  bred  in  them.  They  conldnt  stand 
even  upright  when  first  they  tried  it,  but  after 
three  months  they  could  just  walk  across  it 
by  themselves.  I  exercised  them  onco  eveiy 
day,  for  I  had  other  business  to  attend  to, 
and  I'd  give  them  a  lesson  for  just,  perhaps, 
half  on  hour  at  dinner  time,  or  of  an  evening 
a  bit  after  I  came  home.  My  vrife  never 
would  teach  them  herself.  I  taught  my  wife 
rope-dancing,  and  yet  I  could  not  do  it;  but  I 
understood  it  by  theory,  though  not  by  e^ 
perience.  I  never  chalked  my  j'oong  tmef 
feet,  but  I  put  them  on  a  little  pair  of  camraa 


150 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


pnmps,  to  get  the  feet  properly  formed  to  |  we  took  somewhere  aboat  25s.  a^ay.    When 
grasp  the  rope,  and  to  bend  round.    My  wife's  j  it  isn't  too  far  from  London,  we  generally 


feet,  when  she  is  on  the  rope,  bend  round 
from  continual  use,  so  that  they  form  a  hollow 
in  the  palm  of  the  foot,  or  the  waist  of  the 
foot  as  some  call  it.  My  girls'  feet  soon  took 
the  form.  The  foot  is  a  little  bit  tender  at 
first,  not  to  the  pole,  because  that  is  round 
and  smooth,  but  the  strands  of  the  rope 
would,  until  the  person  has  had  some  prac- 
tice, blister  the  foot  if  kept  too  long  on  it.  I 
never  kept  my  young  ones  on  the  pole  more 
than  twenty  minutes  at  a  time,  for  it  tired  me 
more  than  them,  and  my  arms  used  to  ache  with 
supporting  them.  Just  when  they  got  into 
the  knack  and  habit  of  walking  on  the  pole, 
tlicn  I  shifted  them  to  a  rope,  which  I  fixed 
up  in  my  bnck-yard.  The  rope  has  to  be  a 
good  cable  size,  about  one-and-a-half  inches  in 
diameter.  I  always  chalked  the  rope ;  chalk 
is  of  a  very  rough  nature,  and  prevents  slip- 
ping. The  sole  of  the  pump  is  always  more  or 
less  hard  and  greasy.  We  don't  rough  tho 
Boles  of  the  pumps,  for  the  rope  itself  will 
soon  make  them  rough,  no  matter  how  bright 
they  may  have  been.  My  rope  was  three  feet 
six  inches  from  the  ground,  which  was  a  com- 
fortable height  for  me  to  go  alongside  of  Uie 
children.  I  didn't  give  them  me  balance- 
pole  tiU  they  were  pretty  perfect  without  it. 
It  is  a  great  help,  is  the  pole.  The  one  my 
wife  takes  on  the  rope  with  her  is  eightL*en 
ffet  long.  Some  of  the  poles  are  weighted  at 
both  ends,  but  ours  are  not.  My  young  ones 
were  able  to  dance  on  the  rope  in  a  twelve- 
montli's  time.  They  wem't  a  bit  nervous  when 
I  liighered  the  rope  in  my  yard.  I  was 
underneath  to  catch  tliem.  They  seemed  to 
like  it 

"  They  appeared  in  public  on  the  tightrope 
in  less  than  a  twelvemonth  from  their  first 
lesson  on  the  bmom-stick  on  the  backs  of  the 
diairs.  My  girl  hod  done  the  stilts  in  public 
when  she  was  only  three  years  and  six  months 
old,  so  she  was  accustomed  to  an  audience. 
It  was  in  a  gardens  she  made  her  first  per- 
formance on  the  rope,  and  I  was  under  her 
in  case  she  fell.  I  always  do  that  to  this 
doy. 

•*  ^Miencver  I  go  to  fairs  to  fulfil  engage- 
ments, I  always  take  all  my  own  apparatus 
with  me.  There  is  tlie  rope  some  twenty 
yards  long,  and  then  there's  the  pulley-bloi'ks 
for  tigh twining  it,  and  the  cross-poles  for  fixing 
it  up,  and  the  balance-poles.  I'm  obliged  to 
have  a  cart  to  take  them  along.  I  always 
make  engagements,  and  never  go  in  shares, 
for  I  don't  like  that  game.  I  could  have  lots 
of  jobs  at  that  game  if  I  liked.  There's  no 
hold  on  the  proprietor  of  the  show.  There's  a 
share  taken  for  this,  and  a  share  for  this,  so 
that  before  the  company  come  to  touch  juiy 
money,  twenty  shares  are  gone  out  of  thirty, 
and  only  ten  left  for  the  i>erformcrs.  I  have 
had  a  pouii«l  a-day  for  myself  and  family  at  a 
fair.    At  the  last  one  I  went  to,  a  week  ago, 


come  home  at  night,  but  otherwise  we  go  to  a 
tavern,  and  put  up  there. 

*'  I  only  go  to  circuses  when  we  are  at  fairs. 
I  never  had  a  booth  of  my  own.  The  young 
ones  and  my  wife  walk  about  tln^  patiide  to 
make  a  show  of  the  entire  company,  but 
unless  business  is  very  ba^l,  and  a  draw  is 
wanted,  my  little  ones  don't  appear  on  the 
stilts.  They  have  done  so,  of  course,  but  I 
don't  like  them  to  do  so,  unless  as  a  fa^-our. 

*'  In  tlie  ring,  their  general  performance  it 
the  rope  one  time,  and  then  reverse  it  and  do 
the  stilts.  My  wife  and  the  girls  all  have 
their  turns  at  the  rope,  following  each  other 
in  their  performances.    The  band  generally 

Slays  quadrilles,  or  a  waltz,  or  aoyUiing ;  it 
on't  matter  what  it  is,  so  long  as  ii  is  the 
proper  time.  They  dance  and  do  the  gpiingi 
in  the  air,  and  they  also  perform  with  chairs, 
seating  themselves  on  it  whilst  on  tlie  nme, 
and  also  standing  up  on  the  chair.  They  aLo 
have  a  pair  of  ladders,  and  mount  them. 
Then  again  they  dance  in  fetters.  I  am  tliere 
underneath,  in  evening  costume,  looking  after 
them.  They  generally  wind  up  their  tight- 
rope performance  by  flinging  away  the  balance- 
pole,  and  dancing  without  it  to  quick  mea- 
sure. 

"  One  of  my  little  girls  slipped  off  once,  but 
I  caught  her  directly  as  she  came  down,  uid 
she  wasn't  in  the  least  frightened,  and  went 
on  again.  I  put  her  down,  and  she  cuitBied, 
and  ran  up  again.  Did  she  scream?  Of 
course  not.  You  can't  help  having  a  slip  off 
occasionally. 

"When  they  do  the  stilts,  the  yomig 
ones  only  dance  waltzes  and  x>olkas.  and  so 
on.  They  have  to  use  their  hands  for  doisff 
the  graccfrd  attitudes.  My  wife,  as  I  said 
before,  does  the  gun  exercise  besides  dancing, 
and  it's  olwajrs  very  sucocssfhl  with  the  andlh 
ence,  and  g«>es  down  tremendously.  The  per- 
formances of  the  three  takes  about  twenty 
minutes,  I  think,  for  I  never  timed  it  exactly. 
I've  been  at  some  fairs  when  we  have  done  our 
performances  eighteen  times  a-day,  andTve 
been  at  some  where  I've  only  done  it  four  or 
six,  for  it  always  depends  upon  what  business 
is  being  done.  That's  tlie  truth.  TMien  the 
booth  is  full,  Ujien  the  inside  performance 
begins,  and  until  it  is,  the  parade  work  is 
done.  There  are  generally  persons  engaged 
expressly  to  do  the  parade  business. 

"  I  never  knew  my  girls  catch  cold  at  a  fajr. 
for  they  are  generally  held  in  hot  weather,  and 
the  heat  is  rather  more  com]>]ained  of  than 
the  cold.  My  young  ones  put  on  three  or 
four  different  dresses  during  a  fair — at  least 
mine  do.  I  dont  know  what  others  do.  Each 
dress  is  a  different  colour.  There  is  a  regular 
dressing-room  for  the  ladies  under  the  parade 
carriages,  and  tlieir  mother  attends  to  them. 

"  Very  often  after  tlicir  performances  tliey 
get  fruit  and  money  thrown  to  tlieiu  into  the 


JiQrKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  JPOOR, 


151 


ring.  I've  Ittown  semen  or  eight  ehillings 
to  be  thrown  to  them  in  eoppers  and  silver, 
but  it's  seldom  they  get  more  than  a  shilling 
or  so.  I've  known  ladies  and  gentlemen  wait 
for  ihem  when  they  went  to  uko  ofif  their 
dresses  after  they  have  done,  and  give  them 
live  or  six  shillings. 

•*  When  we  go  to  fairs,  I  always  pack  the 
joimg  ones  off  to  bed  about  nine,  and  never 
ktar  than  ten.  They  don't  seem  tired,  and 
would  like  to  stop  up  all  niglit,  I  sliould 
think.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  other 
kids. 

**!  send  my  young  ones  to  school  every 
d^y  when  there  is  no  business  on,  and  they 
IR  getting  on  well  with  their  schooling.  When 
ire  go  to  a  countxy  engagement,  then  I  send 
thdm  to  a  school  in  the  town  if  we  stop  any 
tims. 

**  Ours  is,  I  think,  the  only  family  doing  the 
iqie-dancing  and  stHt-vaulting.  I  don't  know 
of  sny  others,  nor  yet  of  any  other  children 
Jtall  whodoiL 

"Stilt-vaulting  is  dying  out  You  never 
see  any  children  going  about  the  streets  as 
jOQ  did  fazmezly.  There  never  was  so  much 
fflooey  got  as  at  that  stilt-vaulting  in  the 
tteets.  My  wife's  family,  when  she  was  young, 
thoQ^  nothing  of  going  out  of  an  aftconoon, 
ififlr  dinner,  and  tflJcing  their  three  or  four 
ponnds.  They  used  to  be  as  tall  up  as  the 
tintfloor  windows  of  some  of  the  houses.  It 
mvt  be  very  nearly  twenty  years  since  I  re- 
member the  last  that  appeared.  It  isn't  that 
tbe  police  would  stop  it,  but  there's  nobody 
to  do  it  It's  a  veiy  <liffirnlt  thing  to  do,  is 
vilkiog  about  at  that  tremendous  height.  If 
TOO  fUil  you're  done  for.  One  of  my  little 
ones  fell  once — it  was  on  some  grass,  I  think 
«*bnt  she  escaped  without  nny  hurt,  for  she 
'Wis  light,  and  gathered  herself  up  in  a  heap 
somehow. 

**  There  used  to  be  a  celebrated  Jellini 
&mily,  with  a  similar  entertainment  to  what  I 
give.  They  were  at  the  theatres  mostly,  and 
It  pnbUc  gardens,  and  so  on.  They  used  to 
do  ballets  on  stilts,  and  had  great  success. 
That  must  be  forty  years  ago.  There  used  to 
be  the  Chaflb  family  too,  who  went  about  the 
itRets  on  stilts.  They  had  music  with  them, 
ttd  danced  in  the  public  thoroughfares.  Now 
thsK  is  nothing  of  the  kind  going  on,  and  it's 
out  of  date. 

**  I  have  been  abroad,  in  Holland,  travelling 
^h  a  circus  company.  I've  also  visited 
Belgium.  The  children  and  my  -wife  were 
very  much  liked  wherever  they  went.  I  was 
on  an  engagement  then,  and  we  had  11/.  a- 
week,  and  I  was  with  them  seven  weeks. 
They  paid  our  travelling  expenses  there,  and 
ve  paid  them  iiome." 

'SnuBET  Bbciteb. 

Sheet  reeitera  era  somewhat  sooroe  now*A- 
^7s,and  I  was  along  time  before  meeting  with 


one.;  for  though  I  could  always  trace  them 
through  thoir  wanderings  about  the  streets, 
and  learn  where  they  had  been  seen  the  night 
before,  still  I  could  never  find  one  myselL  I 
believe  there  are  not  more  than  ten  lads  in 
London, — for  they  seem  to  be  all  lads, — ^^ho 
are  earning  a  livelihood  by  street-reciting. 

At  length  I  heard  that  some  street  actors,  ns 
they  call  themselves,  lived  in  a  court  in  tho 
Oity.  There  were  two  of  them— one  a  lad,  who 
was  dressed  in  a  man's  ragged  coat  and  burst 
boots,  and  tucked-up  trowsers,  and  seemingly 
in  a  state  of  great  want;  and  the  other  decently 
enough  attired  in  a  black  paletot  with  a 
flash  white-and-red  handkerchief,  or  "foglo," 
as  the  costermongers  call  it,  jauntily  arranged 
so  as  to  bulge  over  the  dosely-huttoned  collar 
of  his  coat  There  was  a  priggish  look  about 
the  latter  lad,  while  his  manner  was  '*  'cute," 
and  smacked  of  Pettiooat-lane ;  and  though 
the  other  one  seemed  to  slink  bock,  he  pushed 
himself  saucily  forward,  and  at  once  informed 
me  that  he  belonged  "  to  the  profession "  of 
street  dedaimer.  "  I  and  this  other  boy  goes 
out  together,"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  short  pipe 
firom  his  mouth ;  and  in  proof  of  his  assertion, 
he  volunteered  that  they  should  on  the  spot 
give  me  a  specimen  of  their  histrionic  powers. 

I  preferred  listening  to  the  modest  boy.  Ho 
was  an  extremely  good-looking  lad,  and  spoke 
in  a  soft  voice,  ^most  like  a  girl's.  He  had  a 
bright,  cheerful  face,  and  a  skin  so  transparent 
and  healthy,  and  altogether  appeored  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  generality  of  street  lads,  that 
I  felt  convinced  that  he  had  not  long  led  a 
wandering  life,  and  that  there  was  some  m3rB- 
tery  connected  with  his  jnesent  pursuits.  He 
blushed  when  spoken  to,  and  -his  answers  were 
nervously  civil. 

When  I  had  the  bcttcr-natured  boy  alone 
with  mo,  I  found  tliat  he  had  been  weU 
educated ;  and  his  statement  will  show  that  he 
was  bom  of  respectable  parents,  and  the  reason 
why  he  took  to  his  present  course  of  life.  At 
first  he  seemed  to  be  nervous,  and  little  in- 
clined  to  talk;  but  as  we  became  better 
acquainted,  he  chatted  on  even  faster  than  my 
.pen  could  follow.  He  had  picked  up  severol  of 
the  set  phrases  of  theatrical  parlance,  such  as, 
"  But  my  dream  has  vanished  in  -air ;"  or,  "  I 
felt  that  a  blight  was  on  my  happiness ;"  and 
delivered  his  words  in  a  romantic  tone,  as 
though  he  fancied  he  was  acting  on  a  stage. 
He  volunteered  to  show  mo  his  declamatory 
powers,  and  selected  "  Othello's  Ap<dogy."  Ho 
went  to  the  back  of -the  room,  and  after  throw* 
ing  his  arms  about  him  for  a  few  seconda,  and 
looking  at  the  oeiling  as  if  to  inspire  himself, 
he  started  oft 

Whilst  he  had  been  chatting  to  us  Ins  voice 
was — as  I  said  l>ofare-^like  a  girl's ;  but  no 
sooner -did  he  deliver  his,  "  Most  potent,  grave, 
and  revenoadSignion,*'  than  I  was  surprised  t» 
hear  htm  aMume  a  deep  stomachic  voieo  a 
■tylfrevideotly  founded  upon  the  melo-dramatie 
at  minor  theatres.    His  good  linking 


109 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


face,  however,  became  flushed  and  excited 
during  the  delivexy  of  the  speech,  his  eyes 
rolled  about,  and  he  passed  his  hands  through 
his  hair,  combing  it  with  his  fingers  till  it  fell 
wildly  about  his  neck  like  a  mane. 

When  he  had  finished  the  speech  he  again 
relapsed  into  his  quiet  ways,  and  resuming  his 
former  tone  of  voice,  seemed  to  think  that  an 
apology  was  requisite  for  the  wildness  of  his 
acting,  for  he  said,  "  When  I  act  Shakspeare 
I  cannot  restrain  myself, — it  seems  to  master 
my  veiy  souL" 

He  had  some  little  talent  as  an  actor,  but 
was  possessed  of  more  memory  than  know- 
ledge of  the  use  of  words.  Like  other  per- 
formers, ho  endeavoured  to  make  his  *' points'* 
by  dropping  his  voice  to  almost  a  whisper  when 
he  came  to  the  passage,  "  I'  faith  'twas  strange, 
'twas  passing  strange." 

In  answer  to  my  questions  he  gave  me  the 
following  statement : — 

**  1  am  a  street  reciter,  that  is,  I  go  about  the 
streets  and  play  Shakspeare's  tragedies,  and 
selections  from  poets.  The  boys  in  the  streets 
call  mo  Shakspeare.  The  first  time  they 
called  me  so  I  smiled  at  them,  and  was 
honoured  by  the  name,  though  it's  only  pass- 
ing I  it's  only  fleet ! 

**  I  was  bom  in  Dublin,  and  my  father  was 
in  the  army,  and  my  mother  was  a  lady's  nurse 
and  midwife,  and  used  to  go  out  on  urgent 
business,  but  only  to  ladies  of  the  higher 
classes.  My  mother  died  in  Dublin,  and  my 
father  left  the  army  and  became  a  turnkey  in 
Dublin  prison.  Father  left  Dublin  when  I 
was  about  ten  years  of  age,  and  went  to  Man- 
chester. Then  I  went  into  an  office — a  her- 
ring-store, which  had  agents  at  Yarmouth  and 
other  fishing-ports ;  and  there  I  had  to  do 
writing.  Summer-time  was  our  busiest  time, 
for  we  used  to  have  to  sit  up  at  night  waiting 
for  the  trains  to  come  in  with  the  fish.  I  used 
to  get  Sd,  an  hour  for  every  hour  we  worked 
over,  and  Od.  in  the  morning  for  coff'ee,  and 
8«.  Od.  standing  wages,  whether  I  worked  or 
played.  I  know  all  about  herrings  and  her- 
ring-packing,  for  I  was  two  years  there,  and 
the  master  was  like  a  father  to  me,  and  would 
give  mo  money  many  times,  Christmas-boxes, 
and  new-years'  gifts,  and  such-like.  I  might 
have  been  there  now,  and  foreman  by  this 
time,  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  where  we  had  a  house, 
only  1  was  too  foolish — going  to  theatres  and 
such-like. 

'*  You  see,  I  used,  before  I  went  out  as  clerk, 
to  go  to  a  school  in  Manchester,  where  the 
master  taught  recitation.  We  used  to  speak 
pieces  firom  Uwin's  *  Elocution,'  and  we  had  to 
get  A  piece  off  to  elocution,  and  attitude,  and 
position ;  indeed,  elocution  may  be  said  to  be 
position  and  attitude.  We  used  to  do  *  The 
DownfaJl  of  Poland,'  and  *  Lord  UUen's  Daugh- 
ter,' and  *  My  name  is  Norval,'  and  several 
other»-^  Holla,'  and  all  them.  Then  we  used 
to  spetk  them  one  at  a  time,  and  occasionally 
we  would  take  different  parts,  such  as  the 


<  Quarrel  of  Brutus,'  and '  Caaaiai,'  and  *  BoDa,' 
and  the  *  American  Patriot,'  and  such-l&e.  I 
will  not  boast  of  myself,  but  I  was  one  of  the 
best  in  the  class,  though  since  I  have  gone 
out  in  the  streets  it  has  spoiled  my  voice  and 
my  inclinations,  for  the  people  likes  shouting. 
I  have  had  as  many  as  000  persons  round  me 
in  the  Walworth-road  at  one  time,  and  we 
got  4«.  between  us ;  and  then  we  lost  several 
half^nce,  for  it  was  night,  and  we  could  not 
see  the  money  that  was  thix>wn  into  the  rinjt. 
We  did  the  *  Gipsy's  Bevenge,'  and  *  Othello's 
Apology.' 

**  Whilst  I  was  at  tlie  herxing-stores  I  used 
to  be  very  fond  of  the  tlicatre,  and  I'd  go  there 
every  night  if  I  could,  and  I  did  nearly  manage 
to  be  there  every  evening.  I'd  save  up  my 
money,  and  if  I'd  none  I'd  go  to  my  master 
and  ask  him  to  let  me  have  a  few  halfpence; 
and  I've  even  wanted  to  go  to  the  play  so 
much  that,  when  I  couldn't  get  any  money, 
I'd  sell  my  clothes  to  go.  Master  used  to  cau- 
tion me,  and  say  that  the  theatre  would  ruin 
me,  and  I'm  sure  it  has.  When  my  master 
would  tell  me  to  stop  and  do  the  books,  I'd 
only  jiist  run  tliem  over  at  night  and  cast 
them  up  as  quickly  as  I  could,  and  then  I'd 
run  out  and  go  to  the  twopenny  theatre  on  the 
Victoria -bridge,  Manchester.  Sometimes  I 
used  to  ]>erform  there  for  Mr.  Bow,  who  was 
the  proprietor.  It  was  what  is  called  a  travel- 
ling *  slang,'  a  booth  erected  temporarily.  I 
did  William  Tell's  son,  and  Tvc  also  done  the 
*  Bloody  Child'  in  Macbeth,  and  go  on  with  the 
witches.  It  was  a  very  little  stage,  but  with 
very  nice  scenery,  and  shift-scenes  and  all,  the 
same  as  any  other  theatre.  On  a  Saturday 
night  he  used  to  have  as  many  as  six  houses ; 
start  off  at  three  o'clock,  after  the  factory 
hands  had  been  paid  off.  I  never  had  any 
money  for  acting,  for  though  he  offered  m* 
half-a-sovereign  a-week  to  come  and  take  a 
part,  yet  I  wouldn't  accept  of  it,  for  I  only  did 
It  for  my  own  amusement  like.  They  used  to 
call  me  King  Dick. 

**  My  master  knew  I  went  to  the  theatre  to 
act,  for  he  sent  one  of  the  boys  to  follow  me» 
and  he  went  in  front  and  saw  me  acting  in 
Macbeth,  and  he  went  and  told  master,  be- 
cause, just  as  the  second  act  was  over,  he  came 
right  behind  the  scenes  and  ordered  me  out, 
and  told  me  I'd  have  to  get  ouodicr  situation 
if  I  went  there  any  more.  He  took  me  home 
and  finished  tlie  books,  and  the  noxt  morning 
I  told  him  I'd  leave,  for  I  felt  as  if  it  was  my 
sole  ambition  to  get  on  to  the  stage,  or  even 
put  my  foot  on  it :  I  was  so  enamoured  of  it 
And  it  is  the  same  now,  for  I'd  do  onj-tbing  to 
get  engaged — it's  as  if  a  spell  was  on  me. 
Just  before  I  left  he  besought  me  to  remain 
with  him,  and  said  that  I  was  a  usefbl  hand 
to  him,  and  a  good  boy  when  I  liked,  and  that 
ho  wanted  to  make  a'gentleman  of  me.  He 
was  so  fond  of  me  that  he  often  gave  me 
money  himself  to  go  to  a  theatre ;  but  he  aaid 
too  much  of  it  was  bad. 


LONJKON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


153 


[  left  hkt  I  want  with  mother  boy 
ea.  I  forgot  all  about  the  theatre, 
ated  my  feelings  when  I  left  him, 
led  I  had  been  back,  for  I'd  been 
eighteen  months,  and  he'd  been  like 
)  me ;  but  I  was  too  ashamed  to  see 
.  This  boy  and  me  started  for  Scar- 
ind  he  had  no  money,  and  I  had  0«., 
U  between  ns ;  but  I  had  a  black  snit 

cost  21,  lOt^  which  xoy  master  had 
a  present  of^  for  excelling  the  fore- 
along  up  the  books — for  the  foreman 
ands  of  herrings  (five  herrings  make 
bort  in  one  week ;  and  then  I  took 

the  next  week,  and  I  was  only  four 
iiort,  and  master  was  so  pleased  that 
ed  upon  me  a  present  ox  a  new  suit 

ted  with  my  companion  for  this 
One  day,  after  we  had  been  walking, 
)  hungry  we  could  eat  anything,  and 
1  accustomed  to  never  being  hungry, 
\  was  very  much  exhausted  from 
)r  we  had  walked  thirty  miles  that 
eating  one  piece  of  bread,  which  I 
olUic-house  where  I  gave  a  recitation, 
to  a  farm-house  at  a  place  called 
niton,  in  Yorkshire,  and  he  went 
door  to  beg  for  something  to  eat. 
I  a  young  lady  came  out  and  talked 
id  gave  him  some  bread,  and  then 
le  and  had  compassion  on  me,  be- 
oked  resi>ectable  and  was  so  miser- 
)  told  her  we  were  cousins,  and  had 
bihers  and  mothers  (for  we  didnt 
r  we  had  left  our  masters),  and  she 
IT  boys !  your  parents  will  be  fretting 
;  I'd  go  back,  if  I  was  you.'  She 
a  large  bit  of  bread,  and  then  she 
L  hig  bit  of  cold  plum-pudding.  My 
1  wanted  half  my  pudding  besides  his 
ly  and  I  preferred  to  give  him  part 
iding  and  not  have  any  bread ;  but 
1%  and  struck  out  at  me.  I  returned 
len  we  fought,  and  an  old  woman 
with  a  stick  and  beat  us  both,  and 
ere  incorrigible  young  beggars,  and 
e  very  hungry  or  we  shouldn't  fight 
Then  I  parted  from  my  com- 
id  he  took  the  direct  road  to  Scar, 
and  I  went  to  York.  I  saw  him 
I  when  I  returned  to  Manchester, 
ir  left  him  200/.,  and  he's  doing 
in  a  good  situation  in  a  commercial 

bound  for  six  years  to  sea  to  a  ship- 
Scarborough,  but  the  mate  behaved 

to  me  and  used  mo  brutally.  I 
ise  the  ropes  as  well  as  he  thought  I 
though  I  learned  the  compass  and 
>pes  very  soon.    The  captain  was  a 

man,  but  I  daren't  tell  him  for  fear 
ite.  He  used  to  beat  me  with  the 
1 — sometimes  the  lead-rope — that 
isual  weapon,  and  he  used  to  leave 
me.  I  took  the  part  of  Hamlet,  and. 


instead  of  complaining,  I  thought  of  that  part 
where  he  says, 

'  And  makes  ua  rather  bear  thoae  ilia  we  have. 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  oL* 

That's  the  best  play  of  Shaksi>eare ;  he  out- 
docs  himself  there. 

"  When  the  brig  got  to  Scheidam,  in  Hol- 
land, five  miles  off  Botterdam,  I  ran  away. 
The  vessel  was  a  collier,  and  whilst  they  were 
doing  the  one,  two,  three,  and  pulling  up  the 
coals,  I  slipped  over  the  side  and  got  to  shore. 
I  waUced  to  Botterdam,  and  there  I  met  an 
Irish  sailor  and  told  him  aJl,  and  he  told  me 
to  apply  to  the  British  Consul  and  say  that  I 
had  been  left  ashore  by  a  Dutch  galliot,  which 
find  sailed  the  day  before  for  Jersey.  The 
Consul  put  me  in  a  boarding-house — a  splen- 
did place,  with  servants  to  wait  on  you,  where 
they  gave  me  everything,  cigars  and  all,  for 
everybody  smokes  there  —  little  boys  scarce 
higher  than  the  table— and  cigars  are  only  a 
cent  each — and  five  cents  make  a  penny.  I  was 
like  a  gentleman  then,  and  then  they  put  me 
in  the  screw  steamer,  ^e  ]^ell,  and  sent  me 
back  to  Hull. 

'*  When  I  got  to  Manchester  again,  I  went 
in  my  sailor-clothes  to  see  my  old  master.  He 
was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  asked  me  if  I 
wanted  anything  to  eat,  and  sent  out  for  ale 
for  me,  and  was  so  glad  to  see  me  that  he  gave 
me  money.  He  took  me  back  again  at  higher 
wages,  lOt.— which  was  1«.  %d,  over — and  I 
stopped  there  eight  months,  until  they  wrote 
to  me  firom  Dublin  that  father  was  vezy  ill, 
and  that  I  was  to  come  over  directly.  So  I 
went,  and  was  by  him  when  he  died.  He  was 
sixty-two  years  of  age,  and  left  400/.  to  my 
sister,  which  she  is  to  have  when  she  comes 
of  age.  He  quarrelled  with  me  because  he 
was  a  Catholic,  and  I  didn't  follow  that  per- 
suasion, and  he  disowned  me ;  but,  just  before 
he  died,  he  blessed  me,  and  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  to  say  something  to  me,  but  he  couldn't, 
for  the  breath  was  leaving  him. 

'*  When  I  returned  to  Manchester  I  found 
my  master  had  taken  another  servant,  as  he 
expected  I  should  stop  in  Dublin,  and  there 
was  no  vacancy ;  but  he  recommended  me  to 
another  merchant,  and  there  I  was  put  in  the 
yard  to  work  among  the  herrings,  as  he  didn't 
know  my  capabilities ;  but,  in  a  short  time  I 
was  put  in  the  shop  as  boy,  and  then  I  was 
very  much  in  favour  with  the  master  and  the 
missus,  and  the  son,  and  he  used  to  bring  me 
to  concerts  and  balls,  and  was  very  partial  to 
me ;  and  I  used  to  eat  and  drink  with  them  at 
their  own  table.  I've  been  foolish,  and  never 
a  friend  to  myself,  for  I  ran  away  from  thenu 
A  lad  told  me  that  London  was  such  a  fins 
place,  and  induced  me  to  sell  my  clothes  and 
take  the  train ;  and  here  I've  been  for  about 
eight  months  knocking  about. 

'*  As  long  as  my  money  lasted  I  used  to  go 
to  the  theatre  every  night— to  the  Standaid, 


154 


LOIfDOir  LABOUR  ANlf^  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


and  the  Citj-road,  and  tiie  Britennia;  but 
vhen  it  was  gone  I  looked  then  to  see  what  I 
mi^bt  do.  At  first  I  tried  for  a  situation,  bat 
they  wouldn't  take  me,  because  I  eouldn't  get 
a  recommendation  in  London.  Then  I  formed 
a  resolution  of  giving  recitations  fh)m  Shak- 
Fpeare  and  tiiie  other  poets  in  public-hoUBes, 
and  getting  a  liWng  that  wa7. 

•*  I  bad  learned  a  good  deal-  of  Shakapeare 
at  school ;  and  besides,  when  I  was  with  my 
master  I  bad  often  bought  penny  oojpies  oif 
Shakspeore,  and  I  used  to  study  it  in  the 
office,  biding  it  under  the  book  I  was  writing 
in ;  and,  when  nobody  was  looking,  studying 
the  speeches.  I  used  to  go  and  recite  before 
the  men  in  the  yard,  and  they^  liked  it. 

^  The  first  night  I  went  out  I  earned  4«., 
and  that  was  a  great  cheer  to  my  spirits.  It 
was  at  a  public-house  in  Fashion  -street.  I  went 
into  the  tap-room  and  asked  the  gentlemen 
if  tliey  would  wish  to  hear  a  rcoitntion  from 
Shnkspeare,  and  they  said,  ♦Pixineod.*  The 
first  part  I  gave  tliem  was  firvtm  Ilichard  the 
Thinl :  •  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent;* 
and  then  they  clapped  me  and  made  me  do  it 
over  again.  Tlien  I  iwrformed  Hamlet's  '  So- 
liloquy on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul,*  and 
they  threw  down  25.  in  coppers,  and  one  gen- 
tleman gave  me  sixpence. 

**  I've  continued  giving  recitations  from 
Shakspcare  and  selections  from  tho  poots  ever 
since,  and  done  very  well,  until  I  became 
ill  with  a  cold,  which  maile  my  voice  bod,  so 
that  I  was  unablo  to  speak.  Fve  been  ill  now 
a  fortnight,  and  I  went  out  lost  night  for  the 
first  time,  along  with  another  young  fellow 
who  recites,  and  we  got  1*.  Orf.  between  us  in 
the  •  Gipsy's  Revenge.*  Wn  m-ent  to  a  public- 
house  where  they  were  having  *  a  lead,'  that  is 
a  collection  for  a  friend  who  is  ill,  and  the 
company  throw  down  what  they  con  for  a  sub- 
srription,  and  they  have  in  a  fiddle  and  mnke 
it  socioL  But  it  was  not  a  good  *  lead,'  and 
poorly  attended,  so  we  did  not  make  much 
out  of  the  company. 

"  When  I  go  out  to  recite,  I  generally  go 
with  another  boy,  and  we  take  parts.  The 
pieces  that  draw  best  with  the  public  are,*  The 
Gipsy's  Revenge,*  *The  Gold  Digger's  Re- 
venge,' *  Tlie  Miser,'  *  The  Robber,'  *  The  Felon,' 
and  *The  Highwayman.'  We  take  parts  in 
these,  and  he  always  performs  the  villain,  and 
I  take  the  noble  characters.  He  always  dies, 
because  he  can  do  a  splendid  back-fall,  and 
he  looks  so  wicketl  when  he's  got  the  mous- 
taches on.  I  generally  draws  the  company 
by  giWng  two  or  three  recitations,  and  then 
we  perform  a  piece ;  and  whilst  he  goes  round 
with  the  hat,  I  recite  again.  MV  favourite 
recitations  are, '  Othello's  Apology,'  beginning 
with  *  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  Sig- 
niors,'  and  those  from  Hamlet,  Richard  III., 
and  Macbeth.  Of  the  recitations  I  think  the 
people  prefer  that  from  Othello,  for  the  ladies 
have  often  asked  me  to  give  them  that  ffrom 
Othello  (they  like  to  htar  about  Desdemona), 


but  the  gentlemeo  «k  fbr  Act  ftom  Haaite^ 

•To  be,  or  not  to  be?' 

**  My  principal  plaoe  fbr  giving  porfomianow 
is  the  Commeroial-TOftd,  nearlanehonfie,  bofr 
the  most  theatrieally  inclined  neigfabimrliooA; 
is  the  Walworth  .road.  The  most  money^I-efur 
took  at  one  time  in  the  stxeeti  was  4*  in  tl» 
Widworth-road. 

"  The  best  receipts  I  oforHad  mm  got  mm 
pablic-houae  near  Briek-llme,  fbr  I  took  1^ 
and  I  was  alone.  There  was  a  *  lead^  up  tkw 
for  a  friend,  and  I  knew  of  it,  md  I  had  mf 
hair  curled  and  got  myself  decently  habkadl^ 
I  was  there  for  about  three  orftmr  houn,  mk 
in  the  intervals  between  the  dances  Tiised  W 
recite.  There  were  girls  there,  and  they  toak. 
my  part,  though  they  made  me  diink  so  mvdl 
I  was  nearly  tipsy. 

**  The  only  theatrical  costume  I  put  on  is 
moustachios,  and  I  take  a  stick  to  use  as  a 
sword.  I  put  myself  into  attitudes,  and  look 
as  fierce  as  I  can.  When  first  the  peeple- 
came  to  hear  me  they  laughed,  and  then  thcj 
became  quiet ;  and  sometimes  you  oould  bfl«- 
a  pin  drop. 

"  When  I  am  at  work  rcgolaiiy — that's  wheft 
I  am  in  voice  and  will — I  make  about  l<k 
a-wcek,  if  there's  not  much  rain.  If  it's  wH^ 
people  don't  go  to  the  public-houses,  and  they 
arc  my  best  paj-ing  audiences.  The  least  I 
have  ever  taken  in  a  week  is  about  6f. 

'•There  isn't  many  going  about  Londoa 
reciting.  It  is  a  voiy  rare  class  to  be  iboid; 
I  only  know  about  four  who  live  that  way,  woA 
I  have  heard  of  the  others  from  hearsay— not 
that  I  have  seen  them  myself. 

**  I'm  very  fond  of  music,  and  know  most  of 
the  opera.  Thatoi^jan's  playing  something  liy 
Verdi ;  I  heanl  it  at  the  theatre  at  Dublin.  I 
amuse  them  sometimes  in  the  kitchen  at  ny 
lodgings  by  playing  on  a  penny  tin  whistle.  I 
can  do  *  Still,  so  gently,'  frt)m '  La  Sonnambubi' 
nnd  hompip(.*s,  and  jigs,  and  Scotch  airs,  as 
well  OS '  Cheer  boys,  cheer,'  and  *  To  the  "West,'" 
nnd  many  others.  They  get  mo  to  play  wheB 
they  want  to  dance,  and  they  pay  me  for  them. 
They  call  me  Shaksjieare  by  name." 

Blind  Readeb, 

An  intelligent  man  gave  me  the  following' 
account  of  his  experience  as  a  blind  reader. 
He  was  poorly  dressed,  but  clean,  and  had  nol 
a  vulgar  look. 

"  My  father  died  when  I  was  ten  years  old^ 
and  my  mother  in  the  coronation  year,  1838. 
I  am  now  in  my  thirty-eighth  year.  I  was  a 
clerk  in  various  offices.  I  was  not  bom  blind, 
but  lost  my  sight  four  years  ago,  in  conse- 
quence of  aneiuism.  I  was  a  fortnight  in  the 
Ophthalmic  Hospital,  and  was  an  out-patient 
for  three  months.  I  am  a  married  mun,  with 
one  child,  and  we  did  as  well  as  wo  could,  boi 
that  was  very  biidly,  until  every  bit  of  furni- 
ture (and  I  had  a  house  ftiU  of  good  f^imituie 
up  to  that  time)  went.    At  last  I  thought  I 


LONDON  ZABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


109 


:  eom  a  Htlle  bjr  nacDiig  m  the  street 
society  fbr  tJie  Indigent  Blind  gave  me 
ocpel  of  StL  John,  after  ICr.  Freer^s  i«ys. 
lie  ptrioe  being  8i. ;  and  a  brother-in-luw 
ied  ne  with  the  Gospel  of  St  Luke, 

cost  Of.  In  Mr.  Freer's  syBtem  the 
IP  alphabet  leUen  an  not  oiied,  bat 
are  Taised  characters,  thirty.fbnr  in  nam- 
eadiiding  long  and  short  voivela;  and 
charactera  express  sounds,  and  a  sound 
mnpziee  a  short  salable.  I  learned  to 
\3j  tliL«  system  in  four  lessons.  I  first 
in  public  ia  Momington-oreRcent  For 
rst  fortnight  or  three  weeks  I  took  from 
E.  to  2a.  Oc/.  a-day-*one  day  I  took  3«. 
faeiptB  than  fell  to  something  less  than 
ft-4sy,  and  have  been  gradually  falling 
rince.  Since  the  1st  of  January,  this 
I  haven't  averaged  more  thnn  2«.  0</. 
k  by  my  street  rrading  and  writing.  My 
ams  3«.  or  4*.  a-week  with  her  uocdle, 
g  with  a  *  sweater'  to  a  shirtinaker.  I 
nerer  road  anywhere  but  in  Eiiston- 
»  and  Momington-crescc-nt.  On  AVhit- 
iqr  I  made  2s.  O^^.,  nnd  that,  I  assure 
reckon  real  good  holiday  earnings ;  and 
L  nntil  I  was  hoarse  with  it.  Once  I 
pd  at  Momingtonrrpscfflit,  as  closely  as 
d,  just  out  of  curiosity  and  to  wile  away 
me,  above  2000  persons,  who  passed  and 
«ed  without  giving  mo  a  Imlfpi-nny.  The 
Qg  peoplo  are  my  hest  frionds,  most 
3&y.  I  am  tired  of  the  streets;  besides. 
balf^tarved.     There  are  now  five  or  six 

mm  about  London,  who  rend  in  the 
a.  We  can  read  nothing  but  the  Scrip- 
.  as  '  blind  printing/ — so  it's  sometimes 
!— has  only  been  used  in  the  Scriptures, 
tie  also  in  the  streets,  as  well  as  read. 

Wedgwood's  manifold  writer.  I  write 
!  from  Scripture.  There  was  no  teaching 
Miy  for  this.  I  trace  the  letters  from 
lowledge  of  them  when  I  could  see.  I 
•  I  am  the  only  blind  man  who  writes  in 
nets." 

I-EZEBCZSE   EXHIBFTOB — ONE-ZXOOSD 

Italian. 

K  an  Italian,  domiciled  at  Genoa,  and  I 
very  little  French,  only  just  enough  to 
T  things — to  got  my  life  ^ith,  yon  know. 
i  is  the  most  rirh  to^-n  of  Piedmont, 
is  not  the  most  jolic.  Oh  no !  no !  no ! 
.  is  the  most  beautiful,  oh  yes !  It  is  a 
itreet  of  palaces.  Ynu  know  Turin  is 
!  tiie  King  of  Sardinia,  with  the  long 
xohes,  lives.  Has  Monsieiur  been  to 
.  ?  No !  Ah,  it  is  a  great  sight  t  Perhaps 
ienr  has  seen  Genoa?  No!  Ah  you 
a  great  pleasure  to  come.  Genoa  is 
ich,  but  Turin  is  vezy  beautlM.  I  pre- 
irin. 

was  a  soldier  in  my  country.  Oh,  not  an 
r.  I  was  in  the  2nd  battalion  of  the 
ilaini  nearljf  the  same  as  the  Chasaenrs 


de  Vineennes  in  France.  It  is  the  first  regi- 
ment in  Piethnont  We  had  a  green  unifonn 
with  a  roll  collar,  and  a  belt  round  one  shoal> 
der,  and  a  short  rifle.  We  had  a  feather  one 
side  of  our  hats,  which  ore  of  felt  Ah, 
c'etait  bien  joli  9a  I  We  use  long  bullets, 
Mini4  ones.  All  the  anny  in  my  countzy  are 
imder  four  brothers,  who  are  all  generahs  and 
Ferdinando  Mannora  is  the  commander-in* 
chief— the  same  that  was  in  the  Crimaft». 
Neariy  all  my  companions  in  the  Bassolein 
regiment  wore  from  the  TjroL  Ah,  they  shoot 
well !  They  never  miss.  They  always  kilL 
Sacri  Dieu  1 

**  I  was  wounded  at  tiie  batoille  de  Peseare, 
against  the  Austrians.  We  gained  the  battle  and 
entered  the  town.  The  General  Radetzky  was 
against  us.  He  is  a  good  general,  but  Fer- 
dinando Marmora  beat  him.  Ferdinando  was 
wounded  by  a  boll  in  the  cheek.  It  passed 
from  left  to  right  He  has  the  mark  now.. 
Ah,  he  is  a  good  general.  I  was  wounded. 
Pardon !  I  cannot  say  if  it  was  a  bal  de  ca- 
non or  a  bal  de  Aisil.  I  was  on  the  ground 
like  one  dead.  I  fell  vnM\  my  leg  l)cnt  behind 
me,  because  they  found  me  so.  They  teU  me^ 
that  as  I  foil  I  cried,  *  My  God!  my  God!' 
but  tliat  is  not  in  my  memory.  After  they  had 
finished  the  battle  they  took  up  the  wounded.. 
Perhaps  I  was  on  tho  ground  twelve  hours,  but 
I  do  not  know  exactly.  I  was  picked  up  with 
others  ond  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  then 
one  day  after  my  leg  decomposed,,  and  it  was 
cut  directly.  AU  the  bone  was  fracass^,  vaiiy 
benucoup.  I  was  in  the  hospital  for  forty  days. 
Ah !  it  was  terrible.  To  cut  tlio  nerves  was 
terrible.  They  correspond  witli  the  head* 
Ah,  horrible  I  They  gave  me  no  chloroform. 
Uien !  rien  I  No,  nor  any  donnitore,  as  we 
call  it  ill  Italian,  vou  know, — something  in  a 
glass  to  drink  and  make  you  sleep.  Bien ! 
rien!  K  I  had  gone  into  the  Hdpital  des 
Invalidcs,  I  sliould  have  had  20  sous  a-day ; 
but  I  wonld  not,  and  now  my  pension  is  12 
sous  a-day.  I  am  paid  tliat  now ;  whether  I 
am  here  or  there,  it  is  the  same.  My  wife  re- 
ceives tlie  12  sous  whilst  I  am  here.  I 
shall  not  stop  here  long.  The  langue  is  too 
difficult  No,  I  shall  not  learn  it,  because  at 
the  house  where  X  lodge  we  speak  Italian^ 
and  in  the  streets  I  speak  to  no  one. 

*-'  I  have  been  to  France,  but  there  the 
policemen  were  against  me.  They  are  bfites, 
Uie  policemen  franvais.  The  gentlemen  and 
ladies  all  all  good.  Aa  I  walked  in  the  streets 
with  my  onitch,  one  would  say,  *  Here,  poor 
fellow,  are  two  sous ;'  or,  *  Come  with  me  and 
have  some  wine.'  They  are  good  liearts  there. 
Whilst  X  was  going  to  Paris  I  walk  on  my  leg. 
I  also  even  now  and  then  find  good  occasions 
for  mounting  in  a  Toiture.  I  say  to  tliem, 
*  Monsieur,  accord  me  the  reUof  of  a  ride  ? '  and 
they  say, '  Yes,  come,  come.' 

"  In  England  no  police  interfere  with  me.. 
Here  Uis  good.  If  the  police  say  to  me  •  Go 
on,  go  on,'  Isay, « Pavdoot Monsieur/  aadmoio 


150 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


away.  I  never  ask  any  body  for  money.  I 
work  in  the  streets,  and  do  my  gun  exer. 
cise,  and  then  I  leave  it  to  the  Bon  Dieu  to 
make  them  give  me  something.    I  never  ask. 

'*I  have  been  very  unfortunate.  I  have  a 
tumour  come  under  the  arm  where  I  rest  on 
my  crutch.  It  is  a  tumour,  as  they  call  it  in 
Prance,  but  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  named 
in  English.  I  went  to  the  hospital  of  San 
Bartolommeo  and  they  cut  it  for  me.  Then 
I  have  hurt  my  stomach,  fh)m  the  force  of 
calling  out  the  differing  orders  of  command- 
ing, whilst  I  am  doing  my  gim  exercises  in 
the  streets.  I  was  two  montlis  in  my  bed  with 
my  arm  and  my  stomach  being  bad.  Some 
days  I  cannot  go  out,  I  am  so  ill.  I  cannot 
drmk  beer,  it  is  too  hot  for  me,  and  gets  to 
my  head,  and  it  is  bad  for  my  stomach.  I  eat 
Ash:  that  is  good  for  the  voice  and  the  stomach. 
Now  I  am  better,  and  my  side  does  not  hurt  me 
when  I  cry  out  my  commanding  orders.  If  I 
do  it  for  along  time  it  is  painful. 

**  Ah,  pauvro  diablc!  to  stop  two  months  in 
my  bed,  June,  August  t  The  most  beautiftil 
months.    It  was  ruin  to  mo. 

*'  After  I  have  gone  out  for  one  day,  I  am 
forced  to  rest  for  the  next  one.  Monday  I  go 
out,  because  I  repose  on  the  Sunday.  Then 
all  goes  well,  I  am  strong  in  my  voice.  But  I 
cannot  travaillcr  two  days  following.  It  is  not 
my  leg,  that  is  strong.  It  is  my  stomach,  and 
the  pains  in  my  side  from  crying  out  my  com- 
mondcments.  When  I  go  out  I  make  about 
10s.  a-week.  Yes,  it  comes  to  that.  It  is 
more  than  1«.  a-day. 

'*  I  have  a  cold.  I  go  out  one  day  when  it 
blew  from  the  north,  and  the  next  day  I  was 
ill.  It  makes  more  cold  here  than  at  Genoa, 
but  at  Tiuin  in  the  winter  it  is  more  cold  than 
here.  It  is  terrible,  terrible.  A  servant  brings 
in  a  jug  of  water,  and  by-and-by  it  has  ice  on 
its  top.  I  find  tlie  bourgeois  and  not  the 
militaires  give  the  most  money.  All  the  per- 
sons who  have  voyog^  in  France  and  Italy 
will  give  me  money — not  much,  you  know,  but 
to  me  fortune,  fortune  I  If  I  see  a  foreigner 
in  the  crowd  I  speak  to  him.  I  know  the  face 
of  an  Stronger  tont-de-suite.  Some  say  to  me. 
*  Vous  parlez  Fran9ais  ? '  '  Oui  Monsieur.' 
Others  ask  me,  *  You  speak  Italian? '  *Si,  Signor.' 
I  never,  when  I  go  through  my  exercise,  begin 
by  addressing  the  people.  If  I  told  them  I 
liad  been  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  Sardinia, 
they  would  not  understand  me.  Yes,  some  of 
the  words  sound  the  same  in  French  and 
English,  such  as  army  and  soldat,  but  I  have 
not  the  heart  to  beg.  I  have  been  soldier, 
andil  cannot  take  off  my  cap  and  beg.  I 
work  for  what  they  give  me.  They  give  me 
money  and  I  give  Uiem  my  exercise.  I  some- 
times have  done  my  exercise  before  a  great 
crowd  of  people,  and  when  it  is  done  nobody 
will  give  me  money,  and  my  heart  sinks 
within  me.  I  stand  there  honteux.  One 
will  then  in  pity  throw  a  sou,  but  I  cannot 
pick  it  up,  for  I  will  not  sell  my  pride  for  a 


penny.  If  they  hand  it  to  me,  then  I  take  it, 
and  am  pleased  with  their  kindness.  «Bat)I 
have  only  one  leg,  and  to  throw  Uie  penny  on 
the  ground  is  cruel,  for  I  cannot  bend  down, 
and  it  hurts  my  pride  to  put  such  money  in 
my  pocket, 

**  The  little  children  do  not  annt^  me  in  ths 
streets,  because  I  never  do  my  exercise  nntfl 
they  are  at  school.  Between  one  and  two  I 
never  do  my  exercise,  because  the  littla 
(*hildren  they  are  going  to  their  lessons. 
They  never  mock  me  in  the  streets,  for  X  have 
been  unfortunate  to  lose  my  legs,  and  no- 
body will  mock  a  miserable  inforton^.  The 
carts  of  the  butchers  and  the  bakers,  whidi 
carry  the  meat  and  the  bread,  and  go  so  ilvt 
in  the  streets,  they  frighten  me  when  I  do 
my  excn;ises.  They  neariy  icrase  the  geni. 
Tenez !  Yesterday  I  go  to  the  chemm  de  ftr  ds 
Birmingham,  to  the  open  space  before  the 
station,  and  then  I  do  my  exercise.  All  the 
people  come  to  their  windows  and  ooOeet 
about  to  see  me.  I  walk  about  like  a  soldier 
— but  only  on  my  one  leg,  you  know,  hoppin^^ 
and  I  do  my  exercise  with  my  crutch  for  117 
gun.  I  stand  very  steady  on  one  leg.  Then 
was  a  coachman  of  a  cab,  and  he  continued  to 
drive  his  horse  at  me,  and  say,  *  Go  on  1  go  on!' 
There  was  no  policeman,  or  he  would  not 
have  dared  to  do  it,  for  the  policemen  protect 
me.  Le  b^te  !  I  turn  upon  him,  and  ciy, ' B^! 
take  care,  bete!'  But  he  still  say, '  Get  on.'  The 
cheval  come  close  to  my  back  whilst  I  hop  on 
my  one  leg  to  avoid  him.  At  lost  I  was  voy 
tired,  and  he  cried  out  always, '  Get  on !  ^et  onf 
So  I  cried  out  for  help,  and  all  the  ladies  nm 
out  from  their  houses  and  protect  me.  Thcj 
said,  *  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow ! '  and  all  gave  me 
a  hsif  sou.  If  I  had  hod  five  shillings  in  n^ 
pocket,  I  would  have  gone  to  a  journal  andxe- 
ported  that  b£te,  and  had  thefellow  exposed;  but 
I  bad  not  five  shillings,  so  I  could  not  go  to  a 
journal. 

**  When  I  do  my  exercise,  this  what  I  do. 
I  first  of  all  stand  still  on  one  leg,  in  the 
position  of  a  militaire,  with  my  cratch 
shouldered  like  a  gun.  That  is  how  I  so- 
cumulate  the  persons.  Then  I  have  to  do  lU. 
It  makes  me  laugh,  for  I  have  to  be  the 
general,  the  capitaines,  the  drums,  the  soldios, 
and  all.  Pauvre  diable !  I  must  live.  It  is 
curious,  and  makes  me  laugh. 

'*  I  first  begin  my  exercises  by  doing  the 
drums.  I  beat  my  hands  together,  and  moke 
a  noise  like  this — *  hum,  hum !  hum,  hum, 
hum!  hum,  hum!  hum,  hum!  hu-n-u-m!' 
and  then  the  drums  go  away  and  I  do  them 
in  the  distance.  You  see  I  am  the  dmmmen 
then.  Next  I  become  the  army,  and  make  A 
noise  with  my  foot,  resembling  soldiers  on  « 
march,  and  I  go  from  side  to  side  to  iTni^^ft 
an  army  marching.  Then  I  become  the  trum- 
peters, but  instead  of  doing  the  trumpets  I 
whistle  their  music,  and  Uie  sound  comes 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  gets  louder  and  louder, 
and  then  gradually  dies  away  in  the  distance^ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


157 


M  if  a  bfttaillon  was  marching  in  front  of  its 

«neral.    I  make  a  stamping  with  my  foot, 

£ke  men  marching  past.   After  that  I  become 

the  officiers,  the  capitaines  and  the  lieutenants, 

•a  if  the  general  was  passing  before  them, 

■nd  my  crutch  becomes  my  sword  instead 

oC  my  gon.    Then  I  draw  it  from  my  side, 

and  present  it  with  the  handle  pointed  to  my 

loeast.     Then  I  become  the  general,  and  I 

gives  this  order :  *  Separate  bataillons  three 

steps  behind — un,  deux,  trois !'  and  I  instantly 

torn  to  the  army  again  and  give  three  hops 

to  the  side,  so  that  the  general  may  walk 

vp  and  down  before  me  and  see  how  the 

■oldiers  are  looking.    Then  I  in  turn  become 

the  offider  who  gives  the  commands,  and  the 

nildicrs    who  execute  them.     It  hurts  my 

mice  when  I  cry  out  these  commands.    They 

nasi  be  very  loud,  or  all  the  army  would  not 

hear  them.    I  can  be  heard  a  long  way  off 

when  I  call  them  out.    I  begin  with  *  Portez 

AE-B-R-MES!'   that  is,  *  Garry  arms,'  in 

En^and.    Then  I  lift  my  crutch  up  on  my 

left  side   and  hold  it  there.     Then  comes 

•Pbsbxkt  AR.B-RMES!'  and  theni  hold 

the  gun — ^my    crutch,    you   know — in  front 

of  me,  straight  up.     The  next  is,  *  Repose 

IB-B-EMES !'  and  I  put  to  my  hip,  with  the 

bBTsl  leaning  forwards.  When  I  say,  barrel, 

ii^  only  my  crutch,  you  understand.    Then  I 

diOQt,  *■  Un,  deux,  trois !  Ground  AR-R-RMS  !' 

■nd  let  the  top  of  my  crutch  slide  on  to  the 

road,  ttkd  I  stamp  with  my  toes  to  resemble 

the  noiae.    Aiten^-ards  I  give  the  command, 

•  PoBXU  AB-R-IIMES ."  and  then  I  carry  my 

anna  again  in  my  left  hand,  and  slap  my 

other  haind  hard  down  by  my  right  side,  like 

a  Teritahle  soldier,  and  stand  upright  in  posi- 

tioiL    Whilst  I  am  so  I  shout,  *  Separate 

va  COLUMNS  !    Un,  deux,  TR-R-ROIS  !' 

md  instantly  I  hop  on  my  one  leg  three  times 

backwards,  so  as  to  let  the  general  once  more 

walk  down  the  ranks  and  inspect  the  men. 

As  soon  as  he  is  supposed  to  be  near  to  me,  I 

ikoat  *  Present  AR-R-RMES  ! '   and  then  I 

hold  my  gun  — the  crutch,  you  comprehend — 

in  fh>nt  of  me.    Then,  as  soon  as  the  general 

is  supposed  to  have  passed,  I  shout  out,  ^  Re 

fosi  AB-B-RMES! '  and  I  let  the  crutch  slant 

from  the    right   hip,    waiting    imtil   I    cry 

agiin  *  Ground  AR-R.R-RMS!    un,  deux, 

TB-B-BOISl'   and  then   down    slides  the 

crateh  to  the  ground. 

**  Next  I  do  the  other  part  of  the  review. 
I  do  the  firing  now,  only,  you  comprehend, 
I  don't  fire,  but  only  imitate  it  with  my  crutch. 
I  call  out  *  Ground  AR.R-RMS ! '  and  let  the 
top  of  my  crutch  fall  to  the  earth.  After 
that  X  shout,  *  Load  AR-R-RMS  !  un,  deux, 
TB-B-ROIS ! '  and  I  pretend  to  take  a  car- 
traohe  from  my  side,  and  bite  off  the  end, 
ttd  dip  it  down  the  barrel  of  my  crutch. 
Kext  I  give  the  command,  *  Draw  RAM- 
BODS!  UH,  deux,  TR-R-ROIS  ! '  and  then  I 
b^pn  to  ram  the  cartridge  home  to  the  breech 
of  the  barreL    Afterwards  I  give  the  com- 


mand, *  Cock  AR-R-RMS  !'  and  then  I  pretend 
to  take  a  percussion  cap  from  my  side-pocket, 
and  I  place  it  on  the  nipple  and  draw  back 
the  hammer.  Afterwards  I  shout,  *  Point 
AR-R-RMS ! '  and  I  pretend  to  take  aim. 
Next  I  shout,  '  Recover  AR-R-RMS  ! '  that 
is,  to  hold  the  gim  up  in  the  air,  and  not  to 
fire.  Then  I  give  orders,  such  as  *  Point  to 
THE  LEFT,*  or  *  Point  to  the  right,'  and  which- 
ever way  it  is,  I  have  to  twist  myself  round 
on  my  one  leg,  and  take  an  aim  that  way. 
Then  I  give  myself  the  order  to  *FIRE  !' 
and  I  imitate  it  by  a  loud  shout,  and  then 
rattling  my  tongue  as  if  the  whole  line  was 
firing.     As  quickly  as  I  can  call  out  I  shout, 

*  Recover  AR-R-RMS ! '  and  I  put  up  my 
gun  before  me  to  resist  with  my  bayonet  any 
charge  that  may  be  made.    Then  I  shout  out, 

*  Draw  up  the  ranks  and  receive  the 
CAVALRY!'  and  then  I  work  myself  along 
on  my  one  foot,  but  not  by  hopping;  and 
there  I  am  waiting  for  the  enemy's  horse,  and 
ready  to  receive  them.  Often,  after  I  have 
fired,  I  call  out  « CHAR-R-RGE  I '  and  then 
I  hop  forwards  as  fast  as  I  can,  as  if  I  was 
rushing  down  upon  the  enemy,  like  this.  Ah ! 
I  was  nearly  charging  through  your  window ; 
I  only  stopped  in  time,  or  I  should  have 
broken  the  squares  in  reality.  Such  a  victory 
would  have  cost  me  too  dear.  After  I  have 
charged  the  enemy  and  put  them  to  fiight, 
then  I  draw  myself  up  again,  and  give  the 
order  to  *  Form  COLUMNS!'    And  next  I 

*  Carry  AR-R-RMS,'  and  then  *  Present 
AR-R-RMS.'  and  finish  by  *  GROUNDING 
AR-R-RMS;  UN,  DEUX,  TR-R-ROIS.' 

*•  Oh,  I  have  forgotten  one  part.  I  do  it 
after  the  charging.  When  I  have  returned 
from  putting  the  enemy  to  flight,  I  become 
the  general  calling  his  troops  together.  I 
shout,  *  AR-R-RMS  on  the  SHOULDER!' 
and  then  I  become  the  soldier,  and  let  my 
gun  rest  on  my  shoulder,  the  same  as  when 
I  am  marching.  Then  I  shout,  »  MARCH  ! ' 
and  I  hop  round  on  my  poor  leg,  for  I  cannot 
march,  you  comprehend,  and  I  suppose  my- 
self to  be  defiling  before  the  general.  Next 
comes  the  order  *  Halt ! '   and  I  stop  still. 

"  It  does  not  fatigue  me  to  hop  about  on  one 
leg.  It  is  strong  as  iron.  It  is  never  fatigued. 
I  have  walked  mUes  on  it  with  my  crutch. 
It  only  hurts  my  chest  to  holloa  out  the  com- 
mands, for  if  I  do  not  do  it  with  all  my  force 
it  is  not  heard  far  off.  Besides,  I  am  supposed 
to  bo  ordering  an  army,  and  you  must  shout 
out  to  be  heard  by  all  Uie  men ;  and  although 
I  am  the  only  one,  to  be  sure,  still  I  wish  to 
make  the  audience  believe  I  am  an  army. 

"  One  day  I  was  up  where  there  is  the 
Palace  of  the  Regiua,  by  the  park,  with  the 
trees — a  very  pretty  spot,  with  a  park  comer, 
you  know.  I  was  there,  and  I  go  by  a  street 
where  the  man  marks  the  omnibus  which 
pass,  and  I  go  down  a  short  street,  and  I  come 
to  a  large  place  where  I  do  my  exercises.  A 
gentleman  say  to  me,  *  Come,  my  friend,'  and 


108 


LONBOK  LABOZm  AND  THE  ZOVBOV  900M. 


I  go  into  hifl  honse,  and  he  give  me  some 
bremd,  and  some  meat,  and  some  beer,  and  a 
shilling,  and  I  do  my  exercises  for  him. 
That  is  tlie  only  house  whoro  I  iras  called  to 
perform  inside.  He  spoke  Italian,  and  Frtmch, 
and  Knglish,  so  that  I  not  know  which  couiitr>' 
ho  belongs  to.  Another  day  I  was  doing  my 
exercises  and  some  little  children  called  to 
their  mamma,  *  Oh,  look !  look  !  come  here  ! 
the  soldier!  the  soldier!'  and  the  dame  said 
to  me,  *  Come  hero  and  peiibim  to  my  little 
boys ;'  and  she  guve  me  sixpence.  Those  are 
my  fortunes,  for  to-day  I  may  take  two  or  three 
shillinf^s,  und  to-morrow  notliing  hut  a  few 
miseraiile  sous;  or  perhaps  1  am  ill  in  my 
stomach  with  shouting,  and  I  cunuot  come 
out  to  work  for  my  living. 

**  When  it  is  cold  it  makes  tlio  end  of  my 
leg,  where  it's  cut  otT,  bepn  to  treinhle,  and 
then  it  almost  shakes  mo  with  iu  shivering, 
and  I  am  forced  to  go  homi.s  lor  it  is  painl'ul. 

**  I  liave  been  about  fourteen  months.  They 
wanted  4«.  to  bring  me  from  Ihndogne  to 
Ijiindon :  but  I  luul  no  money,  so  at  the  bureau 
oHire  they  trave  me  u  Ticket  for  nothing.  Then 
I  came  st might  to  l>(indon.  When  1  came  to 
London  1  roulila't  si>uak  Kn^lish,  and  X  knew 
no  one ;  had  no  money,  and  didji't  kmiw  where; 
to  lodge.  That  is  hard  — bien  dur.  I  bought 
some  bread  nnd  cat  it,  and  then  in  the  even- 
ing I  met  im  1  taliun.  who  plays  on  tho  organ, 
you  know ;  and  lie  said,  *  Come  with  me  ;*  and 
he  took  me  to  his  lodgings,  and  there  I  found 
Italians  and  Frenchmen,  and  I  was  hapjty. 
I  began  tu  work  the  next  day  at  my  ex- 
ercises. 

"One  day  I  was  in  the  quarter  of  tho 
palaces,  by  the  pork,  you  know,  and  I  began 
my  exercises.  I  could  not  speak  English, 
and  a  polireman  came  to  me  and  said,  *  Oo 
on !  •  Whafs  that  ?  1  tlioujrht.  He  said, '  Go 
on!'  again,  and  I  couhin't  comprehend,  and 
asked  him,  *  Parlate  Itahano?'  and  he  keiit  on 
Ba>ing,  *  Go  on  !  •  This  is  drolo,  I  thought ;  so 
I  said,  *  Vous  parlez  Franyais?'  ond  he  still 
said,  *  Oo  on : '  What  he  meant  I  couldn't 
malxe  out,  for  I  didn't  know  English,  and  I 
Imd  only  hecu  here  a  week.  I  Uiought  hi? 
vanted  to  see  my  exon-ises,  so  I bcjran, '  Tortez 
ur-r-r-nies  I'  nnd  h(r  still  said, '  Go  rm  !'  Then 
I  laughed,  and  nuuh-  some  signs  to  follow  liini. 
Oh,  1  thou^lit,  it  is  8<»me  one  else  who  wants 
to  see  my  exvrcisi's  ;  und  I  followed  him,  en- 
chanted with  my  good  fortune.  ]3ut,  alas! 
he  took  me  ti)  n  police  office.  There  I  had  an 
interpreter,  ami  I  was  told  I  must  not  do  my 
exercises  in  tin;  street.  When  I  told  them  1 
was  a  st.ldier  in  the  army  of  the  ally  of 
England,  and  that  I  had  been  wounded  in 
battle,  and  lost  my  leg  fighting  for  my  countr\-, 
they  let  me  go;  nnd  sint-e  tho  policemen  are 
very  kind  to  me,  and  always  say,  *  Go  on,'  ^ith 
much  politeness.  I  told  the  magistrate  in 
Italian,  *  Uow  can  England,  so  rich  and  so 
powerfid,  object  to  a  pauvre  diable  like  me 
earning  a  sou,  by  tdiowing  the  exfiraaea  of 


the  army  of  its  ally  r  ThemagistntolMighadi 
and  so  did  the  peiople,  and  I  said,  *  Good  d^f/ 
and  made  my  reverence  and  left.  I  have 
never  been  in  a  prison.  Oh,  no!  nol  no! 
no !  no !  What  harm  could  I  do  ?  1  hew 
not  tlio  power  to  be  a  criminal,  and  I  bate 
the  heart  to  be  an  honest  man,  and  live  kj 
my  exercises. 

*'  I  have  travelled  in  the  coimliy.  I  want 
to  Cheltenham  and  Bristol.  I  walked  voy 
little  of  the  way.  I  did  my  exercises  at  am 
l)la4ro,  and  then  I  got  enongh  to  go  to  another 
town.  Ah,  it  is  beautiful  countiy  out  there. 
I  went  to  Bristol  I  made  7«.  in  two  diqii 
thert!.  But  I  dont  like  the  coimtxy.  It  does 
not  suit  me.    I  prefer  London. 

"  I  on«j  tlay  did  my  exercises  by — what  do 
you  call  it?  where  the  jteople  go  np — high, 
high — no,  not  St.  Paul's  —  no,  by  a  bridoe, 
where  tliero  is  an  open  space.  Yes,  UM 
monnmeut  of  Kelson ;  and  then,  O !  what  t 
(Towd !  To  tho  right  and  the  left,  and  to  the 
front  and  behind,  an  immense  crowd  to  Me 
my  exercises.  I  maile  a  good  deal  of  moaej 
that  day.  A  great  deal.  Tho  most  that  I 
ever  did. 

**I  make  about  St.  a-weck  regnlariy;  I 
make  more  than  that  some  weeks,  but  I  ttm 
don't  go  out  for  a  week,  because  in  the  nin  ) 
nobody  will  come  to  see  my  exercises.  Some 
weeks  I  malce  l*^.,  but  others  not  St.  But  I 
must  moke  H«.  to  be  able  to  pay  for  lodgings, 
and  food,  and  washing,  and  clothes,  and  in 
my  shoe ;  fiv  I  only  want  one.  I  give  3^ 
a-day  for  my  lodgings ;  but  then  we  bare  e 
kitchen,  and  a  Are  in  it,  where  we  go  and  Bt 
There  are  a  great  many  paysana  there,  « 
great  many  boys,  where  I  lodge,  and  thatgim 
me  pain  to  see  them ;  for  tliey  have  been 
brought  over  from  their  country,  and  here 
they  arc  miserable,  and  cannot  S])cak  a  wad 
of  English,  and  ore  mmle  to  work  i\yt  thar 
master,  who  takes  the  money.  Oh  1  it's  make 
me  much  pain. 

••  I  cannot  say  if  there  are  any  otliers  who 
do  their  exercises  in  the  streets ;  but  I  hare 
never  seen  any.  I  am,  I  think,  the  only 
stranger  who  d<ies  his  exercises.  It  was  mr 
own  idea.  I  did  it  in  France  whilst  I  wes 
travelling;  but  it  was  only  once  or  twice,  iiv 
it  WAS  defoudu  to  do  it;  and  the  policemao 
are  very  severe.  lis  sont  betes,  les  policemen 
on  J-'rance.  The  gentlemons  and  ladies  veiy 
good  heart,  ond  give  a  poor  diable  des  sous,  or 
otfer  wine  to  pauvre  diable  qui  a  i>erdu  la 
jamhe  en  comhnttant  pom*  sapatrie;  maiales 
policemen  sont  bdtes.  Ah,  bdics!  so  bdtee  I 
can't  tell  you." 


IL— STREET  MUSICIANS. 

CoNCERNiKa  street  mosioians,  they  are  of 
multifarious  classes.  As  a  general  rule,  they 
may  almost  be  divided  into  the  tolerabb  and 
the  intoleiableperfonnciB,  some  of  them  trust- 


ZOfTDOir  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS, 


lot 


iietr  Bkin  in  muric  for  the  reward  for 
ertions,  others  only  making  a  noUe^  so 
ttever  money  they  obtain  is  given  th<*m 
as  an  inducement  for  them  to  depart. 
•11-known  engraving  by  Hogarth,  of 
raged  mnsician,"  is  an  illnstraiion  of 
secntirms  inflicted  in  olden  times  by 
58  of  street  performers;  and  in  the 
ions  by  modem  caricaturists  we  liave 
oerous  proofs,  that  up  to  the  present 
F!  nuifiance  has  not  abated.  Indeed, 
'  these  people  carry  with  them  musical 
ents,  merely  as  a  means  of  avoiding  the 
of  the  Mendicity  Society,  or  in  some 
e!)  as  a  signal  of  their  coming  to  the 
in  the  neighbourhood,  who  are  in  the 
giving  ihem  a  small  weekly  pension. 
'  are  a  more  umnerous  class  than  any 
f  the  street  performers  I  have  yet 
:th.  Tlie  musicians  are  estimated  at 
id  the  ballad  singers  at  250. 
treet  musicians  are  of  two  kinds,  the 
ind  the  bHnd.  The  former  obtain 
jney  by  the  agreeableness  of  their  per- 
c,  and  the  latter,  in  pity  for  their 
1  rather  than  admiration  of  their  har- 
Tbe  blind  street  musicians,  it  must 
esscd,  belong  generally  to  the  rudest 
^  performers.  Music  is  not  used  by 
,  a  means  of  pleasing,  but  rather  as  a 
'  soliciting  attention.  Such  individuals 
wn  in  the  *•  profession  **  by  the  name  of 
men ;"  they  have  their  regular  rounds 
£,  and  particular  houses  at  which  to 

eeitain  days  of  the  week,  and  from 
fliey  generally  obtain  a  "small  trifle." 
«n,  however,  a  most  pecuhar  class  of 
tols.  They  are  mostly  well-known 
»«»  and  many  of  them  have  been  pcr- 

in  the  streets  of  London  for  many 
The>*  are  also  remarkable  for  the  reli- 
st  of  their  thoughts,  and  the  compara- 
oement  of  their  tastes  and  feelings. 

*•  Old  Sabah." 

)f  the  most  descning  and  peculiar  of 
eet  musicians  was  an  old  lady  who 
upon  a  hurdy-gnrdy.  She  had  been 
be  streets  of  London  for  upwards  of 
ars,  and  being  blind,  had  had  during 
nod  four  guides,  and  worn  out  three 
ents.  Her  cheerfulness,  considering 
"ation  and  precarious  mode  of  life,  was 
linary.  Her  love  of  truth,  and  the 
J  simplicity  of  her  nature,  were  almost 
e.  I^e  the  generality  of  blind  people, 
d  a  deep  sense  of  rehgion,  and  her 
for  a  woman  in  her  station  of  life  was 
ing  marvellous ;  for,  though  living  on 
ae  herself  had,  I  was  told,  two  or  three 
ensioners.  'MMien  questioned  on  this 
,  she  laughed  the  matter  off  as  a  jest, 
I  was  assured  of  the  truth  of  the  fact 
Lention  to  her  guide  was  most  marked, 
ip  of  tea  was  given  to  her  after  her 


day's  rounds,  she  would  be  sure  to  turn  to  the 
poor  creature  who  led  her  about,  and  ask, 
"  You  comfortable,  Liza  ?  "  or  "  Is  your  tea  to 
your  liking,  Liza  ?  " 

When  conveyed  to  Mr.  Beard's  establish- 
ment to  have  her  daguerreotype  taken,  she  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  rode  in  a  cab ;  and 
then  her  fear  at  being  j^nlled  "  backwards  "  as 
she  termed  it  (for  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
horse),  was  almost  painful.  She  felt  about 
for  something  to  lay  hold  of,  and  did  not  ap- 
pear comfortable  until  she  had  a  firm  grasp  of 
the  pocket.  After  her  alarm  had  in  a  mea- 
sure subsided,  she  turned  to  her  guide  and 
said,  ^'We  must  put  np  wi^  those  trials, 
Liza.**  In  a  short  time,  however,  she  began 
to  find  the  ride  pleasant  enough.  "  Very  nice, 
ain't  it  Liza?"  she  said ;  "  but  I  shouldn't  like 
to  ride  on  them  steamboats,  they  say  they're 
shocking  dangerous ;  and  as  for  them  railways, 
I've  heard  tell  therfr're  dreadful;  but  these 
cabs,  Liza,  is  very  nice."  On  the  road  she  was 
ctmtinually  asking  "  liza "  where  they  were, 
and  wondering  at  the  rapidity  at  which  they 
travelled.  ^'Aht'*  she  said,  laughing,  "if  I 
had  one  of  these  here  cabs,  my  *  rounds* 
would  soon  be  over."  Whilst  ascending  the 
high  flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  the  portrait- 
rooms,  she  laughed  at  every  proposal  made  to 
her  to  rest  "  There's  twice  as  many  stairs  ag 
these  to  our  church,  ain't  there,  Liza  f "  she 
replied  when  pressed.  When  the  portrait  was 
finished  she  expressed  a  wish  to  feel  it 

The  following  is  the  history  of  her  life,  as 
she  herself  related  it,  answering  to  the  variety 
of  questions  put  to  her  on  the  subject : — 

*'I  was  bom  the  4th  April,  1766  (it  was 
Good  Friday  that  year),  at  a  small  chandler's 
shop,  facing  the  White  Horse,  Stuart's-rents, 
Drury-lane.  Father  was  a  hatter,  and  mother 
an  artificial-flower  maker  and  feather  finisher. 
When  I  was  but  a  day  old,  the  nurse  took  me 
out  of  tho  warm  bed'  and  earried  me  to  the 
window,  to  show  some  people  how  like  I  was 
to  father.  The  cold  flew  to  my  eyes  and  I 
caught  inflammation  in  them.  Owing  to  mother 
being  forced  to  be  from  home  all  day  at  her 
work,  I  was  put  out  to  dry-nurse  when  I  was 
three  weeks  old.  My  eyes  were  then  very  bad, 
by  all  accounts,  and  some  neighbours  told 
the  woman  I  was  with,  that  Turner's  eeiata 
would  do  them  good.  She  got  some  and  put 
it  on  my  eyes,  and  when  poor  mother  eame  to 
suckle  me  at  her  dinner-hour,  my  eyes  was  all 
*  a  gore  of  blood.'  From  that  time  I  never 
see  afterwards.  She  did  it,  poor  woman,  fbr 
the  best ;  it  was  no  fault  of  her^  and  lias 
sure  I  bears  her  no  malice  for  it  I  stayed  aft 
home  irith  mother  until  I  was  thirteen,  wfaea 
I  was  put  to  the  Blind-school,  but  I  on^  kept 
there  nine  months;  they  turned  me  oat  m- 
cause  1  was  not  clever  with  my  hands,  snd  I 
could  not  learn  to  spin  or  make  sssb-lines; 
my  hands  was  ooker'd  like.  I  had  not  been 
used  at  home  to  do  anjrthing  for  myself— not 
erentoinssaByMUl    KoOw  wm  ahmys  oat 


:.X1V, 


160 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


at  her  work,  so  she  could  not  learn  me.  and 
no  one  else  would,  so  that's  how  it  was  I  was 
turned  out  I  then  went  hack  to  my  mother, 
and  kept  with  her  till  her  death.  I  well  re- 
memher  that ;  I  heard  her  last.  When  she 
died  I  was  just  sixteen  year  old.  I  was  sent 
to  the  Union — *Pancridge'  Union  it  was — 
and  father  with  me  (for  he  was  ill  at  the  time ). 
He  died  too,  and  left  me,  in  seven  weeks  after 
mother.  When  they  was  both  gone,  I  felt  I 
had  lost  my  only  friends,  and  that  I  was  all 
alone  in  the  world  and  blind.  But,  take  it 
altogether,  the  world  has  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  I  have  much  to  thank  God  for  and  the 
good  woman  I  am  with.  I  missed  mother  the 
most,  she  was  so  kind  to  me ;  there  was  no 
one  like  her ;  no,  not  even  father.  I  was  kept 
in  the  Union  until  I  was  twenty ;  the  parish 
paid  for  my  learning  the  '  cymbal :'  God  bless 
them  for  it,  I  say.  A  poor  woman  in  the 
workhouse  first  asked  me  to  learn  music ;  she 
said  it  would  always  be  a  bit  of  bread  for  me ; 
I  did  as  she  told  me,  and  I  thank  her  to  this 
day  for  it.  It  took  me  just  five  months  to 
learn  the — cymbal,  if  you  please — the  hurdy- 
gurdy  ain't  it's  right  name.  The  first  tune  I 
ever  played  was  *God  save  the  King,'  the 
Queen  as  is  now ;  then  *  Hariequin  Hamlet,' 
that  took  me  a  long  time  to  get  off;  it  was 
three  weeks  before  they  put  me  on  a  new  one. 
I  then  learnt 'Moll  Brook;'  then  I  did  the 
*  Turnpike-gate  '  and  *  Patrick's  day  in  the 
morning : '  all  of  them  I  learnt  In  the  Union.  I 
got  a  poor  man  to  teach  me  the  'New-rigged 
ship/  I  soon  learnt  it,  because  it  was  an  easy 
tune.  Two-and-forty  years  ago  I  played  *  The 
Gal  I  left  behind  me.'  A  woman  learnt  it  me ; 
she  flayed  my  cymbal  and  I  listened,  and  so 
got  it.  *  Oh,  Susannah ! '  I  learnt  myself  by 
hearing  it  on  the  horgan.  I  always  try  and 
listen  to  a  new  tune  when  I  am  in  the  street, 
and  got  it  off  if  I  can :  it's  my  bread.  I  waited 
to  hear  one  to-day,  quite  a  new  one,  but  I 
didn't  like  it,  so  I  went  on.  'Hasten  to  the 
Wedding'  is  my  favourite;  I  played  it  years 
ago,  and  play  it  still.  I  like  *  Where  have  you 
been  all  Uie  night?'  it's  a  Scotch  tune.  The 
woman  as  persuaded  me  to  learn  the  cymbal 
took  mo  out  of  the  Union  with  her ;  I  lived 
with  her,  and  she  led  me  about  the  streets. 
When  she  died  I  took  her  daughter  for  my 
guide.  She  walked  with  me  for  more  than 
fiye-and-twenty  year,  and  she  might  have  been 
with  me  to  this  day,  but  she  took  to  drinking 
and  killed  herself  with  it.  She  behaved  very 
bad  to  me  at  last,  for  as  soon  as  we  got  a  few 
hal4>enoe  she  used  to  go  into  the  public  and 
spend  it  all ;  and  many  a  time  Tm  sure  she's 
been  too  tipsy  to  take  me  home.  One  night  I 
remember  she  rolled  into  the  road  at  Ken- 
sington, and  as  near  pulled  me  with  her.  We 
was  both  locked  up  in  the  station-house,  for 
she  couldn't  stand  for  liquor,  and  I  was 
obligated  to  wait  till  she  could  lead  me  home. 
It  was  very  cruel  of  her  to  treat  me  so,  but, 
poor  creature,  she's  gone,  and  I  forgive  her 


I'm  sure.  I'd  many  guides  arter  her,  bninose 
of  them  was  honest  like  Liza  is :  I  dont  think 
Khe'd  rob  me  of  a  farden.  Would  you,  liza! 
Yes,  I've  my  reg'lar  rounds,  and  I've  kept  to 
'em  for  near  upon  fifty  year.  All  the  children 
like  to  hear  me  coming  along,  for  I  alwayc 
plays  my  cjmbal  as  I  goes.  At  Kentish-towa 
they  calls  me  Mrs.  Tuesday,  and  at  Kensing- 
ton I'm  Mrs.  Friday,  and  so  on.  At  some 
places  they  likes  polkas,  but  at  one  house  I 
plays  at  in  Kensington  they  always  ask  me  for 
'  Haste  to  the  Wedding.'  No,  the  cymbal  iant 
very  hard  to  play ;  the  only  thing  is,  you  mut 
be  very  particular  that  the  works  is  covered  up^ 
or  the  halfpence  is  apt  to  drop  in.  King  David, 
they  say,  played  on  one  of  those  here  instru- 
ments. We're  very  tired  by  night-time  ;  aint 
we,  Liza?  but  when  I  gets  home  the  god 
woman  I  lodges  with  has  always  a  l»t  cC 
something  for  me  to  eat  with  my  cup  of  tea. 
Sh^'s  a  good  soul,  and  keeps  me  tidy  and  eleam 
I  helps  her  all  I  can ;  when  I  come  in,  I  cairiet 
her  a  pail  of  water  up-stairs,  and  such-lika. 
Many  ladies  as  has  known  me  since  they  wii 
children  allows  me  a  trifle.  One  maiden  la^f 
near  Brunswick-square  has  given  me  Bixpenea 
a  week  for  many  a  year,  and  another  allowa 
me  eighteenpence  a  fortnight ;  so  that,  one  wij 
and  another,  I  am  very  comfortable,  and  I*i« 
much  to  be  thankful  for." 

It  was  during  one  of  old  Sarah's  jonmeijB 
that  an  accident  occurred,  which  ultimatelj 
deprived  London  of  the  well-known  old  huidy^ 
gurdy  woman.  In  crossing  Seymour-street, 
she  and  her  guide  Liza  were  knocked  dovm 
by  a  cab,  as  it  suddenly  turned  a  comer.  Thcf 
were  picked  up  and  placed  in  the  vehicle  (Ui* 
poor  gxiide  dead,  and  Sarah  with  her  limbt 
broken),  and  carried  to  the  University  Hoi^ 
tal.  Old  Sarah's  description  of  that  ride  ia 
more  terrible  and  tragic  than  I  can  hope  to 
make  out  to  you.  The  poor  blind  creature 
was  ignorant  of  the  fate  of  her  guide,  aha 
afterwards  told  us,  and  kept  begging  and 
praying  to  Liza  to  speak  to  her  as  Uie  vehida 
conveyed  them  to  the  asylum.  She  shook 
her,  she  said,  and  intreated  her  to  say  if  she 
was  hurt,  but  not  a  word  was  spoken  in  answer, 
and  then  she  felt  how  terrible  a  privation  WM 
her  blindness;  and  it  was  not  until  th^y 
reached  the  hospital,  and  they  were  lifted  fireia 
the  cab,  that  she  knew,  as  she  heard  the  people 
whisper  to  one  another,  that  her  fkithftd 
attendant  was  dead.  In  telling  us  this,  the 
good  old  soul  forgot  her  own  sufferings  fortha 
time,  as  she  lay  with  both  her  legs  brokea 
beneath  the  hooped  bed-clothes  of  the  hospital 
bed ;  and  when,  after  many  long  weeks,  she  left 
the  medical  asylum,  she  was  unable  to  continna 
her  playing  on  the  hurdy-gurdy,  her  hand 
being  now  needed  for  the  crutch  that  wa* 
requisite  to  bear  her  on  her  rounds. 

The  shock,  however,  had  been  too  much  for 
the  poor  old  creature's  feeble  nature  to  rally 
against,  and  though  she  continued  to  hobbto 
round  to  th  e  houses  of  the  kind  people  who  hai 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


101 


■re  allowed  her  a  few  penee  per  week, 
ent  limping  along  nmaicless  tlurongh  the 
I  for  some  months  after  she  left  the 
tal,  yet  her  little  remaining  strength  at 
I  fikiled  her,  and  she  took  to  her  bed  in  a 
in  Bell-court,  Graj's-inn-lane,  never  to 
ton  it  again. 

**  FaBM-YABD  "  PXJLTEIU 

BT-LOOEmo  man,  half-blind,  and  wrapped 
large,  old,  faded  black-cotton  great-coat, 
the  following  statement,  ha\'ing  first 
me  some  specimens  of  his  art  :— 
imitate  all  the  animals  of  the  farm-yard 
'  fiddle :  I  imitate  the  bull,  the  calf,  the 
he  cock,  the  hen  when  she's  laid  an  egg, 
eacock,  and  the  ass.  I  have  done  this 
t  streets  for  nearly  twelve  years.  I  was 
hi  np  as  a  musician  at  my  own  desire, 
a  young  man  (I  am  now  53)  I  used  to 
;  to  play  at  parties,  doing  middling  imtil 
^t  failed  me ;  I  then  did  the  form-yard 
e  fiddle  for  a  living.  Though  I  had 
heard  of  such  a  thing  before,  by  con- 
pTBctico  I  made  myself  perfect.  I 
d  from  nature,  I  never  was  in  a  farm- 
a  my  life,  but  I  went  and  listened  to  the 
y,  anywhere  in  town  that  I  could  meet 
hem,  and  I  then  imitated  them  on  my 
ment.  The  Smithfield  cattle  gave  me 
ady  for  the  bull  and  the  calf.  My 
ck  I  got  at  the  Belvidere- gardens  in 
{ton.  The  ass  is  common,  and  so  is  the 
and  them  I  studied  anywhere.  It  took 
month,  not  more,  if  so  much,  to  acquire 
Ithonght  a  sufficient  skill  in  my  under- 
r,  and  then  I  started  it  in  the  streets. 
I  liked  the  very  first  time  I  tried  it.  I 
■ay  what  animal  I  am  going  to  give ;  I 
that  to  the  judgment  of  the  listeners. 
eoold  always  tell  what  it  was.  I  could 
12s.  a-week  the  year  through.  I  play  it 
blic-houses  as  well  as  in  the  streets. 
tches  are  all  over  London,  and  I  don't 
that  one  is  better  than  another.  Work- 
lople  are  my  best  friends.  Thursday 
riday  are  my  worst  days ;  Monday  and 
lay  my  best,  when  I  reckon  2«.  6(2.  a 
ome  taking.  I  am  the  only  man  who 
he  farm-yard." 

Bund  Performeb  on  thz  Bells. 

[X -looking  blind  man,  with  a  cheerful 
poorly  but  not  squalidly  dressed,  gave 
le  subjoined  narrative.  He  was  led  by 
Dg,  healthy -looking  lad  of  15,  his  step- 

have  been  blind  since  within  a  month 
r  birth,"  ho  said,  **and  have  been  23 
a  street  performer.  My  parents  were 
bnt  they  managed  to  have  me  taught 
u  I  am  55  years  old.  I  was  one  of  a 
rband  in  my  youth,  and  could  make  my 
^week  at  it.    I  didn't  like  the  hand,  for 


if  you  are  steady  yourself  yon  can't  get  others 
to  be  steady,  and  so  no  good  can  be  done. 
I  next  started  a  piano  in  the  streets ;  that  was 
23  years  ago.  I  bought  a  chaise  big  enough 
for  an  invalid,  and  having  had  the  body  re- 
moved, my  piano  was  fitted  on  the  sprinn 
and  the  axle-tree.  I  carried  a  seat,  and  comd 
play  the  instrument  either  sitting  or  standing, 
and  so  I  travelled  through  London  with  it. 
It  did  pretty  well;  in  the  summer  I  took 
never  less  than  20t.,  and  I  have  taken  40s.  on 
rare  occasions,  in  a  week  ;  but  the  small 
takings  in  the  winter  would  reduce  my  yearly 
average  to  15s.  a-week  at  the  utmost.  I 
played  the  piano,  more  or  less,  until  within 
these  three  or  four  years.  I  started  the  bells 
that  I  play  now,  as  near  as  I  can  recollect, 
some  18  years  ago.  When  I  first  played 
them,  I  hfiui  my  14  beUs  arranged  on  a  rail, 
and  tapped  them  with  my  two  leather  ham- 
mers held  in  my  hands  in  the  usual  way.  I 
thought  next  I  could  introduce  some  novelty 
into  the  performance.  The  novelty  I  speak 
of  was  to  play  the  violin  with  the  bells.  1 
had  hammers  fixed  on  a  rail,  so  as  each  bell 
had  its  particular  hammer;  these  hammers 
were  connected  with  cords  to  a  pedal  acting 
with  a  spring  te  bring  itself  up,  and  so,  by 
playing  Uie  pedal  with  my  feet,  I  had  fUU 
command  of  the  bells,  and  made  them  ac- 
company the  violin,  so  that  I  could  give  any 
tune  almost  with  the  power  of  a  band.  It 
was  always  my  delight  in  my  leisure  moments, 
and  is  a  good  deal  so  still,  to  study  improve- 
ments such  as  I  have  described.  The  bells 
and  violin  together  brought  me  in  about  the 
same  as  the  piano.  I  played  the  violoncello 
with  my  feet  also,  on  a  plan  of  my  own,  and 
the  violin  in  my  hand.  I  had  the  violoncello 
on  a  firame  on  the  groimd,  so  arranged  that  I 
could  move  the  bow  with  my  foot  in  harmony 
with  the  violin  in  my  hand.  The  last  thing 
I  have  introduced  is  the  playing  four  ac- 
cordions with  my  feet.  The  accordions  are 
fixed  in  a  firame,  and  I  make  them  accompany 
the  violin.  Of  all  my  plans,  the  piano,  and 
the  bells  and  violin,  did  the  best,  and  are  the 
best  still  for  a  standard.  I  can  only  average 
12s.  a-week,  take  the  year  through,  which  is 
very  little  for  two." 

Bum)  Femali 'Violin  Pliteb. 

I  HAD  the  following  narrative  from  a  stout 
blind  woman,  with  a  very  grave  and  even 
meditative  look,  fifty-six  years  old,  dressed  in 
a  clean  cotton  gown,  the  pattern  of  which  was 
almost  washed  out  She  was  led  by  a  very 
fine  dog  (a  Scotdi  coUey,  she  described  it),  a 
chain  l^ing  aflixed  to  the  dog's  leather  coUar 
A  boy,  poor  and  destitute,  she  said,  bare- 
footed, and  wearing  a  greasy  ragged  jacket,  with 
his  bare  skin  showing  through  the  many  rents, 
accompanied  her  when  I  saw  her.  The  boy 
had  been  with  her  a  month,  she  supporting 
him.    She  said: — 


loa 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  JtOOSU 


*'  I  have  been  Vtlind  twelve  j^uu  I  was  a 
servant  in  my  3'outh,  and  in  18tl4  mamed  a 
joumeyman  cabinet-maker.  I  vent  blind 
from  an  inflammation  two  years  before  my 
hubbfliid  died.  We  had  Ave  ehildren,  all  dead 
now— the  last  died  six  years  ago ;  and  at  my 
husband's  death  I  was  left  almost  destitute. 
I  used  to  sell  a  few  laees  in  tha  street,  but 
couldn't  dear  2«.  Oi.  a-week  by  it.  I  had  a 
little  he^  from  the  parish,  but  very  rarely  ; 
and  at  last  I  could  get  nothing  but  an  order 
for  the  house.  A  neighbour— a  tradeaman — 
then  taught  me  at  his  leisure  to  {day  the  violin, 
but  I'm  not  a  great  performer.  I  wish  I  was. 
I  began  to  piny  in  Uie  streets  five  years  ago. 
I  get  halfpennies  in  charity,  not  for  my  musie. 
Some  days  I  pick  up  2«.,  some  days  only  M., 
and  on  wet  days  nothing.  I've  often  had  to 
pledge  my  fiddle  for  2«ir— I  could  ucvor  get 
more  on  it,  and  sometimes  not  that.  When  my 
fiddle  was  in  pledge,  I  used  to  sell  matches 
and  laccs  in  tlie  streets,  and  havo  had  to  bor- 
row l\d,  to  lay  in  a  stock.  I've  sometimes 
taken  Id,  in  eight  hours.  My  chief  places, 
when  I've  only  the  dog  to  lead  inti,  are  Kegeut- 
streot  and  Portland-place;  mid,  really,  peo- 
ple ore  very  kind  and  careful  in  guiding  and 
directing  mc, — even  the  cabmen!  may  God 
bless  thorn!' 

BuKi>  Scotch  Violoncsixo  Plater. 

A  STOUT,  hale -looking  blind  man,  dressed  very 
decently  in  coloured  clothes,  and  scrupuloubly 
dean,  gave  me  the  following  details  :  — 

*"*  I  am  one  of  the  three  blind  Scotchmen 
who  go  about  Uie  streets  in  company,  playing 
the  'violoncello,  clarionet^  and  tiuto.  We  arc 
really  Highlanders,  and  can  all  speak  Gaelic ; 
but  a  good  many  London  Highlanders  arc 
Irish.  I  have  been  thirty  yeoi-s  in  the  streets  of 
London ;  one  of  my  mates  has  b«;en  forty  years, 
—he's  sixty-nine;— the  other  has  been  thirty 
^ears.  I  became  partially  Idind,  through  on 
inHommation,  when  I  was  fourteen,  out  I  was 
stone-bUnd  when  I  was  twenty-two.  Before 
I  was  totally  blind  I  came  to  L(>ndon,  travel- 
ling up  witli  the  liolp  of  my  homines,  guided 
by  a  little  boy.  I  settled  in  London,  lindiug 
it  a  big  place,  where  a  man  could  do  well  at 
tlittt  time,  and  I  took  a  turn  every  now  ami 
then  into  the  country.  ^  I  could  make  11#.  n- 
week,  winter  and  summer  through,  thuty 
years  ago,  by  playing  in  Uie  streets ;  now  1 
can't  molce  0».  a-week,  take  winter  and  summer. 
I  met  my  two  mates,  who  are  both  blind  men, 
— hotli  came  to  England  for  the  same  reason 
as  I  did, — in  ray  joimieyings  in  London  ;  and 
at  lost  we  agreed  to  go  together, — that's 
twenty  years  ago.  AVe've  been  together,  on 
and  off,  ever  since.  Sometimes,  one  of  us 
will  take  a  turn  roimd  the  coast  of  Kent,  and 
another  round  the  coast  of  Devon ;  and  then 
join  again  in  Londtm,  or  meet  by  accident. 
We  have  always  agi'eed  very  well,  and  never 
fought.      We, — I   mean  the  streeubliud, — 


tried  to  maioiain  a  buyiiig  and  tickrdab  cl 
our  own;  but  wtt  wese  always  too  poor.  W^ 
Uve  in  rooms.  I  doa*t  know  one  Uind  m»* 
raeian  who  lives  in  a  lodgiBg-houac.  I  aqnsetf  * 
know  a  doaen  blind  mea,  bow  perfbimiiig  in 
the  streets  of  London;  theat  ace  not  all  eob- 
actly  blind,  but  about  as  bad ;  the  most  nm 
stone-blind.  The  blind  musicians  are  chiefly 
married  men.  I  don't  know  one  who  Uvea 
with  a  woman  liamarned.  The  loss  of  sigh& 
changes  a  i&an.  He  doeant  think  of  wom«^ 
and  women  don't  think  of  him.  We  art  of  ft 
religious  turn,  too,  generally.  I  am  a  Roman 
Catholic;  but  the  other  Seot4sh  blind  i 
are  Presbyterians.  The  Scotch  in 
are  our  good  firienda,  becaase  tliey  give  us  n 
little  sum  altogether,  perhape ;  but  the  En- 
glish working-people  arc  our  main  aupportt 
it  is  by  them  we  livt*,  and  I  always  found  thea 
kind  and  liberal,— the  most  liberal  in  the  woild 
as  I  know.  Through  Marylebone  is  our  belt 
round,  and  Saturday  night  our  best  time.  Wft 
play  all  tliree  together.  *  Johnny  Cope'  k 
our  best-Uked  time.  I  think  the  bhnd  Scotch^ 
men  don't  come  to  play  in  London  now.  I 
can  remember  many  blijad  Scotch  musiciaBSa 
or  pipers,  in  London  :  tliey  are  all  dead  now  1 
The  trade's  dead  too, — it  is  so !  When  we 
tliought  of  forming  the  blind  dub,  theze  waa 
never  moro  tlian  a  dozen  members.  These 
were  two  basket-makers,  one  mat-maker,  four 
violin-players,  myself,  and  my  two  mates; 
which  was  tlie  nimibcr  when  it  dropped  for 
want  of  funds ;  that's  now  lifieen  years  ago. 
We  were  to  pay  1«.  a-inonth  ;  and  sick  mem. 
bers  Wiro  to  have  5<.  a-week,  when  they'd 
paid  two  years.  Our  otlier  rules  were  the 
same  as  otlier  clubs,  I  believe.  The  blind 
musicians  now  in  London  are  we  three ;  C— ^ 
a  Jew,  who  plays  tlio  violin;  R — ,  on  Ei^ 
lishman,  who  plan's  tlie  violin  elegantly;  W— ^ 
a  harp  player;  T — >  violin  again;  H — .  vio- 
lin (but  he  plays  more  in  public-houses); 
11 — ,  the  flute;  M — ,  bagpipes;  C — ,  bag-^ 
pipes;  K — ,  \iolin:  that's  sdl  I  know  my^bL 
There's  a  good  many  blind  who  play  at  the 
sailors'  dances,  Wapping  and  Dcptlbrd  way. 
We  seldom  hire  childrun  to  lead  us  in  the 
streets ;  we  have  plenty  of  our  own,  generally 
— I  have  five  1  Our  wives  ore  generally  wo- 
inet;  who  have  Uicir  eyesight ;  but  some  blind 
men,  —  I  know    one    couple,  —  marry    blind 


Bund  Iqisii  Fife^ 

Of  the  Irish  Pipers,  a  well-dressed,  middle- 
aged  man,  of  good  appearance,  wearing  lar^ 
preen  spectacles,  led  by  a  young  girl,  hia 
daughter,  gave  me  Uie  following  occoimt:— 

"  I  was  eleven  years  old  when  I  lost  zny 
sight  from  cold,  and  I  was  brought  up  to  the 
miujical  profession,  and  practised  it  several 
years  in  Ireland,  of  which  country  I  am  ft 
native.  I  was  a  man  of  private  property,— 
small  property'— and  only  played  occaaionally 


LO}n>ON  LABOUR  AND  TUB  LONDON  PQOM. 


163 


il  die  gentle-p«opIe*9  plaoes ;  tnd  then  more 
as  a  guest — yea,  more  indeed  than  profesaion- 
afly.    In  1838  I  married,  and  began  to  give 
ceneertB  regnlariy ;  I  waa  the  peiformer,  and 
I  played  only  on  the  union  pipes  at  my  con- 
certs.   I*m  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  per- 
fonner  in  the  world,  even  by  my  own  craft, — 
I  what  seems  self-praise.     The  imion 
are  the  old  Irish  pipes  improved.    In 
ler  times  there  was  no  chromatic  scale; 
DOW  we  have  eight  keys  to  the  chanter,  which 
produce  the  chromatic  scale  as  on  the  flute, 
and  so  the  pipes  are  improved  in  the  melody* 
nd  more  particularly  in  the  harmony.    We 
have  had  ^e  performers  of  old.    I  may  men- 
tion Caroll  O'Daly,  who  flourished  in  the  15th 
eentaiy,  and  was  the  composer  of  the  air  that 
the  Scotch  want  to  steal  from  us,  *]lobin 
Adair,'  which  is  *  Alleen  ma  men,'  or  '  Ellen, 
ny  dear.'    My  concerts  in  Ireland  answered 
ivy  well  indeed,  but  the  fimiino  reduced  me 
10  much  that  I  was  fain  to  got  to  England 
vith  my  family,  wife  and  four  children  ;  and 
a  this  visit  I  have  been  disappointed,  com- 
pletely so.     Now  I'm  reilucod  to  play  in  the 
ftreetj,  and  make  very  little  by  it.     I  may 
iverage  15jr.  in  the  week  in  summer,  and  not 
half  tliat  in  winter.    There  are  many  of  my 
coantivmen  now  in  England  playing  the  pipes, 
iNxt  I  don't  know  one  respectable  enrmgh  to 
lasoeiate  with  ;  so  1  keep  to  myself,  and  so  I 
eamiot  tell  how  many  there  are." 

Thi  EKGi^n  Street  Bands. 

CoKCEBXiHG   these,  a  respectable  man  gave 
me  the  following  details :  — 

**I  was  brought  up  to  the  musical  pro- 
fesskm.  and  have  been  a  street-porf«)rmer  'i'i. 
jears,  and  I'm  now  only  20.  I  sang  and 
pUjed  the  guitar  in  the  streets  ^^-ith  my 
mother  when  I  was  four  years  old.  AVe  were 
greatly  patr<:»nised  by  the  nobility  at  that  time. 
It  was  a  good  business  when  I  was  a  child, 
■i  younger  brotlier  and  I  would  gn  out  into 
the  streets  for  a  few  hours  of  an  evening,  from 
fiteto  eiglit.  and  make  75.  or  bs.  the  two  of 
OS.  Ours  w^as,  and  in,  the  highest  class  of 
itreet  music.  For  the  last  ten  years  I  have 
been  a  member  of  a  street  band.  Our  band  is 
now  four  in  number.  I  have  been  in  buiiils 
of  eight,  aud  in  some  composed  of  as  many  as 
W;  but  a  small  band  answers  best  f<ir  regu- 
larity.  With  eight  in  the  band  it's  not  easy  to 
^35.  a^picce  on  a  fine  day,  and  piny  all  day, 
v^  I  consider  that  there  are  l(M)i)  musicians 
Jww  performing  in  the  streets  of  London ;  and 
•s  very  few  play  singly,  l(h)0  perfonnere.  not 
Wioning  pfu-sons  who  play  with  niggers  or 
STuh-like,  will  give  not  qiute  2.00  street  bands. 
Four  in  number  is  a  fair  average  for  a  street 
^d:  but  I  think  the  greater  number  of 
band'i  have  more  than  four  in  them.  All  the 
better  sort  of  these  bands  play  at  concerts, 
Wis,  parties,  processions,  and  water  excur- 
toi,  as  well  as  in  the  streets.    The  cUss  of 


men  in  the  atreet  hands  is,  very  generally, 
those  who  can't  read  music,  but  play  by  ear ; 
and  their  being  unable  to  read  musio  pre- 
vents their  obtaining  employment  in  theatres, 
or  places  where  a  musical  education  is 
neoeasary ;  and  yet  numbers  of  atreet  mosi* 
cians  (playing  by  ear)  are  better  instru- 
mentalists than  many  educated  musicians  in 
the  theatres.  I  only  know  a  few  who  have 
left  other  businesses  to  become  musioians. 
The  great  minority— lO-aOtlw  of  us,  I  should 
Bay — have  been  brought  regularly  up  to  be 
street-performers.  Children  now  are  taught 
very  early,  and  seldom  leave  the  profession 
for  any  other  business.  Every  year  the  street 
musicians  increase.  The  better  sort  are,  I. 
think,  pnident  men,  and  struggle  hard  for  »• 
decent  hving.  All  the  street-performers  of  ■ 
wind  instruments  are  short-lived.  Wind  per- 
formers drink  more,  too,  than  the  others. 
They  must  have  then:  mouths  wet,  and  they 
need  aome  stimulant  or  restorative  after 
blowing  an  hour  in  the  streets.  There  ore 
now  twice  as  many  wind  as  stiinged  instru- 
ments played  in  the  streets ;  fifteen  or  sixteen 
yours  ago  there  used  to  be  more  stringed 
instruments.  Witliin  that  time  new  wind 
instniments  have  been  used  in  the  streets. 
Cornopeans,  or  cornel- ^-pistons,  came  into 
vogue  about  fourteen  years  ago  ;  opheicleides 
about  ten  years  ago  (I'm  speaking  of  the 
streets)  ;  and  saxhorns  about  two  years  since. 
The  cornopean  has  now  quite  superseded  the 
bugle.  The  worst  i)art  of  tlic  street  perfor- 
mers, in  point  of  clioracter,  are  those  who 
play  l>efore  or  in  public-houses.  They  drink 
a  great  deal,  but  I  never  heard  of  them  being 
charged  with  dishonesty.  In  fact,  I  believe 
there's  no  honcster  set  of  men  breathing  than 
street  mufiicians.  The  better  class  of  musi- 
cians are  nearly  all  married  men,  and  they 
generally  dislike  to  teach  their  wives  music ; 
indeed,  in  my  band,  and  in  similar  bands,  wc 
wouldn't  employ  a  man  who  was  teaching  his- 
wife  music,  that  she  might  play  in  the  streets,- 
and  so  be  exposed  to  every  insult  and  eveiy 
temptation,  if  she's  young  and  pretty.  Many 
of  the  musicians'  wives  have  to  work  very 
hard  ^-ith  tlioir  needles  for  tlie  slop-shops,  and 
eani  very  little  in  such  employ ;  3«.  a-week  is 
reckoned  good  earnings,  but  it  all  helps.  The 
German  bands  injure  oiu:  trade  much.  They'll 
play  for  half  what  we  ask.  They  are  very 
mean,  feed  dirtily,  and  the  best  band  of  them, 
whom  I  met  at  Dover,  I  know  slept  three  in 
a  bed  in  a  common  lodging-liouse,  one  (»f  the 
verj'  lowest.  They  now  block  us  out  of  all  the 
country  places  to  which  we  used  to  go  in  the 
summer.  The  German  bands  have  now  pos- 
session of  the  whole  coast  of  Kent  and  Sussex, 
and  wherever  there  are  watering-places.  I 
dont  know  anything  about  their  morals,  ex- 
cepting that  they  don't  drink.  An  English 
street-pi'rformer  in  a  good  and  respt^ctable 
band  will  now  average  25*.  a-week  the  year 
through.    Fifteen  years  ago  he  could  have 


104 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


made  H/.  a-week«  Inferior  performers  make 
from  12«.  to  15«.  a-week.  I  consider  RegenU 
RtroL't  nnd  such  plaooB  our  Lest  pitches.  Our 
principal  patrons  in  the  parties'  line  are 
tradesmen  and  professional  men,  such  as 
attorneys :  10«.  a-night  is  our  regular  charge." 

The  Gebmak  Stueet  Bands. 

Next  come  the  German  Bands.  I  had  the 
following  statement  from  a  young  flaxen- 
haired  and  fresh -coloured  German,  ivho 
spoke  English  verj'  fairly  : — 

**  I  am  German,  and  have  been  six  year  in 
zis  countn*.    I  was  neariy  fourteen  when  I 
come.    I  come  fh)m  Oberl'eld,  eighteen  miles 
from  Hanover.    I  come  because  I  would  like 
to  see  how  it  was  here.    I  heard  zat  London 
was  a  goot  ])lare  for  foreign  music.    London 
is  as  goot  a  place  as  I  expect  to  And  him. 
There  was  otlier  six  come  over  with  me,  boys 
and  men.    We  come  to  Hull,  and  play  in  ze 
countiy  aKtut  half  a  year;  we  do  middling. 
And  zen  we  come  to  I/ondon.    I  didn't  moke 
money  at  first  when  I  come,  I  had  much  to 
leam  ;  but  ze  band,  oh !  it  did  welL    "VVe  was 
seven.    I  play  ze  clarionet,  and  so  did  two 
others ;  two  jday  French  horns,  one  ze  tram- 
bone,  and  one  ze  saxhorn.     Sometime   we 
make  7t.  or  bs.  a-piece  in  a-day  now,  but  tlic 
business  is  not  so  goot.    I  reckon  Ot.  a-day  is 
goot  now.     We  never  play  ut  fairs,  nor  for 
cara\'ans.  We  play  at  private  ]>arties  or  public 
ball-rooms,  and  are  paid  so  much  a  dance— 
sixpence  a  dance  for  ze  seven  of  us.    If  zare 
is  many  dances,  it  is  goot ;  if  not,  it  is  bad. 
We  play  sheaper  zan  ze  Knglish,  and  we  don't 
spent  so  much.   Ze  English  players  insult  us, 
but  we  don't  care  about  that.    Zcy  abuse  us 
for  playing  sheap.     I  don't  know  what  zoir 
tenus  for  dances  are.    I  have  saved  money  in 
zis  country,  but  very  little  of  it.    I  wont  to 
save  enough  to  take  me  back  to  Hanover.  We 
all  live  togeder,  ze  seven  of  us.  We  have  three 
rooms  to  sleep  in,  and  one  to  eat  in.    We  ore 
all  single  men,  but  onu  ;  and  his  wife,  a  Ger- 
man woman,  hves  wis  us,  and  cooks  for  us. 
She   and  her  husband  have  a  bedroom   to 
themselves.    Anysing  does  for  us  to  eat.    We  " 
all  join  in  housekeeping  and  lodging,  and  pay  ' 
ahke.     Our  lodging  cost^i  2s.  a-week  each,  I 
our  board  costs  us  about  lft«.  a-week  each ; 
sometime  rather  less.    But  zat  include  beer ; 
and  ze  London  beer  is  very  goot,  and  some- ' 
time  wo  drink  a  goot  deal  of  it.    We  drink 
very  little  gin,  but  we  live  ver}-  well,  and  have  I 
goot  meals  every  day.    We  i)lay  in  ze  streets, ' 
and  I  zink  most  places  are  alike  to  us.  Ladies  i 
and  gentlemen  are  our  best  friends  ;  ze  work- , 
ing  people  give  us  vei^'  Uttle.     We  play  opera  ! 
tunes  chiefly.    We  don't  associate  with  any  I 
Englishmen.     Zare  are  three  pubhc-houses  \ 
kept  by  Germans,  where  we  Germans  meet. 
Sugar-bakers  and  other  trades  are  of  ze  num- 
ber. There  are  now  Ave  German  brass-bands, 
with  thirty-seven  performers  in  zem,  reckon- 


ing  our  own,  in  London.  Our  band  lives  near 
WhitechapeL  I  sink  zare  is  one  or  two  vaxan 
German  bands  in  ze  countiy.  I  sink  my 
countiymen,  some  of  them,  save  money ;  b^ 
I  have  not  saved  much  yet.** 

Of  the  Baofife  Platers. 

A  wEix-LOOKiNO  young  man,  dressed  in  fUl 
Highland  costume,  with  modest  mannen  and 
of  slow  speech,  as  if  translating  his  wonb- 
from  the  Gaelic  before  lie  uttered  them,  gaf» 
me  these  details : — 

*'  I  am  a  native  of  Inverness,  and  a  Gmit 
My  father  was  a  soldier,  and  a  player  in  Xtm 
42nd.  In  my  youth  I  was  shepherd  in  tht 
hills,  until  my  father  was  tmable  to  support 
me  any  longer.  He  had  Od.  a-day  pension  ftr 
seventeen  years'  service,  and  had  been  tbiiee 
wounded.  He  taught  me  and  my  brither  the 
pipes ;  he  was  too  ]>oor  to  have  us  taught  any 
trade,  so  we  started  on  our  own  accounts.  We 
travelled  up  to  London,  had  only  our  pipes  to 
depcud  upon.  We  came  in  full  Highliad 
dress.  The  tartan  is  cheap  there,  and  we  mak 
it  up  oursels.  My  dress  as  I  sit  here,  without 
my  pipes,  would  cost  about  4/.  in  Londoo. 
Our  mithcrs  spin  tlie  tartan  inlnvemess-shixe, 
and  the  dress  comes  to  maybe  SOf.,  and  is 
better  thou  the  London.  My  pipes  cost  me 
three  guineas  new.  It's  between  five  and  six 
years  since  I  flrst  came  to  London,  and  I  was 
twenty-four  last  November.  Wlien  I  started, 
I  thought  of  making  a  fortune  in  London; 
tliere  was  such  great  talk  of  it  in  Inverness- 
shire,  as  a  fine  place  with  plenty  of  money ;  bml 
when  I  came  I  found  the  difference.  I  was 
rather  a  novelty  at  first,  and  did  pretty  well 
I  could  make  1/.  a- week  then,  but  now  I  cant 
make  2s.  a-day.  not  even  in  summer.  Then 
are  so  many  Irishmen  going  about  LondoDi 
and  dressed  as  Scotch  Highlanders,  that  I 
really  think  I  could  do  better  as  a  piper  even 
ill  Scotland.  A  Scotch  family  will  sometimes 
give  me  a  shilling  or  two  when  they  find  out 
I  am  a  Scotchman.  Chelsea  is  my  best  place, 
where  there  are  many  Scotchmen.  There  art 
now  only  five  real  Scotch  Highlanders  playing 
tlie  bagpipes  in  the  streets  of  London,  and 
seven  or  eight  Irishmen  tliat  I  know  of.  The 
Irishmen  do  better  than  I  do,  because  they 
have  more  face.  We  have  our  own  rooms.  I 
pay  4j.  a-week  for  an  empty  room,  and  have 
my  ain  furniture.  We  are  all  married  men, 
and  have  no  connexion  with  any  other  street 
musicians.  '  Tullochgorum,'  '  Mone^'musk,' 
The  Campbells  are  comin','  and  *  Lord  Mac- 
donald's  Keel,'  are  among  the  performanoes 
best  liked  in  Loudon.  Tm  very  seldom  insulted 
in  the  streets,  and  then  mostly  by  being  called 
an  Irishman,  which  I  don't  like ;  but  I  pass  it 
off  just  as  well  as  I  can." 

SCOTCU  PiPEB  AND  DaNCIKO-GiXIL. 

**  I  WAS  full  corporal  in  the  03rd  Southern 
Highlanders,  and  I  can  get  the  best  of  chi^ 


Z^NDON  LABOVR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


105 


from  my  eomnianding  oflSoen.  If  I 
get  a  good  character  I  wouldn't  be 
to  the  colonel ;  and  wherever  he  and 
'  went,  I  was  sure  to  be  with  th^n. 
h  I  used  to  wear  the  colonel's  livery, 
id  the  full  corporal's  stripes  on  my 
was  first  orderiy  to  Colond  Sparkes 
3rd.  He  belonged  to  Dublin,  and 
lie  best  colonel  that  ever  belonged  to 
ent.  After  he  died  I  was  orderly  to 
Aynsley.  This  shows  I  must  have 
;ood  man,  and  have  a  good  character. 
Aynsley  was  a  good  Mend  to  me,  and 
ra  gave  me  my  clothes,  like  his  other 
icrvants.  The  orderly's  post  is  a  good 
i  much  sought  after,  for  it  exempts 
n  regimental  duty.  Colonel  Aynsley 
evere  man  on  duty,  but  he  was  a  good 
after  aU.  If  he  wasn't  to  be  a  severe 
wouldn't  be  able  to  discharge  the  post 

0  discharge.  Off  duty  be  was  as  kind 
)dy  could  be.  There  was  no  man  he 
ore  than  a  dirty  soldier.  He  wouldn't 
a  man  for  being  drunk,  not  a  quar- 
nach  as  for  dirty  clothing.      I  was 

1  the  cleanest  soldier  in  the  regiment; 
ras  out  in  a  shower  of  rain,  I'd  polish 
brass  and  pipeclay  my  belt,  to  make 
ean  again.  Besides,  I  was  very  supple 
tve,  and  many's  the  time  Colonel 
has  sent  me  on  a  message,  and  I  have 
sre  and  back,  arid  when  I've  met  him 
olded  me  for  not  having  gone,  for 
h&£k  so  quick  he  thought  I  hadn't 

list  I  was  in  the  regiment  I  was  at- 
irith  blindness;  brought  on,  I  think. 
There  was  a  deserter,  that  the  po- 
took  up  and  brought  to  our  barracks 
Ion,  where  the  Odrd  was  stationed  in 
[t  was  very  wet  weather,  and  he  was 

in  without  a  stitch  on  him,  in  a  pair 
hes  and  a  miserable  shirt  — that's  all. 

away  two  years,  but  he  was  always 
ked.  No  deserters  ever  escape.  We 
kit  up  for  this  man  in  less  than  twenty 
!.  One  gave  him  a  kUt,  another  a  coat, 
^ye  him  the  shoes  off  ray  feet,  and 
nt  to  the  regiment  stores  and  got  me 

pair.  Soldiers  always  help  one  an- 
it's  their  duty  to  such  a  poor,  miserable 
as  he  was. 

is  deserter  was  tried  by  court-martial, 
got  thirty-one  days  in  prison,  and  hard 

He'd  have  had  three  months,  only 
3  himself  up.  He  was  so  weak  with 
It,  that  the  doctor  wouldn't  let  him  be 
.  He'd  have  had  sixty  lashes  if  he'd 
rong.  Ah !  sixty  is  nothing.  I've  seen 
adred  and  fifty  given.  When  this  man 
arched  off  to  Warwick  gaol  I  com- 
i  the  escort,  and  it  was  a  very  severe 
lin  that  day,  for  it  kept  on  from  six  in 
>ming  till  twelve  at  night.  It  was  a 
-one  miles*  march ;  and  wo  started  at 

the  morning,  and  arrived  at  Warwick 


by  four  in  the  afternoon.  The  prisoner  was 
made  to  march  the  distance  in  the  same  clothes 
as  when  he  gave  himself  up.  He  had  only 
a  shirt  and  waistcoat  on  his  back,  and  that' 
got  so  wet,  I  took  off  my  greatcoat  and  gave 
it  to  him  to  wear  to  warm  him.  They 
wouldn't  let  him  have  the  kit  of  clothes  made 
up  for  him  by  the  regiment  tiU  he  came 
out  of  prison.  From  giving  him  my  great- 
coat I  caught  a  severe  cold.  I  stood  up  by  a 
public-house  fire  and  dried  my  coat  and  lolt, 
and  the  cold  flew  to  the  small  of  my  back. 
After  we  had  delivered  our  prisoner  at  War- 
wick we  walked  on  to  Coventry — that^s  ten 
miles  more.  We  did  thirty-one  miles  that  day 
in  the  rain.  After  we  got  back  to  barracks  I 
was  clapped  in  hospital.  I  was  there  twenty- 
one  days.  The  doctor  told  me  I  shouldn't 
leave  it  for  twenty-eight  days,  but  I  left  it  in 
twenty.one,  for  I  didn't  like  to  be  in  that  same 
place.  My  eyes  got  very  blood-shot,  and  I 
lost  the  sight  of  them.  I  was  very  much  afraid 
that  I'd  never  see  a  sight  with  my  eyes,  and 
I  was  most  miserable.  I  used  to  be,  too,  all 
of  a  tremble  with  a  shiver  of  cold.  I  only 
stopped  in  the  regiment  for  thirty-one  days 
after  I  came  out  of  hospital,  and  then  I  had 
my  discharge.  I  could  just  see  a  little.  It 
was  my  own  fault  that  I  had  my  discharge^ 
for  I  thought  I  could  do  better  to  cure  myself 
by  going  to  the  country  doctors.  The  men 
subscribed  for  me  all  the  extra  money  of 
their  pay, — ^that's  about  4<i.  each  man, — and  it 
made  me  up  10/.  Wlien  I  told  Colonel  Ayns- 
ley of  this,  says  he,  *  Upon  my  word,  M'Oregor, 
I'm  as  proud  of  it  as  if  I  had  20,000/.'  He 
gave  me  a  sovereign  out  of  his  own  pocket. 
Besides  that,  I  had  as  many  kilts  given  me  as 
have  lasted  mo  up  to  this  time.  My  boy  is 
wearing  the  last  of  'em  now. 

"  At  Oxford  I  went  to  a  doctor,  and  he  did 
me  a  deal  of  good ;  for  now  I  can  read  a  book, 
if  the  thread  of  it  isn't  too  smalL  I  can  read 
the  Prayer-book,  or  Bible,  or  newspaper,  just 
for  four  hours,  and  then  I  go  dim. 

*'  I've  served  in  India,  and  I  was  at  the  bat- 
tles of  Punjaub,  1848,  and  Moultan,  1849.  Sir 
Colin  Campbell  commanded  us  at  both,  and 
says  he,  *  Now,  my  brave  03rd,  none  of  your 
nonsense  here,  for  it  must  be  death  and  glory 
here  to-day ; '  and  then  Serjeant  Cameron  says, 
*  The  men  arc  all  right,  Sir  Colin,  but  they're 
afr^d  you  won't  bo  in  the  midst  of  them ; ' 
and  says  ho,  *  Not  in  the  midst  of  them !  I'll 
be  here  in  ten  minutes.'  Sir  Colin  will  go 
in  anywhere ;  he's  as  brave  an  officer  as  any 
in  the  service.  He's  the  first  into  the  fight  and 
the  last  out  of  it. 

"  Although  I  had  served  ten  years,  and  been 
in  two  battles,  yet  I  was  not  entitled  to  a 
pension.  You  must  serve  twenty-one  years  to 
be  entitled  to  1».  0\d.  I  left  the  93rd  in  ISfla, 
and  since  that  time  I've  been  vrandering  about 
the  different  parts  of  England  and  Scotland, 
playing  on  the  bagpipes.  I  take  my  daughter 
I  Maria  about  with  me,  and  she  dances  idiilst 


166 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


I  play  to  her.  I  leave  my  wife  and  family 
in  town.  I^•e  been  in  London  three  weeks 
this  last  time  I  visited  it.  I've  been  here  plenty 
of  times  before.  I've  done  duty  in  Hyde- 
Park  before  the  46th  came  here. 

**  1  left  the  army  just  two  years  before  the 
war  broke  out,  and  I'd  rather  than  twenty 
thousand  pounds  I'd  been  in  my  liealth  to 
have  gone  to  the  Crimea,  for  I'd  have  had 
more  gloiy  after  that  war  than  ever  any  Eng- 
land was  in.  Directly  I  found  the  03rd  was 
going  out,  I  went  twice  to  try  and  get  back  to 
my  old  rei^iment ;  but  the  doctor  inspected  me, 
and  said  I  wouldn't  be  fit  for  service  again.  I 
was  too  old  at  the  time,  and  my  health  wasn't 
good,  although  I  could  stand  the  cold  far 
better  than  many  htmdreds  of  them  that  were 
out  there,  for  I  never  wear  no  drawers,  only 
my  kilt,  and  that  very  thin,  for  it's  near  worn. 
Nothing  at  all  gives  me  cold  but  the  rain. 

**The  last  time  I  was  in  London  was  in 
May.  My  daughter  dances  the  Highland  fling 
and  the  sword-dance  called  *  Killim  Callam.' 
That's  the  right  Highland  air  to  the  dance — 
with  two  swords  laid  across  each  other.  I 
was  a  good  hand  at  it  before  I  got  stiff.  I've 
done  it  before  all  the  regiment  We'd  take 
two  swords  from  the  officers  and  lay  them 
down  when  they've  been  newly  ground.  I've 
gone  within  the  eighth  of  an  inch  of  them,  and 
never  cut  my  shoe.  Can  you  cut  your  shoes? 
aye,  and  your  toes,  too,  if  you're  not  lithe. 
My  brother  was  the  best  dancer  in  the  army : 
80  the  Duke  of  Argyle  and  his  lady  said.  At 
one  of  the  prize  meetings  at  Blair  Athol,  one 
Tom  Duff,  who  is  as  good  a  dancer  as  from 
this  to  where  he  is,  says  he, '  There's  ne'er  a 
man  of  the  Maceregor  clan  can  dance  against 
me  to-dc^ ! '  and  I,  knowing  my  brother  Tom 
— ^he  was  killed  at  Inkermann  in  the  03rd — was 
coming,  says  I,  *  Dont  be  sure  of  that,  Tom 
Duff,  for  Uiere's  one  come  every  inch  of  the 
road  here  to-day  to  try  it  with  you.'  He  began, 
and  he  took  an  inch  off  his  shoes,  and  my 
brother  ne\'cr  cut  himself  at  all ;  and  ho  won 
the  prize. 

**My  little  girl  dances  that  dance.  She 
does  it  pretty,  but  I'd  be  rather  doubtful 
about  letting  her  come  near  the  swords,  for 
fear  she'd  be  cutting  herself,  though  I  know 
she  could  do  it  at  a  pinch,  for  she  can  be 
dancing  across  two  baccy-pipes  without  break- 
ing them.  When  I'm  in  the  streets,  she  al- 
ways does  it  with  two  baccy-pipes.  She  con 
dance  reels,  too,  such  as  the  Highland  fling 
and  the  reel  Hoolow.  They're  the  most  cele- 
brated. 

•*  Whenever  I  go  about  the  country  I  leave 
my  wife  and  family  in  London,  and  go  off  with 
my  girl.  I  send  Uiem  up  money  every  week, 
according  to  what  I  earn.  Eveiy  farthing 
that  I  can  spare  I  always  send  up.  1  always, 
when  I'm  travelling,  make  the  first  part  of  my 
journey  down  to  HiUl  in  Yorkshire.  On  my 
road  I  always  stop  at  garrison  towns,  and  they 
always  behave  very  well  to  me.    If  theyVe  a 


penny  they'll  give  it  to  me,  either  English, 
Scotch,  or  Irish  regiments ;  or  I'd  as  soon, 
meet  the  2:Jd  Welsh  FusUiers  as  any,  for 
they've  all  been  out  with  me  on  service.  At 
Hull  tliere  is  a  large  garrison,  and  I  always 
reckon  on  getting  3s.  or  4«.  from  the  barrackg. 
When  I'm  travelling,  it  generally  comes  to 
15«.  a- week,  and  out  of  that  I  manage  to  seal 
the  wife  10s.  and  live  on  xM»  myself.  I  hare 
to  walk  all  the  way,  for  I  wouldn't  sit  on  a  rail 
or  a  cart  for  fear  I  should  lose  the  little  vil- 
lages off  tlic  road.  I  con  do  better  in  maaj 
of  them  than  I  can  in  many  of  the  laiga 
towns.  I  tell  them  I  am  an  old  soldier.  I 
don't  go  to  the  cottages,  but  to  the  gentle- 
men's houses.  Many  of  the  gentlemen  have 
been  in  the  army,  and  then  they  soon  tall 
whether  I  have  been  in  service.  Some  haie 
asked  me  tlie  stations  I  have  been  at^  and 
who  commanded  us;  and  then  theyll  saj, 
'  This  man  is  true  enough,  and  every  word  of 
it  is  truth.' 

"  I\e  been  in  Balmoral  many  a  dozen  of 
times.  Many  a  time  I've  passed  l^  it  when  it 
was  an  old  ruin,  and  fit  for  nothing  but  tbo 
ravens  and  the  owla.  Balmoral  is  the  fomUi 
oldest  place  in  Scotland.  It  was  built  be£aio 
any  parts  of  Christianity  came  into  the  countij 
at  alL  I've  an  old  book  that  gives  an  acoooDt 
of  all  the  old  buildings  entirely,  and  a  veiy  old 
book  it  is.  Edinbro'  Castle  is  the  oldait 
building,  and  then  Stirling  Castle,  and  yhm 
Perth  Castle,  and  then  BiJmoraL  I've  booD 
there  twice  since  the  Queen  was  there.  If  Td 
see  any  of  the  old  officers  that  I  knew  at  IWl^ 
moral,  I'd  play  then,  and  they  might  give  ae 
something.  I  went  tliere  more  for  cnrioa^ 
and  I  went  to  see  the  Queen  come  out  Sia 
was  always  very  fond  of  the  03rd.  Tbc/d 
fight  for  her  in  any  place,  for  there  iant  a  mn 
discharged  after  this  war  but  they're  providii 
for. 

'*  I  do  pretty  well  in  London,  taking  my  4i. 
a-day,  but  out  of  that  I  must  pay  Ii.  ^d,  a- weak 
lodging-money,  for  I  can't  go  into  aportmeDti, 
for  if  I  did  it  would  be  but  poorly  fumishcdL 
for  IVe  no  beds,  or  furniture,  or  linen. 

**  I  can  live  in  Scotland  much  cheaper  than 
here.  I  can  give  the  children  a  good  breakfitft 
of  oatmeal-porridge  every  morning,  and  that 
will  in  seven  weeks  make  them  as  fat  as  seven 
years  of  tea  and  coffee  will  do  here.  Beaidei^ 
in  Scotland,  I  can  buy  a  very  pretty  littla 
stand-up  bedstead  for  2s.,  which  here  would 
come  to  4s.  I'm  thinking  of  sending  my  familj 
down  to  Scotland,  and  sending  them  the  mon^ 
I  earn  in  London.  They'll  have  to  walk  to 
Hull  and  then  take  iha  boat  They  can  get 
to  Aberdeen  from  there.  We  shall  have  to 
work  the  money  on  the  road. 

*'  When  I  go  outworking  with  the  little  gLd» 
I  get  out  about  nine  in  the  summer  and  ten  in 
the  winter.  I  can't  work  much  more  than  four 
hours  a-day  on  the  pipes,  for  the  blowing 
knocks  me  up  and  leaves  me  very  weak.  Ko^ 
it  don't  hurt  my  cheat,  but  I'll  be  just  qoito 


-**- 


LONDON  LABOVR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


1C7 


weak.  Tbat*s  ijrom  my  bad  health.  I've  never 
hid  a  day's  health  ever  since  I  left  the  re(^- 
ment.  I  have  pains  in  my  back  and  stitches 
in  the  side.  My  girl  can't  danco  witlioui  luy 
playing,  so  that  when  I  give  over  slie  must 
gite  over  too.  I  sometimes  go  out  v-ith  two 
•of  my  daughters.  Lizzy  don't  dance,  only 
Mario.  I  never  ox  anybody  for  moufjy.  Any- 
body that  don't  like  to  give  we  never  ax  them. 

•*  I  can't  eat  meat,  for  it  won't  rest  <.>u  my 
stomach,  and  there's  nothing  I  take  that  procs 
BO  well  with  me  as  soup.  1  live  principally  on 
bread,  for  coffee  or  tea  won't  do  for  mo  at  nil. 
If  I  coold  get  a  bit  of  meat  that  Hike,  sucli  as 
t  small  fowl,  or  the  like  of  that,  it  would  do 
with  me  very  well ;  but  either  bacon  or  beef,  or 
the  like  of  that,  is  too  strong  for  me.  I'm 
obliged  to  be  very  careful  entirely  with  what  I 
eat  for  I'm  sick.  A  lady  gave  me  a  bottle  of 
fOOii  old  foreign  port  about  three  months  ago, 
ind  I  thought  it  did  me  more  good  than  all 
the  meat  in  the  world. 

*'  IVhen  I'm  in  London  I  make  about  4s. 
ft^ay,  and  when  I'm  in  the  countiy  about  155. 
h-ntA.  My  old  lady  couldn't  live  when  I 
^Td  if  it  wasn't  for  my  boy,  who  goes  out  and 
|eta  about  Is.  a-day.  Lord  Paumure  is  veiy 
good  to  bim,  and  gives  him  something  when- 
ever he  meets  lum.  I  wouldn't  get  such 
good  health  if  I  stopped  in  London.  Now 
there's  Bamet,  only  eleven  miles  from  St. 
Giles's,  and  yet  I  can  get  better  health  in  Lon- 
don than  I  can  there,  on  account  of  it's  being 
CD  lam^  ground  and  firesh  air  ooming  into  it 
evHy  minute. 

"I never  be  a  bit  bad  with  the  cold.  It 
aefcr  makes  me  bad.  Pve  l)een  in  Canada 
vHh  the  93d  in  the  winter.  In  the  year  '43 
WM  a  Teiy  fearful  winter  indeed,  and  we  were 
there,  and  the  men  didn't  seem  to  suffer  any- 
ffamg  from  the  cold,  but  were  just  as  well  as 
IB  any  other  climate  or  in  England.  They 
wore  the  kilt  and  the  same  dress  as  in  sum- 
aer.  Some  of  them  wore  the  tartan  trow. 
een  when  they  were  not  on  duty  or  parade, 
bat  the  most  of  them  didn't — not  one  in  a 
dozen,  for  they  looked  upon  it  as  like  a  woman. 
There's  nothing  so  good  for  the  cold  as  cold 
water.  The  men  used  to  bathe  their  knees  and 
less  in  the  cold  water,  and  it  would  make  them 
ame  for  the  time,  but  a  minute  or  two  after- 
wards  they  were  all  right  and  sweating.  I've 
suiDy  a  time  gone  into  the  water  up  to  my 
aeck  in  the  coldest  du^-s  of  the  year,  and  tlien 
when  I  came  out  and  dried  myself,  and  put 
on  my  clothes,  I'd  be  sweating  afterwards. 
There  can't  be  a  better  thing  for  keeping  awny 
the  rheumatism.  It's  a  fine  thing  for  rheu- 
matism and  aches  to  rub  the  pait  with  cold 
frosty  water  or  snow.  It  makes  it  leave  him 
sod  knocks  the  pains  out  of  his  limbs.  Now, 
in  London,  when  my  hands  are  so  cold  I  can't 
play  on  my  pipes,  I  go  to  a  pump  and  wash 
them  in  the  frosty  water,  and  then  diy  them 
ind  rub  them  to;?other,  and  then  they're  as 
^wm  as  ever.    The  more  a  man  leans  to  Uie 


fire  the  worse  he  is  after.  It  was  leaning  to  a 
fire  that  gave  me  my  illness. 

'•  The  chanter  of  the  pipes  I  play  on  has 
boen  in  luy  family  very  near  450  years.  It's 
tlic  oldest  in  ^Scotland,  and  is  a  heir-loom  in 
our  family,  and  they  wouldn't  part  witli  it  for 
any  money.  Many's  a  time  the  Museum  in 
Edinburgh  has  wanted  me  to  give  it  to  them, 
but  I  won't  give  it  to  any  one  till  I  find  my- 
self near  death,  and  tlien  I'll  obligate  them  to 
keep  it.  Most  likely  my  youngest  son  will 
have  it,  for  he's  as  steady  as  a  man.  You  see, 
the  holes  for  the  fingers  is  worn  as  big  round 
as  sixpences,  and  they're  quite  sharp  at  the 
edges.  The  ivory  at  the  end  is  the  same 
original  piece  as  when  the  pipe  was  made.  It's 
breaking  and  spUtting  witli  age,  and  so  is  tho 
stick.  I'll  have  my  name  and  the  age  of  tho 
stick  engraved  on  the  solo  of  the  ivoiy,  and 
then,  if  my  boy  seems  neglectful  of  the  chanter, 
111  give  it  to  the  Museum  at  Edinburgh.  I'll 
have  German  silver  rings  put  round  the  sticlc, 
to  keep  it  together,  and  then,  with  nice  waxed 
thread  bound  round  it,  it  will  lost  for  centuries 
yet 

*•  This  chanter  was  made  by  old  William 
McDonnoll,  who's  been  dead  these  many  hun- 
dred years.  He  was  one  of  the  best  pipe- 
makers  that's  in  all  Scotland.  There's  a 
brother  of  mine  has  a  set  of  drones  made  by 
him,  and  he  wouldn't  give  them  for  any  sit 
of  money.  Everybody  in  Scotland  knows 
William  McDonnall.  Ask  any  lad,  and  he'll 
tell  you  who  was  the  best  pipe-maker  that  ever 
Uved  in  Scotland — aye,  and  ever  will  live. 
There's  many  a  farmer  in  Scotland  would  give 
30/.  for  a  set  of  pipes  by  old  William  McBonnall, 
sooner  than  they'd  give  30«.  for  a  set  of  pipes 
made  now.  This  chanter  has  been  in  our 
family  ever  since  McDonnall  made  it.  It's 
been  handed  down  fVom  father  to  son  from 
tliat  day  to  this.  They  always  give  it  to  tho 
eldest.  William  McDonnall  Uved  to  be  143 
years  old,  and  this  is  the  last  chanter  he  made. 
A  gentleman  in  London,  who  makes  chanters, 
once  pave  me  a  new  one,  merely  for  letting 
him  take  a  model  of  my  old  one,  with  the  size 
of  the  bore  and  the  place  for  the  holes.  You 
tell  a  good  chanter  hy  tho  tone,  and  some  is 
as  sweet  as  a  piano.  My  old  chanter  has  got 
rather  too  sharp  by  old  age,  and  it's  lost  its 
tone ;  for  when  a  stick  gets  too  sharp  a  sound, 
it's  never  no  good.  This  chanter  was  played 
by  my  family  in  the  battles  of  Wallace  and 
Bruce,  and  at  the  battle  of  Bannockbum,  and 
oveiy  place  whenover  any  of  the  Macgregor 
clan  fought.  These  are  tho  traditions  given 
from  family  to  family.  I  heard  it  IVom  my 
father,  and  now  I  tell  my  lads,  and  they  know 
it  as  well  as  I  do  myself.  My  groot  grand- 
father played  on  this  stick  when  Charley 
Stuart,  the  Pretender,  came  over  to  Scotland 
from  France,  and  he  played  on  it  before  the 
Prince  himself,  at  Stirling  and  the  Island  of 
Skye,  and  at  Preston  Pans  and  Culloden.  It 
was  at  Preston  Pans  that  tlio  clans  were  first 


168 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


fonned,  and  conld  be  told  by  their  tartans — the 
Macgregors,  and  the  Stuart,  and  the  Macbeths, 
and  the  Camerons,  and  all  of  them.  I  had 
three  brothers  older  than  me,  but  I've  got  this 
chanter,  for  I  begged  it  of  them.  It's  getting 
too  old  to  play  on,  and  I'll  have  a  copper  box 
made  for  it,  and  just  cany  it  at  my  side,  if 
God  is  good  to  me,  and  gives  me  health  to  live 
three  weeks. 

**  About  my  best  friends  in  London  are  the 
French  people, — they  are  the  best  I  can  meet, 
they  come  next  to  the  Highlanders.  When  I 
meet  a  Highlander  he  will,  if  he's  only  just  a 
labouring  man,  give  me  a  few  coppers.  A 
Highlander  will  never  close  his  eye  upon  me. 
It's  the  Lowlander  that  is  the  worst  to  me. 
They  never  takes  no  notice  of  me  when  I'm 
passing:  they'll  smile  and  cast  an  eye  as  I 
pass  by.  Many  a  time  I'll  say  to  them  when  they 
pass,  *  Well,  old  chap,  you  don't  like  the  half- 
naked  men,  I  know  you  don't!'  and  many 
will  say,  *  No,  I  dont!*  I  never  play  the 
pipes  when  I  go  through  the  Lowlands, — I'd 
as  soon  play  poison  to  them.  They  never  give 
anything.  It's  the  Lowlanders  that  get  the 
Scotch  a  bad  name  for  being  miserable,  and 
keeping  their  money,  and  using  small  provi- 
sion.   The^rYe  a  disgrace  to  their  country. 

^  The  Highlander  spends  his  money  as  free 
ai  a  duke.  If  a  man  in  the  93rd  had  a  shil- 
ling in  his  pocket,  it  was  gone  before  he  could 
turn  it  twice.  AU  the  Lowlanders  would  like 
to  be  Highlanders  if  they  could,  and  they  learn 
Gaelic,  and  then  marry  Highland  lassies,  so  as 
to  become  Highlanders.  They  have  some 
clever  regiments  composed  out  of  the  Low- 
landers, but  they  have  only  three  regiments 
and  the  Highlanders  have  seven ;  yet  there's 
nearly  three  to  one  more  inhabitants  in  the 
Lowlands.  It's  a  strange  thing,  they'd  sooner 
take  an  Irishman  into  a  Highland  regiment 
than  a  Lowlander.  They  owe  them  such  a 
spleen,  they  don't  like  them.  Bruce  was  a 
Lowlander,  and  he  betrayed  Wallace ;  and  the 
Duke  of  Bucdeuch,  who  was  a  Lowlander, 
betrayed  Stuart. 

**  I  never  go  playing  at  public-houses,  for  I 
don't  like  such  places.  I  am  not  a  drinker, 
for  as  much  whisky  as  will  fill  a  teaspoon  will 
lay  me  up  for  a  day.  If  I  take  anything,  it's  a 
sup  of  porter.  I  went  once  into  a  public-house, 
and  there  was  a  woman  drinking  m  it,  and  she 
was  drunk.  It  was  the  landlord  told  me  to 
come  inside.  She  told  mo  to  leave  the  house, 
and  I  said  the  master  told  me  to  come :  then 
she  took  up  one  of  these  pewter  pots  and  hit 
me  in  the  forehead.  It  was  very  sore  for  three 
weeks  afterwards,  and  made  a  hole.  I 
wouldn't  prosecute  her. 

**  My  little  boy  that  goes  about  is  fourteen 
years  old,  and  he's  as  straight  and  well-formed 
as  if  he  was  made  of  wax- work.  He's  the  one 
that  shall  have  the  chanter,  if  anybody  does ; 
but  I'm  rather  doubtful  about  it,  for  he's  not 
steady  enough,  and  I  think  I'll  leave  it  to  a 
museum. 


*<  If  Thad  a  good  set  of  pipes,  there's  not 
many  going  about  the  streets  could  play  better ; 
but  my  pifes  are  not  in  good  order.  I've  got 
three  tunes  for  one  that  the  Queen's  piper 
plays ;  and  I  can  pley  in  a  far  superior  style, 
for  he  plays  in  the  military  style.  McKay, 
the  former  piper  to  her  msgesty,  he  was  reck- 
oned as  good  a  player  as  there  is  in  Seotland. 
I  knew  him  very  wdl,  and  many  and  many  a 
time  I've  played  with  him.  He  was  took 
bad  in  the  head  and  obliged  to  go  back  to 
Scotland.  He  is  in  the  Isle  of  Sl^e  now.  I 
belong  to  Peterhead.  If  I  had  a  good  set  of 
pipes  I  wouldn't  be  much  afraid  of  playing 
with  any  of  the  pipers. 

"  In  the  country  towns  I  would  sometime! 
be  called  into  Highland  gentlemen's  housesi 
to  play  to  them,  but  never  in  London. 

"  I  make  all  my  reeds  mjrself  to  put  in  the 
stick.  I  make  them  of  Spanish  cane.  It'i 
the  outer  glazed  bark  of  it.  The  nearer  yon 
go  to  the  shiny  part,  the  harder  the  reed  is, 
and  the  longer  it  lasts.  In  Scotland  they  use 
the  Spanish  cane.  I  have  seen  a  man,  at  one 
time,  who  made  a  reed  out  of  a  piece  of  white 
thorn,  and  it  sounded  as  well  as  ever  a  reed  I 
saw  sound ;  but  I  never  see  a  man  who  could 
make  them,  only  one.** 

Anotheb  Bagfife  Pulyeh, 

'<  My  father  is  a  Highlander,  and  wu  bom  in 
Argyllshire,  and  there,  when  he  was  14  or 
15,  he  enlisted  for  a  piper  into  the  02nd. 
They  wear  the  national  costume  in  that 
regiment  —  the  Campbell  tartan.  Father 
married  whilst  he  was  in  Scotland.  We  are 
six  in  family  now,  and  my  big  brother  is  17, 
and  I'm  getting  on  for  15 — a  little  better 
than  14.  Wo  and  another  brother  of  10^ 
all  of  us,  go  about  the  streets  playing  the  bag- 
pipes. 

*^  Father  served  in  India.  It  was  after  I 
was  bom  (and  so  was  my  other  brother  of  10) 
that  the  regiment  was  ordered  over  there.. 
Mother  came  up  to  England  to  see  him  off, 
and  she  has  stopped  in  London  ever  since. 
Father  lost  a  leg  in  the  Punjaub  war,  and  now 
ho  receives  a  pension  of  \s,  a-day.  Mother 
had  a  very  bad  time  of  it  whilst  father  was 
away;  I  don't  know  the  reason  why,  but 
father  didn't  send  her  any  money.  All  her 
time  was  taken  up  looking  after  us  at  homei 
so  she  couldn't  do  any  work.  The  parish 
allowed  her  some  money.  She  used  to  go 
for  some  food  every  week.  I  can  remember 
when  wo  were  so  hard  up.  We  lived  prin- 
cipally on  bread  and  potatoes.  At  last  mother 
told  Jim  he  had  better  go  out  in  the  streets 
and  play  the  bagpipes,  to  see  what  he  could 
pick  up.  Father  hod  left  some  pipes  behind 
him,  small  ones,  what  he  learnt  to  play  upon. 
Jim  wasn't  dressed  up  in  the  Highland  cos- 
tume as  he  is  now.  He  did  very  well  the  first 
time  he  went  out;  lie  took  obout  10#.  or  so. 
>Vhen  mother  saw  that  she  was  very  pleased, 


"OLD  SARAH,"  THE  WELL-KNOWN  HUKDY-GUKDY  PLAYER. 

[From  a  Dagutmotypt  hy  Bkaiid.] 


LONDON  LABOUR  ANJ>  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


16U 


«Dd  thought  she  had  the  Bank  of  England 
tambled  into  her  lap.  Jim  continued  going 
out  every  day  until  father  came  home.  After 
father  lost  his  leg  he  came  home  again.  He 
hu<l  been  absent  about  eighteen  months.  The 
pipers  always  go  into  action  with  the  xegi- 
inent.  TNlien  they  are  going  into  the  field 
thev  ploy  in  front  of  the  regiment,  bat  when 
the  fighting  begins  they  go  to  the  side.  He 
never  talks  about  his  wound.  I  never  heard 
him  talk  about  it  beyond  just  what  I've  said ; 
as  to  how  they  go  into  war  and  play  the  regi- 
ment into  the  field.  I  never  felt  much  cariosity 
u>  ask  him  about  it,  for  I'm  out  all  d^y  long  and 
until  about  10  o'clock  at  night,  and  whan  I 
get  home  I'm  too  tired  to  talk ;  I  never  think 
iboot  asking  him  how  he  was  wounded. 

^^When  father  aame  home  from  India  he 
brought  10/.  with  him.  He  didn't  get  his 
pension  not  till  he  got  his  medal,  and  that 
VBS  a  good  while  after — about  a  year  after,  I 
should  say.  This  war  they  gave  the  pension 
directly  they  got  home,  but  the  other  war  they 
didn't.  Jim  still  continued  pl^ying  in  the 
streets.  Then  father  made  him  a  Highland 
suit  out  of  his  old  regimentals.  He  did  better 
then;  indeed  he  one  day  brought  home  a 
pound,  and  never  less  than  five,  or  nine  or  ten, 
shillings.  Next,  father  made  mo  a  suit,  and 
I  used  to  go  out  with  Jim  and  dance  the  fling 
to  his  bagpipes.  I  usen't  to  take  no  carx>et 
with  me,  but  dance  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
I  wear  father's  regimental-belt  to  this  day, 
only  he  cut  it  dowu  smaller  for  me.  Here's 
his  number  at  the  end  of  it,  62,  and  the  dftte, 
1834 — so  it's  twenty-two  years  old,  and  it's 
strong  and  good  now,  only  it's  been  white 
huff  leather,  and  my  father's  blacked  it  We 
didn't  take  much  more  money  going  out 
together,  but  we  took  it  quicker  and  got  home 
sooner.  Besides,  it  was  a  help  to  mother  to 
get  rid  of  me.  We  still  took  about  lOs.  a-day, 
bat  it  got  lesser  and  lesser  after  a  time.  It 
was  a  couple  of  years  after  we  come  out  that 
it  got  lesser.  People  got  stingier,  or  perhaps 
they  was  accustomed  to  see  us,  and  was 
tired  of  the  dancing.  ^Vhilst  I  was  doing  the 
dancing,  father,  when  I  got  home  of  a  night, 
used  to  teach  mo  the  bagpipes.  It  took  me 
more  than  twelve  months  to  learn  to  pli^. 
Now  I'm  reckoned  a  middling  player. 

'*When  I  could  play  I  went  out  with  my 
big  brother,  and  we  played  together ;  we  did 
the  times  both  together.  No,  I  didn't  do  a 
bass,  or  anything  of  that;  we  only  played 
loader  when  we  was  together,  and  so  made 
more  noise,  and  so  got  more  attention.  In 
the  day-time  we  walked  along  the  streets 
playing.  We  did  better  the  two  playing 
together  than  when  I  danced.  Sometimes 
gentlemen  would  tell  ns  to  come  to  their 
houses  and  play  to  'em.  We've  often  been  to 
Genoral  Campbell's  and  played  to  him,  whilst 
he  was  at  dinner  sometimes,  or  sometimes 
^SXet,  We  had  dt.  or  half-a-soveieign,  ac- 
cording to  the  time  we  stopped  there.    There 


was  about  six  or  seven  gentlemen  like  this, 
and  we  go  to  their  houses  and  play  for  them. 
We  get  from  one  shilling  to  five  for  each  visit. 
When  we  go  inside  and  play  to  them  it's 
never  less  than  6t.  They  are  all  Scotch 
gentlemen  that  we  go  to  see,  but  we  have 
done  it  for  one  Englishman,  but  he's  the  only 
one. 

^When  my  little  brother  John  was  old 
enough  to  go  out,  father  made  him  a  Highland 
suit,  and  then  he  went  out  along  with  my  big 
brother  and  danced  to  his  playing,  and  I 
went  out  by  myself.  I  did  pretty  well,  but 
not  so  well  as  when  I  was  with  Jim.  We 
neither  did  so  well  as  when  we  were  together, 
but  putting  both  our  earnings  together  we 
did  better,  for  the  two  separated  took  more 
than  Uie  two  joined. 

*<  My  little  sister  Mary  has  been  out  with 
me  for  the  last  month.  Father  made  her  a 
suit  It's  a  boy's,  and  not  a  girl's  costume, 
and  she  goes  along  with  me.  Whilst  I  play, 
she  goes  up  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  aski 
for  the  money.  They  generally  give  her 
something.  She  never  says  anyUiing,  only 
makes  a  bow  and  holds  out  her  little  hand. 
It  was  fiiUier^s  notion  to  send  her  out  He 
said,  *  She  mi^  as  well  go  out  with  one  of 
you  as  be  stopping  at  home.'  She  stops  out 
as  long  as  I  do.  She  doesn't  get  tired,  at 
least  she  never  tells  me  she  is.  I  alw^ya 
cany  her  home  at  night  on  my  back.  She  is 
eight  years  old,  and  very  fond  of  me.  I  hoy 
her  cakes  as  we  go  along.  We  dine  anywhere 
we  can.  We  have  bread  and  cheese,  and 
sometimes  bread  and  meat  Besides,  she's 
veiy  often  called  over  and  given  something  to 
eat  I've  got  regular  houses  where  they 
alwiqrs  give  me  dinner.  There's  one  in 
£aton<place  where  the  servants  are  Seoteh, 
and  at  the  Duke  of  Argyle's,  out  Kensinffton 
way,  and  another  at  York-terrace,  Camden- 
town.  It's  generally  firom  Scotch  servants  I 
get  the  food,  except  at  the  Duke's,  and  he 
orders  me  a  dinner  whenever  I  come  that 
way.  It  ain't  the  Lowland  Scotch  give  me 
the  food,  only  the  Highland  Scotch.  High- 
landers don't  talk  with  a  drawl,  only  Low- 
landers.  I  can  tell  a  Highlander  in  a  minute. 
I  spMk  a  few  words  of  Gaelic  to  him. 

**  So  you  see  I  never  have  occasion  to  buy 
my  dinner,  unless  Pm  out  at  a  place  where  I 
am  too  far  to  go,  but  I  generally  work  up  to 
my  eating  places. 

**  It's  a^ut  three  years  now  since  I've  been 
out  playing  the  pipe.  Jim  and  Johnny  go 
together,  and  I  go  with  Mary.  Between  the 
two  we  take  about  St.  a-day,  excepting  on 
Saturdays.  I  get  home  by  ten,  and  have  sup- 
per and  then  go  to  bed;  but  Jim  he  some- 
times doesn't  come  till  very  late,  about  one  in 
the  morning.  At  night  we  generally  go  down 
to  the  Haymarket,  and  play  before  the  public- 
houses.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  both  give 
us  money.  We  pick  up  more  at  night-time  ,  . 
than  in  the  day,   Somerofttegizk  then  make   ^ 


170 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOSL 


the  gentlemen  give  us  money.  They'll  say, 
*  Give  the  little  fellow  a  penny.*  The  highest 
I  ever  had  given  me  at  one  time  was  a  Scotch 
lady  at  a  hotel  in  Jermyn-street,  and  she  gave 
me  a  sovereign.  I've  often  had  half-a-crown 
give  me  in  the  Haymarket.  It's  always  from 
Scotch  gentlemen.  English  have  given  me  a 
shilling,  but  never  more ;  and  nearly  aU  we 
take  is  from  Scotch  people.  Jim  says  the 
same  thing,  and  I  always  found  it  so.  ^ 

**  I've  had  a  whole  mob  round  me  listening. 
Some  of  them  will  ask  for  this  tune,  and  some 
for  that  I  play  all  Scotch  tunes.  *The 
Campbells  are  coming' is  the  chief  air  they 
like.  Some  ask  for  Uie  *Loch  Harbour  no 
more/  That's  a  sentimental  air.  '  The  High- 
land Fling/  that  is  very  popular;  *  Money 
Musk,'  and  the  *  Miss  Drummond  of  Perth' 
is  another  they  like  veiy  much.  Another 
great  favourite  is  *  Maggie  Lauder.'  That's  a 
song.  When  I  play  in  a  gentleman's  room  I 
don't  put  the  drone  on,  but  only  play  on  the 
chanter,  or  what  you  would  call  the  flute  part 
of  it.  I  cut  off  the  drone,  by  putting  the 
finger  in  the  tall  pipe  that  stands  up  against 
the  shoulder,  which  we  call  the  drone  pipe. 
The  wind  goes  up  there ;  and  if  you  stop  it 
up,  it  don't  sound.  A  bagpipes  has  got  five 
pipes — the  chanter,  the  drone  pipe,  the  two 
tenor  pipes,  and  the  blow-stick,  through  which 
you  send  the  wind  into  the  bag,  which  is  of 
sheep-skin,  covered  with  green  baize.  Eveiy 
set  of  pipes  is  all  alike.  That's  the  true 
Highland  pipe.  When  I'm  playing  in  the 
streets  I  put  the  drone  on,  and  I  can  lie 
heard  miles  off.  I've  very  often  had  a  horse 
shy  at  me.  He  won't  pass  me  sometimes,  or 
if  they  do,  they  shy  at  me. 

**  I  got  the  reeds  which  go  inside  my  pipes, 
and  which  make  the  noise,  from  the  Duke  of 
Argyle's  piper.  He's  a  good  friend  to  me,  and 
veiy  fond  of  me.  They're  made  of  thin  pieces 
of  split  cane,  and  it's  the  wind  going  through 
them  that  makes  them  jar  and  give  the  music. 
Beforo  I  play,  I  have  to  wet  them.  They  last 
mo  six  or  seven  months,  if  I  take  care  of 
them.  The  Duke  of  Argyle's  piper  never 
grumbles  when  I  go  for  new  ones.  When  I 
fCo  to  liim  he  makes  me  play  to  him,  to  see 
how  I've  got  on  with  my  music.  He's  a 
splendid  player,  and  plays  from  books.  I 
play  by  ear.  His  pipes  are  of  ebony,  and  with 
a  sUver  chanter  or  flute-pipe.  He  plays  every 
day  to  the  Duke  while  he's  at  dmner.  My 
pipes  are  made  out  of  cocoa-nut  wood. 

•*I  know  the  Duke  very  well.  He's  very 
kind  to  his  clau.  He's  Campbell  clan,  and  so 
am  I.  He  never  spoke  to  me ;  but  he  told 
the  servants  to  give  me  dinner  eveiy  time  I 
came  that  way.  The  sen'ants  told  me  the 
Duke  had  promised  me  my  dinner  every  time 
I  como.  When  I  touch  my  bonnet,  he  always 
nods  to  me.  He  never  gave  me  only  a  shil- 
ling once,  but  always  my  dinner.  That's  better 
for  me. 

'*  I  wear  the  regular  Highland  costume,  but 


I  don't  wear  the  Gimpbell  plaid,  only  the 
Stuart,  because  it's  cheaper.  My  kilt  atnt  a 
regular  one,  because  it's  too  dear  for  me.  In 
a  soldier's  kilt  it's  reckoned  there's  thirty-two 
yards ;  mine  has  only  got  two  and  a  half.  My 
philibeg  ought  by  rights  to  be  of  badgers'  skhi» 
with  a  badger's  head  on  the  top,  and  with  tassds 
set  in  brass  caps;  but  my  philibeg  is  only 
sheep-skin.  The  centre  is  made  up  to  look  like 
the  real  one.  Father  makes  all  our  clothes. 
He  makes  the  jackets,  and  the  belts  even, 
down  to  the  German  silver  buckles,  with  the 
slide  and  the  tip.  He  cuts  them  out  of  sheet 
metal.  He  casts  our  buttons,  too,  in  pewter. 
They  are  square  ones,  you  see,  with  a  High- 
lander on  them.  He  mokes  our  shoes,  too, 
with  the  little  buckle  in  front  Mother  knits 
the  stockings.  They  are  mixed — ^red  and  blue 
mixed.  I  wear  out  about  three  a-year.  She 
makes  about  twelve  pairs  a-year  for  us  all. 
We  buy  our  tartan  and  our  bonnets,  but  make 
the  pewter  thistles  at  the  side  and  the  brooch 
which  fastens  the  scarf  on  one  shoulder.  A 
suit  of  clothes  lasts  about  twelve  months,  so 
that  father  has  to  make  four  suits  a-year  for 
us  all ;  that  is  for  Jim,  myself,  Johnny,  and 
Mary.  The  shoes  last,  with  repairing,  twelve 
months.  There's  twenty  buttons  on  each 
coat.  Father  has  always  ^ot  something  to  do, 
repairing  our  clothes.  He's  not  able  to  go 
out  for  his  log,  or  clso  he'd  po  out  himself; 
and  he'd  do  well  playing,  for  lie's  a  first-rate 
piper,  but  not  so  good  as  the  Duke's. 

"  We  go  about  with  our  bare  legs,  and  no 
drawers  on.  I  never  feel  cold  of  my  legs; 
only  of  my  fingers,  with  playing.  I  never  go 
cold  in  the  legs.  None  of  the  Hijirhlanders 
ever  wear  drawers  ;  and  none  but  the  rich  in 
Scotland  wear  stock! ngi«  and  shoes,  so  that 
their  legs  are  altogether  bare. 

"  When  I'm  marching  through  the  streets, 
and  playing  on  the  pipes,  I  alwaj-s  carry  my 
head  high  up  in  the  air,  and  throw  my  legs 
out  well.  The  boys  will  follow  for  miles — 
some  of  them.  The  children  vcrj-  often  lose 
theirselves  from  followng  mo  such  a  way. 
Even  when  I  haven't  my  pipes  with  me  the 
boys  will  follow  me  in  a  mob.  I've  never 
been  ill-treated  by  boys,  but  a  dnmken  man, 
often  on  a  Saturday  night,  gives  me  a  pii<h 
or  a  knock.  You  see,  thev'U  bogin  dancing 
around  mc,  and  then  a  mob  will  collect,  and 
that  sets  the  police  unto  me ;  so  I  always  jday 
a  slow  tune  when  drunken  men  come  up,  and 
then  they  can't  dance.  The>''ll  ask  for  a 
quick  tune,  and  as  I  won't  play  one,  they'll 
hit  me  or  push  me  about.  The  police  never 
interfere  unless  a  mob  collects,  and  then 
they  are  obliged,  by  their  regulations,  to  in- 
terfere. 

"  I  never  carried  a  dirk,  or  a  sword,  or  any 
thing  of  that.  My  brother  used  to  have  one 
in  his  stocking;  but  one  day  he  wjus  called 
up  into  a  public  house,  where  there  was  a  lot 
of  French  butlers  and  footmen,  and  they 
would  have  him  to  play ;  and  when  he  had 


LONDON  LABOVB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


171 


ibr  some  time  they  began  to  pull  him  about, 
and  they  broke  his  pipes  and  snapped  the 
chanter  in  two;  so  Jim  pulled  out  Ms  dirk, 
and  they  got  frightened.  Tbey  tried  to  take 
it  from  him,  but  they  oouldn't.  He's  a  bold 
fellow,  and  would  do  anything  when  he's  in  a 
passion.  He'd  have  stuck  one  of  the  French 
fellows  if  he  could.  When  father  heard  of  it 
he  took  the  dirk  away,  for  fear  Jim  should  get 
into  mischief. 

**  When  I've  been  playing  the  pipes  for  long 
I  get  very  thirsty.  It's  continually  blowing 
into  the  bag.  I  very  seldom  go  and  get  any 
beer ;  only  at  dinner  half-a-pint.  I  go  to  a  pump 
and  have  a  drink  of  water.  At  first  it  made 
me  feel  sick,  blowing  so  much;  but  I  very 
soon  got  used  to  it.  It  always  made  me  feel 
very  hungry,  blowing  all  day  long ;  I  could 
eat  every  two  or  three  hours.  It  makes  your 
eves  very  weak,  from  the  strain  on  them. 
^^Tien  I  tirst  went  out  with  my  brother,  play- 
ing, I  used  to  have  to  leave  off  every  now  and 
then  and  have  a  rest,  for  it  made  my  head 
ache.  The  noise  doesn't  atfect  the  hearing, 
nor  has  it  Jim :  but  my  father's  quite  deaf  of 
the  left  ear,  where  the  drones  goes.  I  never 
have  the  drones  on,  only  very  seldom.  When 
I  have  them  on  I  can't  hear  anything  for  a 
few  seconds  after  I  leave  off  playing. 

**  Sometimes,  of  wet  nights,  1  go  into  public- 
houses  and  play.  Some  publicans  won't  let  you, 
for  the  instrument  is  almost  too  loud  for  a  room. 
If  there's  a  Scotchman  in  the  tap-room  he'll 
give  me  something.  I  do  well  when  there's 
good  company.  I  only  go  there  when  it  rains, 
tor  my  usual  stand  of  an  evening  is  in  the 
Haymarket. 

•*  The  bagpipes  I  play  on  were  sent  from 
Edinburgh.  Father  wrote  for  them,  and  they 
eost  30s.  They  are  the  cheapest  made.  There 
are  some  sets  go  as  high  as  a  100/.  They  are 
mounted  with  gold  and  silver.  The  Duke  of 
Axgyle's  piper  must  have  paid  100/.  for  his, 
I  should  say,  for  they  are  in  silver.  The  bag 
is  covered  with  velvet  and  silk  fringe.  There's 
eight  notes  in  a  long  pipes.  You  can't  play 
them  softly,  and  they  must  go  their  own 
Ibrce. 

<<  I  know  all  those  pipers  who  regular  goes 
about  pla3ring  the  pipes  in  London.  There's 
only  four,  with  me  and  my  brother — ^two  men 
and  us  two.  Occasionally  one  may  pass 
through  London,  but  they  don't  stop  here 
more  than  a  day  or  two.  I  know  lots  of  them 
who  are  travelling  about  the  country.  There's 
about  twenty  in  aJl.  I  take  about  L')s.  a- week, 
and  Jim  does  the  same.  That's  clear  of  all 
expenses,  such  as  for  dinner,  and  so  on.  We 
sometimes  take  more,  but  it's  very  odd  that 
we  seldom  has  a  good  week  both  of  us  to- 
gether. If  he  has  a  good  week,  most  likely 
I  don't.  It  comes,  taking  all  the  year  round, 
to  about  15«.  a-week  each.  We  both  of  us 
give  whatever  we  may  earn  to  father.  We 
never  go  out  on  a  Sunday.  Whenever  I  can 
get  home  by  eight  o'clock  I  go  to  a  night- 


school,  and  I  am  getting  on  pretty  well  with 
my  reading  and  writing.  Sometimes  I  don't 
go  to  school  for  a  week  together.  It's  gene- 
rally on  the  Wednesday  and  Thursday  nightS' 
that  I  can  get  to  school,  for  they  are  the 
worst  nights  for  working  in  the  streets.  Our 
best  nights  are  Saturday  and  Monday,  and 
then  I  always  take  about  5«.  Tuesday  it  comes 
to  about  ds. ;  but  on  Wednesday,  and  Thurs- 
day, and  Friday,  it  don't  come  to  more  than 
2«.  6(/. ;  that's  if  I  am  pretty  lucky ;  but  some 
nights  I  don't  take  above  (Sd, ;  and  that's  how 
I  put  it  down  at  15s.  a-week,  taking  the  year 
round.  Father  never  says  anything  if  I  don't 
take  any  money  home,  for  he  knows  I've  been 
looking  out  for  it :  but  if  he  thought  I'd  been 
larking  aud  amusing  myself,  most  likely  he'd 
be  savage." 

French  Hurdy-oubdy  Playeb,  with 
DAKciNa  Children. 

*'  I  FLAT  on  the  same  instrument  as  the  Savoy- 
ards play,  only,  you  understand,  you  can  have 
good  and  bad  instruments;  and  to  have  a 
good  one  you  must  put  the  price.  The 
one  I  play  on  cost  me  60  francs  in  Paris. 
There  arc  many  more  handsome,  but  none 
better.  This  is  all  that  there  is  of  the  best. 
The  man  who  made  it  has  been  dead  sixty 
years.  It  is  the  time  that  makes  the  valu* 
of  it. 

"My  wife  plays  on  the  violin.  She  is  a 
veiy  good  player.  I  am  her  second  husband. 
She  is  an  Italian  by  birth.  She  played  on  the 
violin  when  she  ^was  with  her  first  husband. 
He  used  to  accompany  her  on  the  organ,  and 
that  produced  a  very  fine  effect. 

"  The  hurdy-gurdy  is  like  the  violin — it  im- 
proves with  age.  My  wife  told  me  that  she 
once  played  on  a  very  old  violin,  and  the  dif- 
ference between  that  and  her  own  was  curious 
for  sound.  She  was  playing,  with  her  hus- 
band accompanying  her  on  the  organ,  near 
the  chftteau  of  an  old  marquis ;  and  when  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  violin  he  asked  them 
in.  Then  he  said,  *  Here,  try  my  violin,'  and  , 
handed  her  the  old  violin.  My  wife  said  that 
when  she  touched  it  with  the  bow,  she  cried, 
*  Ah,  how  fine  it  is  1 '  It  was  the  greatest  en- 
joyment she  had  known  for  years.  You  un- 
derstand, the  good  violins  all  bridge  where 
the  bridge  is  placed,  but  the  new  violins  sink 
there,  and  the  tune  is  altered  by  it.  They 
call  Uie  violins  that  sink  '  consumptive '  ones. 

"  I  am  D^on.  The  vineyard  of  Clos  Naa- 
gent  is  near  to  Djjon.  You  have  heard  of  that 
wine.  Oh,  yes,  of  course  you  have !  That 
clos  belongs  to  a  young  man  of  twenty-two, 
and  he  could  sell  it  for  2,600,000  fVancs  if  he 
liked.    At  Dijon  the  botUes  sell  for  7  francs. 

"  My  mother  and  father  did  not  live  happily 
together.  My  father  died  when  I  had  three 
years,  and  then  my  mother,  who  had  only 
twenty  years  of  age,  married  again,  and  you 
know  how  it  often  happens,  the  second  father 


IW 


IX>KJ)ON  LABOUR  J2W  THE  I/»iDON  JPOOM. 


does  not  \cm  the  flnl  tamStj  of  his  wife. 
Some  SercTuds  passed  through  onr  ▼illege, 
md  I  was  sold  tethera.  I  was  their  slave  for 
ten  yean.  I  leanit  to  play  the  hnidy^indy 
with  them.  I  osed  to  accompany  an  organ.  I 
picked  out  note  for  note  with  the  oigan.  When 
I  heard  an  air,  too,  whieh  I  liked,  I  used  to  go 
to  my  room  and  follow  the  air  ftem  my  memory 
upon  the  inslrament.  I  went  to  Paria  after- 
wards. 

■^Ton  see  I  play  on  only  one  siring  in  my 
hordy-gnnly.  Those  which  the  Savoyards  play 
have  several  strings,  and  that  is  what  makes 
them  drone.  The  hordy-gurdy  is  the  same  as 
the  violin  in  principle.  Yon  see  the  wheel  of 
wood  whieh  I  tnm  with  the  handle  is  like  its 
how,  for  it  grates  on  the  string,  and  the  keys 
IiresR  on  the  string  like  the  fingers,  and  pro- 
duce the  notes.  1  used  to  play  on  a  droning 
liurdy-gimly  at  first,  hnt  one  night  I  went 
iiitt>  a  cafe  at  Paris,  and  the  gentlemen  there 
cried  out,  *  Ah !  the  noise ! '  Tln'n  I  thought 
to  myself — I  had  fifteen  years — ^if  I  play  on 
one  string  it  will  not  produce  so  much  noise 
as  on  two.  Then  I  removed  one  string,  and 
when  I  went  the  next  night  the  gentlemen 
said,  *  Ah,  that  is  mnch  better ! '  and  that  is 
why  I  play  on  one  string. 

**  I  used  to  sing  in  Paris.  I  Icomt  all  that 
of  new  in  the  style  of  romances,  and  I  aecom- 

?anied  mjTjelf  on  my  hurdy-gurdy.  At  Paris 
met  my  wife.  She  was  a  wiJt^w  then.  1 
told  her  thot  I  would  marry  her  when  her 
mourning  was  over,  which  lasted  nine  months. 
I  was  not  twenty  then.  I  went  about  pla}ing 
at  the  cafes,  and  put  by  money.  But  when  we 
went  to  be  married,  the  priests  would  not 
marry  us  unless  we  had  our  jmrentB'  consents. 
I  did  not  know  whether  my  mother  was  dead. 
I  hunted  everywhere.  As  I  could  not  find 
out,  I  lived  with  my  wife  the  same  as  if  we 
had  been  married.  I  am  married  to  her  now, 
but  my  children  were  all  bom  before  mar- 
riage. At  last  I  went  to  the  Catholic  priest  at 
Dover,  and  told  him  my  life,  and  that  I  hod 
four  children,  and  wished  to  marry  my  wife, 
and  he  consented  to  marry  us  if  I  would  get 
the  consent  of  the  priest  of  the  place  where  I 
had  lived  last.  That  was  Calais,  and  I  vrrute  to 
the  priest  there,  and  he  gave  his  consent,  and 
now  my  children  are  legitimate.  By  the  law 
of  France,  a  marriage  mokes  legitimate  all  the 
children  bom  by  the  woman  with  whom  you 
are  united.  My  children  were  present  at  my 
marriage,  and  that  produced  a  very  droU 
effect  I  have  alwa^-s  been  faithful  to  my 
wife,  and  she  to  me,  thoiigh  we  were  not  mar- 
ried. 

**  When  my  wife  is  well,  she  goes  out  with 
me,  and  plays  on  the  violin.  It  produces  a 
very  good  effect.  She  plays  the  seconds.  But 
she  has  so  much  to  do  at  home  with  the 
children,  that  she  does  not  come  out  with 
me  much. 

"  My  age  is  twcnty-five*  and  I  have  voyaged 
for  seventeen  years.    There  are  three  months 


sinee  I  eame  in  England.  I  was  atCahnsand 
at  Boologne,  and  it  is  tbcie  that  I  had  the 
idea  to  come  to  England.  Many  penons  vh» 
coonselled  ns,  udd  us  that  in  England  va 
should  gain  a  great  deal  of  money.  Thai  is 
why  I  came.  It  took  tfaeee  weeks  hefon  I 
conld  get  the  penniaaion  to  be  married,  and 
during  that  time  I  woiked  at  the  diffomi 
towns.  I  did  pretty  well  at  Dover;  and  aft« 
that  I  went  to  llamygate,  and  I  did  very  witt 
there.  Yes,  I  took  a  great  deal  of  money  on 
the  sands  of  a  morning.  I  have  been  mar. 
ried  a  month  now — for  I  left  Bamagate  to  g» 
to  be  married.  At  Kamsgate  they  understood 
my  playing.  Unless  I  have  educattd  people 
to  play  to,  I  do  not  mako  mnoh  snceeas  inih 
my  instrument.  I  play  before  a  pnhhc-hooMv 
or  before  a  cottage,  and  they  say,  *  Thai's  sU 
very  well ;'  but  they  do  not  know  that  to  make 
a  hurdy-gurdy  sound  liko  a  violin  requirai 
great  art  and  patience.  Besides,  I  pUv  sirs 
fttmi  operas,  and  they  do  not  know  the  IuHjib 
music.  Now  if  I  was  alone  with  my  hurdy- 
gurdy,  I  should  only  gain  a  few  penoe ;  hot  it 
is  by  my  children  that  I  do  pretty  well. 

"  We  came  to  London  when  the  season  wia 
over  in  the  country,  and  now  we  go  e\iny- 
wherc  in  tlie  town. '  I  cannot  speak  English ; 
but  I  have  my  address  in  my  pocket,  if  I  low 
myself.  Je  m^elanee  dan*  la  viUe.  To  d^  I 
went  by  a  bi;?  ])Arir.  where  there  is  a  chiteaa 
of  the  Queen.  If  I  lose  my  way,  I  ahow  my 
u-ritten  address,  and  they  go  on  qieaking 
English,  and  show  me  the  way  to  go.  I  dont 
understand  the  English,  but  I  do  the  pointed 
finger;  and  when  I  get  near  lumie,  then  I 
recognise  tlie  quarter. 

**My  little  girl  •will  havo  six  years  next 
February,  and  the  little  boy  is  only  four  yeaia 
and  a-half.  She  Ls  a  ver>'  clever  little  giri» 
and  she  notices  everything.  Before  I  «'as 
married,  she  heard  me  speaking  to  my  wife 
about  wiien  we  were  to  be  mnrried ;  and  she'd 
saVf  constantly,  *  Ah,  papa,  wlien  are  you 
going  to  be  married  to  mamma  ?'  We  had  a 
pudding  on  oiur  marriage-day,  and  she  liked  it 
so  mnch  that  now  she  very  often  says,  *  Oh, 
papa,  I  should  like  a  pudding  like  that  I  had 
when  yon  mamed  mamma.'  That  is  compro- 
mising, but  she  doesn't  know  any  Ixnter. 

"  It  was  luy  little  girl  Kugonie  wh<»  taught 
her  brother  Paul  to  dance.  He  liked  it  very 
much ;  but  he  is  young  yet,  and  heavy  in  his 
movements;  but  she  is  prnceftil.  and  very 
clever.  At  1  Boulogne  she  was  much  beloved, 
and  the  Enpclish  ladies  would  give  her  packets 
of  sugar-plums  and  cokes.  W'hen  thoy  dsnce, 
they  first  of  all  polk  togctlier,  and  then  they 
do  the  Varsovienne  together,  and  after  that 
she  does  the  Cachuca  and  the  Mazurka  alone. 
I  first  of  all  taught  my  girl  to  do  the  Polka, 
for  in  my  time  1  liked  the  dance  pretty  well* 
As  soon  as  the  girl  had  leomt  il,  slie  taught 
her  brother.  They  like  dancing  above  all* 
when  I  encourage  them,  for  I  say.  '  Now,  my 
children,  dance  well;  and,  above  all,  danoi 


LaaDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


178 


r,  and  then  I  will  bay  you  some 
rhon,  if  they  take  a  ikacy  to  any- 
it  is  not  too  dear,  I  bny  it  for  them, 
.  encoimgaa  thenu  Besides,  when 
*  Papa,  when  shall  we  go  to  France, 
By  little  brother  who  ia  ont  at  nuzse  ?' 
aj,  *When  we  bane  earned  enough 
■o  yon  moat  danee  well,  and,  aboye  all, 
r,  and  when  we  hsve  taken  plenty  of 
6  will  be  att,'  That  eneooragea  them, 
like  to  aee  me  take  plenty  of  money. 
B  mrl  accompanies  the  mosic  on  the 
I  in  the  Cachnca.  It  is  astonishing 
ahe  pUya  thenu  I  have  heard  grown- 
u  in  the  cafes  ehantants,  who  don't 
a  so  wall  as  she  docs.  It  is  wonderAil 
ong  a  child.  Yoa  will  say  she  has 
f  atyle  of  playing  on  the  hurdy-gordy, 
novements ;  but  it  is  the  same  thing, 
is  as  clever  to  other  music  Some- 
len  she  has  danced,  ladies  come  up 
her,  and  CTcn  carry  her  oif  into  their 
and  I  have  to  wait  hours  for  her. 
le  sees  that  I  gain  money,  sho  has 
yte  courage.  When  the  little  girl  has 
icing  with  my  Paul,  then  he,  when 
ncing  alone,  takes  the  plate  and  asks 
7.  He  is  very  laughable,  for  he  can 
lay,  *  If  you  please,  mis.ses.'  Some- 
e  ladies  begin  tx)  speak  to  him,  he 
es!  jcs!'  three  or  four  times,  and 
runs  up  to  me  and  says,  ^  Papa,  that 
iks  English ;'  and  then  I  have  to  say, 
ik  English.'  But  lie  is  contented  if 
I  anybody  speak  French.  Then  he 
to  mc,  and  says,  '  Papa,  papa,  Mon- 
(oks  French.' 

little  girl  has  embroidered  trowsers 
icoats.  You  won't  believe  it,  but  1 
ill  that.  The  ends  of  the  trowsers, 
mings  to  her  petticoats,  her  collarH 
ves,  all  I  have  worked.  I  do  it  at 
len  Tve  get  home.  The  evenings  are 
I  do  a  little,  and  at  tlie  end  of  the 
»ecomes  much.  If  I  hod  to  buy  that 
cost  too  much.  It  was  my  \tife  who 
le  to  do  it.  She  said  the  children 
well  dressed,  and  we  have  no  money 
hesc  things.  Then  she  taught  me: 
it  seemed  droll  to  me,  and  I  was 
.  but  thi-n  I  Uiou^'bt,  I  do  it  for  my 
d  not  for  my  pleasure,  it  is  for  my 
;  and  now  I  am  accustomed  to  do  it. 
Id  fam.'v,  too,  tliot  the  childron  are 
ng  about  in  the  streets  dn^ssed  as 
,  but  they  have  llannel  round  tlic 
d  then  the  jumping  warms  them, 
iild  tell  me  directly  if  they  were  cold, 
ask  them. 

day  I  was  married  a  very  singular 
ancc  happened.  I  had  bought  my 
>w  dress,  and  she,  poor  thing,  sat  up 
to  make  it.  All  night !  It  cost  me 
ings,  the  stuff  did.  I  hod  a  very  bad 
I  she  kept  saying,  *  I  shall  be  gay,  but 
poor  fiiend,  how  wiU  you  look  7'    My 


coat  was  very  old.  I  said,  <I  shall  do  as  I 
am ; '  but  it  made  her  sad  that  I  bad  no  eoafe 
to  appear  in  style  at  our  maniage.  Our 
landlord  offered  to  knd  me  his  eoat,  hot  he 
was  twice  as  stout  as  I  am,  and  I  looked  wone 
than  in  my  own  eoat.  Just  as  we  ware  going 
to  start  for  the  ehurch,  a  man  came  to  the 
house  with  a  coat  to  sell — the  same  I  have  on 
now.  The  landlord  sent  him  to  me.  It  i* 
nearly  new,  and  had  not  been  on  mora  than 
three  or  ibor  times.  He  askod  12*.,  and  I 
offered  8«. ;  at  last  ha  took  9t.  My  wife,  who 
is  very  religious,  said,  *  It  is  the  good  God 
who  sent  that  man,  to  reward  us  for  alwaya 
trying  to  get  married.' 

'*  Since  I  have  been  here,  my  affiurs  have 
gone  on  pretty  weU.  I  hare  taken  some  days 
2m.,  others  G«.,  and  even  8«. ;  but  then  some 
days  rain  has  fallen,  and  on  othen  it  hae 
been  wet  under  foot,  and  I  have  only  taken  4f. 
My  general  sum  is  &«.  Qd.  the  day,  or  6«. 
Eveiy  night  when  I  get  hom«  I  give  my  wife 
what  I  have  taken,  and  I  say,  *  Here,  my  giri» 
is  dj.  for  to-morrow's  food,'  and  then  we  put 
the  remainder  on  one  side  to  save  up.  We 
paj  bs,  a-week  for  our  room,  and  that  is  dear, 
for  wo  are  there  very  bad .'  very  bad!  for  we 
Kleep  almost  on  the  boards.  It  is  lonely  for 
her  to  be  by  herself  in  the  day,  but  she  is  near 
her  confinement,  and  she  cannot  go  out. 

**  It  makes  me  laugh,  when  I  think  of  our 
first  coming  to  this  country.  She  only  wore- 
linen  caps,  but  I  was  obUged  to  buy  her  a 
bonnet  It  wos  a  very  good  straw  one,  and 
cost  Is.  It  made  her  laugh  to  see  everybody 
wearing  a  bonnet. 

**  When  I  first  got  to  London,  I  did  not 
know  where  to  go  to  get  lodgings.  I  speak 
Italian  very  well,  for  my  wife  taught  me.  I 
spoke  to  an  Italian  at  Kamsgatc,  and  he  told 
nic  to  go  to  WooUich,  and  there  I  found  an 
Italian  lodging-house.  There  the  landlord 
gave  me  a  letter  to  a  friend  in  London,  and  I 
went  and  paid  2s.  Od.  in  advance,  and  took 
the  room,  and  when  we  went  there  to  Uve 
I  gave  another  2s.  bd.,  su  as  to  pay  the  5«. 
in  advance.  It  seenLs  strange  to  us  to  have  to 
pay  rent  in  advance — but  it  is  a  custom. 

'*  It  costs  me  soinetlnnt;  to  clothe  my  chil- 
dren. My  girl  has  six  different  skirts,  all  of 
silk,  of  ditlerent  colours,  gn;y,  blue,  red,  and 
yellow.  They  last  the  year.  The  artificial 
ilowcrs  on  her  head  aro  arranged  by  her 
mamma.  The  boots  cost  the  mostmone\'.  She 
has  a  pair  ever}'  month.  Here  they  are  ils., 
but  in  France  they  are  dearer.  It  is  about 
the  same  for  the  little  boy ;  only  as  he  does 
not  work  so  much  as  his  sister,  ho  is  not 
dressed  in  so  distinguished  a  style.  He  is 
dean,  but  not  so  elegant,  for  we  give  the  be.st 
to  the  girl. 

"  My  children  are  very  good  at  home.  Their 
mother  adores  them,  and  lets  them  do  as  they 
like.    They  are  very  good,  indeed. 

"  On  Sunday,  they  are  dressed  like  other 
children.    In  the  mmuag  we  go  to  i 


174 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


then  we  go  and  walk  a  little,  and  see  Tendon. 
I  have,  as  yet,  made  no  Mends  in  London.  I 
know  no  French  people.  I  have  met  some, 
but  ihey  don't  speak  to  me.  We  confine  our- 
selves to  our  family. 

"  When  I  am  in  the  streets  with  good  houses 
in  them,  and  see  anybody  looking  at  the  win- 
dows, then  if  I  see  them  listening,  I  play 
?ieces  flrom  the  operas  on  my  hnrdy-giu'dy. 
do  this  between  the  dances.  Those  who 
go  to  the  opera  and  frequent  the  theatres,  like 
to  hear  distinguished  music." 

Poor  Habp  Platzb. 

A  POOB,  feeble,  half-witted  looking  man,  with 
the  appearance  of  far  greater  age  than  he  re- 
presented himself,  (a  common  case  with  the 
very  poor),  told  me  of  his  sufferings  in  the 
streets.  He  was  wretchedly  clad,  his  clotlies 
being  old,  patched,  and  greasy.  He  is  well- 
known  in  London,  being  frequently  seen  with 
a  crowd  of  boys  at  his  heels,  who  amuse 
themselves  in  playing  all  kinds  of  tricks  upon 
him. 

*'  I  play  the  harp  in  the  streets,"  he  said, 
**  and  have  done  so  for  the  last  two  years,  and 
should  be  very  glad  to  gfive  it  up.  My  brother 
lives  with  me;  we're  both  bachelors,  and  he's 
80  dreadfiil  lame,  he  can  do  nothing.  He  is  a 
coach -body  maker  by  business.  I  was  bom 
blind,  and  was  brought  up  to  music ;  but  my 
sight  was  restored  by  Dr.  Ware,  the  old  gentle- 
man in  Bridge-street,  BlaekfHars,  when  I  was 
nine  years  old,  but  it's  a  near  sight  now.  I'm 
forty-nine  in  August.  When  I  was  young  I 
taught  the  harp  and  the  pianoforte,  but  that 
very  soon  fell  off,  and  I  have  been  teaching 
on  or  off  these  many  years — ^I  don't  know  how 
many.  I  had  three  guineas  a-quarter  for 
teaching  the  harp  at  one  time,  and  two  guineas 
tor  the  piano.  My  brother  and  I  have  It.  and 
a  loaf  a-piece  firom  the  parish,  and  the  2«.  pays 
the  rent.  Mine's  not  a  bad  trade  now,  but  it's 
bad  in  the  streets.  I've  been  torn  to  pieces ; 
I'm  torn  to  pieces  every  day  I  go  out  in  the 
streets,  and  I  would  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  the 
streets  for  6s.  a- week.  The  streets  are  full  of 
ruffians.  The  boys  are  ruffians.  The  men  in 
the  streets  too  are  ruffians,  and  encourage  the 
boys.  The  police  protect  me  as  much  as  they 
can.  I  should  be  killed  evexy  week  but  for 
them ;  they're  very  good  people.  I've  known 
poor  women  of  the  town  drive  the  boys  away 
trom  me,  or  try  to  drive  them.  It's  terrible  per- 
secution I  suffer— terrible  i)ersecution.  The 
boys  push  me  down  and  hurt  me  badly,  and 
my  harp  too.  They  yell  and  make  noises  so 
that  I  can't  be  heard,  nor  my  harp.  The  boys 
have  cut  off  my  harp-strings,  throe  of  them, 
the  other  day,  which  cost  me  G^d,  or  Id,  I 
tell  them  it's  a  shame,  but  I  might  as  well 
speak  to  the  stones.  I  never  go  out  that  they 
miss  me.  I  don't  make  more  than  d<.  a-week 
in  the  streets,  if  I  make  that." 


OBajLNMAir,wiTH  Flttte  Habmokicoh  Oboas. 

"  When  I  am  come  in  this  oonnixy  I  had  nine 
or  ten  year  old,  so  I  know  the  English 
language  better  than  mine.  At  that  time 
there  was  no  organ  about  but  the  old-fashioxied 
one  made  in  Bristol,  with  gold  organ-pipe  in 
front.  Then  come  the  one  with  figure-dolli 
in  front ;  and  then  next  come  the  piano  (m%, 
made  at  Bristol  too ;  and  now  the  flute  ona^ 
which  come  from  Paris,  where  they  makt 
them.  He  is  an  Italian  man  that  make  them, 
and  he  is  the  only  man  dat  can  make  them, 
because  he  paid  for  them  to  the  government 
(patented  them),  and  now  ho  is  the  only 
one. 

"  I  belong  to  Parma, — to  the  small  village 
in  the  duchy.  My  father  keep  a  farm,  but  I 
had  three  year  old,  I  think,  when  he  died. 
There  was  ten  of  us  altogeder ;  but  one  of  m 
he  was  died,  and  one  he  drown  in  the  water. 
I  was  very  poor,  and  I  was  go  out  begging 
there  ;  and  my  uncle  said  I  should  go  to  Pam 
to  get  my  living.  I  was  so  poor  I  was  afraid 
to  die,  for  I  get  nothing  to  eat.  My  uncle  ny, 
I  will  take  one  of  them  to  try  to  keep  him. 
So  I  go  along  with  him.  Mother  was  ci7in| 
when  I  went  away.  She  was  very  poor,  i 
went  with  my  uncle  to  Paris,  and  we  walk  aU 
the  way.  I  had  some  white  mice  there,  and 
he  had  a  organ.  I  did  middling.  The  YretnA 
people  is  more  kind  to  the  charity  than  the 
English.  There  are  not  so  many  beggtf 
there  as  in  England.  The  first  time  ths 
Italian  come  over  here  we  was  took  a  good 
bit  of  money,  but  now ! 

*'  When  I  was  in  Paris  my  uncle  had  to  go 
home  again  on  business.  He  ask  me  too  if  I 
would  go  with  him.  But  I  was  afndd  to  be 
hungry  again,  for  you  see  I  was  feel  hungiy 
again,  and  I  wouldn't,  for  I  got  a  piece  of 
bread  in  France. 

**  My  uncle  was  along  with  another  man, 
who  was  a  master  like,  you  know ;  for  he  had 
a  few  instrument,  but  common  thing.  I  doni 
know  if  he  have  some  word  wid  my  uncle,  but 
they  part  Den  dis  man  say  •  Come  to  England 
with  me,*  and  he  said  *you  shall  have  five  frano 
the  month,  and  yoiu:  victual.'  We  walk  as  far 
as  Calais,  and  then  we. come  in  the  boat.  I 
was  very  sick,  and  I  thought  that  I  die  then. 
I  say  to  him  plenty  times  *  I  ynsh  I  never 
come,*  for  I  never  thought  to  get  over. 

••  When  we  got  to  London,  we  go  to  a  little 
court  there,  in  Safih>n-hill;  and  I  was  live 
there  in  the  little  public-house.  I  go  out, 
sometime  white  mice,  sometime  monkey, 
sometime  with  organ — small  one.  I  dare  wf 
1  make  10«.  a-week  for  him ;  but  he  wor  veqr 
kind  to  me,  and  give  me  to  eat  what  I  like. 
He  was  take  care  of  me,  of  course.  I  was 
very  young  at  dat  time. 

•*  After  I  was  in  London  a-year,  I  go  back 
to  Paris  with  my  master.  There  I  comd  have 
made  my  fortune,  but  I  was  so  young  I  did 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


174 


now  what  I  do.  There  was  an  old 
who  ask  me  to  come  as  her  servant, 
aster  did  not  like  veiy  well  to  let  me  go. 
ay  to  me,  *  Yon  shall  not  have  no  hud 
Qoly  to  go  behind  the  carriage,  or  follow 
he  ombrella.'  But  I  was  so  young  I  did 
now  my  chance.  I  tell  her  I  have  my 
I  in  Italy ;  and  she  say  she  go  to  Italy 
9  years,  and  I  shall  have  two  months  to 
ay  mother.  I  did  not  go  with  this  old 
ind  I  lose  the  chance ;  but  I  had  only 
m  years,  and  I  was  foolish. 
tien  I  come  to  England  again,  and  stop 
three  years.  Where  my  master  go,  I 
)liged  to  go  too.  Then  I  go  to  Italy,  and 
my  moder.  The  most  part  of  my  family 
know  me  when  I  went  home,  for  I  was 
much,  and  older.  I  stop  there  six 
,  and  then  I  come  back  to  England  with 
r  man.  He  give  me  12  franc  a-month, 
aiy  kind  indeed  he  was.  He  had  some 
*  in  this  countiy,  so  he  take  me  along 
m*  There  was  only  me  and  him.  My 
naster  have  two  beside  me. 
le  master  of  organs  send  to  Italy  for 
D  come  here.  Suppose  I  have  a  broder 
y,  I  write  to  him  to  send  me  two  boys, 
» look  out  for  them.  They  send  money 
I  boy  to  come.  Sometimes  he  send  3/., 
mes  8/.  10*.  or  4^  Then  they  walk, 
re  on  the  pear  or  the  grape,  or  what  is 
;  and  if  they  put  by  any,  then  they 
rhat  they  put  by.  They  generally  tell 
liey  shall  have  12  francs  a-month.  But 
me  they  was  cheap ;  but  now  they  are 
and  it  is  sometime  a  pound  a-month, 
I  sooner  have  one  who  have  been  here 
,  because  den  they  know  the  way  to  take 
r  the  instrument,  you  know.  ■ 
top  in  England  two  year  and  six  month, 
I  come  over  with  my  second  master. 
id  me  like  a  bank,  and  I  saved  it  up, 
take  it  over  to  Italy  with  me.  When  I 
lat  of  money  I  was  obliged  to  send  it 
bo  my  broder  in  Italy,  for  to  keep  him, 
tow.  When  I  go  home  again  I  had  a 
noney  with  me.  I  give  it  to  the  gentle- 
hat  support  my  mother  and  sister ;  but 
not  enough,  you  know,  not  three  part, 
iras  obliged  to  give  him  a   good  bit 

en  I  came  back  to  England  again,  to 
me  masttT.  It  take  about  a  month  to 
he  Toyage.  I  was  walk  it  all  the  way. 
sross  the  Alps.  You  must  to  come  over 
I  dare  say  I  walk  thirty  miles  a-day, 
me  more  dan  that.  I  sleep  at  the 
house;  but  when  you  not  get  to  the 
house,  then  when  it  begins  dark,  then 
>  the  farm-house  and  ask  for  a  bit  of 
x>  lodge.  But  I  generally  goes  to  the 
•house  when  I  get  one.  They  charge 
2<2.,  or  sometimes  \d,  I  never  play 
Qg  on  the  road,  or  take  de  white  mice, 
r  take  nothing, 
ter  that  time  I  have  been  to  Italy  and 


back  three  or  four  times ;  but  I  never  been 
with  no  master,  not  after  the  second  one.  I 
bought  an  organ  of  my  master.  I  think  I  give 
him  13/.  No,  sir,  I  not  give  the  money  down» 
but  so  much  the  week,  and  he  trust  me.  It 
was  according  what  I  took,  I  paid  him.  I 
was  tiying  to  make  up  1/.  and  bring  him 
down.  It  take  me  about  eighteen  months  to 
pay  him,  because  I  was  obliged  to  keep  me 
and  one  things  and  another.  It  was  a  mid* 
dling  organ.  It  was  one  was  a  piano,  you 
know.  I  take  about  1<.  ^,  or  Ij,  G</.  a-day 
regularly  with  it. 

"  I  have  now  an  organ — a  flute  organ  they 
call  it — and  it  is  my  own.  It  cost  me  20/.  A 
man  make  it  come  from  France.  He  knows 
an  organ-maker  in  France,  and  he  write  for 
me,  and  make  it  come  over  for  me.  I  suppose 
he  had  a  pound  profit  for  to  make  it  come  for 
me;  for  I  think  it  cost  less  than  20/.  in 
Paris. 

**  I  have  this  organ  this  twelve  months.  It 
has  worn  out  a  htUe,  but  not  much.  It  is 
not  so  good  as  when  it  come  from  France. 
An  organ  will  wear  twenty  year,  but  some  of 
them  break.  Then  you  must  have  it  always 
repaired  and  tuned.  You  see,  the  music  of  it 
must  be  tuned  every  five  or  six  months.  Mine 
has  never  been  tuned  yet,  the  time  I  have  it. 
It  is  the  trumpet  part  that  get  out  of  tune 
sooner.  I  know  a  man  who  goes  out  with  de 
big  organ  on  the  wheels,  and  he  time  the 
organ  for  me.  I  go  to  him,  and  I  say,  *My 
organ  wants  de  repair  ;'i  and  he  come,  and  he 
never  charge  me  anything.  He  make  the 
base  and  tenor  agree.  He  tune  the  first  one 
to  the  base,  you  know,  and  then  the  second 
one  to  the  second  base.  When  the  organ  out 
of  tune  the  pipe  rattle. 

"  The  organ  fills  with  dust  a  good  deal  in 
the  summer  time,  and  then  you  must  take  it 
all  to  pieces.  In  London  they  can  tune  and 
repair  it.  They  charge  10«.  to  clean  and  tune 
it.  Sometime  he  have  something  to  do  with 
the  pipes,  and  then  it  come  to  more.  In 
winter  the  smoke  get  inside,  and  make  it  come 
all  black.  I  am  obliged  to  keep  it  all  covered 
up  when  I  am  playing. 

*«  My  organ  play  eight  tunes.  Two  are  from 
opera,  one  is  a  song,  one  a  waltz,  one  is  horn- 
pipe, one  is  a  polka,  and  the  other  two  is 
dandng  tunes.  One  is  from  *  II  Lombardi,' 
of  Verdi.  All  the  organs  play  that  piece.  I 
have  sold  that  music  to  gentlemens.  They 
say  to  me,  *  What  is  that  you  play  T  and  I  say, 
*■  From  H  Lombardi.'  Then  they  ask  me  if  I 
have  the  music ;  and  I  say  *  Yes ;'  and  I  sell 
it  to  them  for  Am,  I  did  not  do  this  with  my 
little  organ ;  but  when  I  went  out  with  a  big 
organ  on  two  wheels.  My  little  flute  oi^gan 
play  the  same  piece.  The  other  opera  piece 
is  *  H  Trovatore.'  I  have  heard  '  II  Lombardi  * 
in  Italy.  It  is  very  nice  music;  but  never 
hear  *  H  Trovatore.'  It  is  very  nice  music,  too. 
It  go  veiy  low.  My  gentlemens  like  it  very 
moeh.    I  don't  undenSand  muaic  at  aU.  The 


1T8 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  fOOSL 


other  piece  is  English  piece,  which  ire  coll  the 

*  Liverpool  Hornpipe.'  There  is  two  Liverpool 
Hornpipe.  I  know  one  these  twent}'  years. 
Then  come  *The  Ratcatcher's  Daughter;'  he 
is  a  English  song.  It's  get  a  little  old :  but 
when  it's  firvt  come  out  the  poor  people  do 
like  it,  but  the  gontlemcns  they  like  more  the 
opera,  you  know.    After  that  is  what  you  call 

*  Minnie,'  another  English  8ong.  He  is  mid. 
dhng  popular.  He  is  not  one  of  the  new  tune, 
but  they  do  like  it.  The  next  one  is  a  Scotch 
contre-danse.  It  is  good  tunes,  but  I  don't 
know  the  name  of  it.  The  next  one  is,  I  think, 
a  polka;  but  I  think  he's  made  fr«>m  port  of 
'Scotische.'  Theru  is  two  or  thn^  tunes 
belongs  to  the  *Scotischc.'  The  next  one  is,  I 
think,  a  voltz  of  Vienna.  I  don't  know  which 
one,  but  I  say  to  the  organ-man,  *  I  want  a 
raits  of  Vienna ;'  and  he  say,  *  "Which  one  ? 
because  there  is  plenty  of  valtz  of  Vienna.'  Of 
course,  there  is  nine  of  them.  After  the  opera 
music,  the  valtz  and  the  i>olka  is  the  best 
music  in  the  organ. 

'*  For  doing  a  barrel  of  eight  tune  it  oome  very 
near  \4J.,  one  thing  and  another.  You  can  have 
a  fresh  tune  put  into  an  old  barrel.  But  then 
he  charge  10c.  He's  more  trouble  than  to  put 
ob3j  one.  I  have  my  tune  ohanffed  once  a- 
jear.  Yon  see  most  of  the  people  gets  veiy 
tired  of  one  tunc,  and  I'm  obtiged  to  change 
them.  '  You  can  have  the  new  tune  in  three 
or  four  da^-s,  or  a  week's  time,  if  he  has 
nothing  to  do;  but  sometime  it  is  three  or 
foor  weeks,  if  he  has  plenty  to  do.  It  is  a 
man  who  is  called  John  Hicks  who  does  the 
new  tunes.  He  was  bom  in  BristoL  He  has 
a  father  in  Bristol.  He  live  in  Crookenwcll, 
just  at  the  back  of  the  House  of  Gmrectioo. 
You  know  the  prison  ?  then  it  is  jost  at  the 
back,  on  the  other  side. 

**It  won't  do  to  have  all  opera  musie  in  my 
organ.  Yon  must  have  some  opera  tones  for 
the  gentlemen,  and  some  for  the  poor  people, 
and  they  like  the  dancing  tuiie.  Dere  is  some 
fbr  Uie  gentlcmens,  and  some  for  the  poor 
peoples. 

■*  I  have  often  been  into  the  houses  of  gen- 
tlemens  to  play  tunes  for  dancing.  I  have 
been  to  a  gentleman's  near  Golden-square, 
where  he  have  a  shop  for  to  make  Uic  things 
for  the  horse — a  saddler,  you  call  it.  He  have 
identy  customers ;  them  what  gets  the  things 
for  the  horse.  There  was  carriage  outside.  It 
was  large  room,  where  you  could  dance  thirty- 
two  altogether.  I  think  it's  the  boxing-day  I 
go  there.  I  have  10*.  for  that  night  He  have 
a  fiuin  in  the  eotmtry,  and  I  go  there  too.  He 
have  the  little  children  there — like  a  school, 
■nd  there  was  two  policemen  at  the  door,  and 
yon  couldn't  get  in  without  the  paper  to  ^ow. 
He  had  Punch  and  Judy.  He  has  a  English 
band  as  well. 

"  I  have  some  two  or  three  plaee  where  I  go 
regular  at  Christmas-time,  to  plaj  all  night  to 
the  children.  Sometime  I  go  for  an  hour  or 
two.    When  tfaeym  find  of  daaoing  they  lit 


down  and  have  a  rest,  and  I  play  tl 
tunc.  I  go  to  schools,  too,  and  play  to 
children.  They  come  and  fetch  me, 
*  You  come  such  a  time  and  play  to  t 
children,'  and  I  say,  *Very  well,'  ai 
all  ri^'ht. 

*'  My  organ  is  like  the  organ,  but 
anotlier  part,  and  that  is  like  a  flute 
or^an  is  called  de  trompet,  and  that 
called  tlie  tiute-organ,  because  he's 
tlutu  in  it  When  they  first  come 
make  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  tal 
or  Sic.,  and  sometimes  Ic.  (kl.  You  se 
business,  some  has  got  his  regulsur  e 
and  some  they  go  up  the  street  ai 
the  street  and  they  don't  take  not 
have  not  got  any  regular  customen 
sir. 

**■  On  the  Monday  when  I  goes  on 
over  the  water  up  the  Claphani-road. 
two  or  three  regular  there,  and  they 
plenty  of  beer  and  to  eat.  I  know  thi 
those  twenty  year.  If  I  say  to  that  lad 
vci;)'  ill,'  he  give  me  his  card  and  say 
the  doctor,'  and  I  have  nothing  to  pay 
was  three  sister,  but  one  he  died. 
vexT  old,  and  one  he  can  only  eom« 
window.  I  dare  say  I  have  six  boose 
neighbonrhood  where  they  give  me  i 
and  some  2d.  every  time  I  go  there, 
summer-time,  when*  it  is  hot,  I  walk  ti 
wich  on  the  Monday.  I  have,  I  dare  sa; 
houses  there  where  I  go  regular.  I  a 
op  1«.  I  pay  4il.  sometime  to  zide  ] 
the  boat  My  organ  weight  more  tl 
pounds,  and  that  tire  me.  The  first  tii 
rm  not  osed  to  it  you  know,  I  feel 
tired  thvi  when  I'm  used  to  it  • 

**  On  the  Tneadi^  I  go  to  Grreenwich,  i 
it  is  cold,  instead  of  the  Monday.  On' 
day  I  ain't  got  no  way  to  go.  I  try  » 
down  atWlutechi9>el,  or  some  other  n 
Thursday  I  goes  out  Islington  way,  i 
as  fkr  as  Highbury  Bam,  but  not 
There  is  a  bill  of  the  rulway  and  i 
there.  I've  got  three  or  four  regular 
ers  there.  The  most  I  get  at  onoe  i 
never  get  fid.  One  gentleman  at  Gr 
give  me  Od.,  but  oxdy  once.  On  th4 
I've  got  no  way  to  go ;  I  go  where  I  li 
Saturday  I  go  to  Regent-street  I  go  tc 
ter-square  and  the  foreign  hotels,  wl 
foreign  gentlemen  is.  Sometime  I 
chance  to  get  a  few  shilling ;  sometin 
halfpenny.  The  most  I  midce  is  soom 
the  fair-time.  Sometime  at  Gn^eowii 
make  ds.  all  in  copper,  and  that  is  the 
ever  make ;  and  the  lowest  is  somet 
Vr'heu  I  see  I  can't  make  nothing,  I  g 
It  is  veiy  bad  in  wet  weather.  I  mm 
home,  for  the  rain  spoil  the  instrumeol 
is  nothing  like  sommer-times,  for  the 
money  that  I  make  for  the  year  it  < 
between  da.  and  lOf .  the  week.  Some 
is  0</.,  sometimes  !«.,  or  It.  di.  or  2«.  1 
For  12t.  the  waek  it  mnst  be  2s.  the  4 


LOifDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


177 


more  than  I  take.  I  wiah  somebody 
I2«. ;  there  is  no  sueh  chance. 
live  in  a  room  by  myself  with  three 
find  we  pay  \s,  each,  and  there  is  two 
f  I  go  to  lodging-house  I  pay  In.  6d.  the 
In  the  Italian  lodging-house  they  give 
an  shirt  on  the  Sunday  for  the  Is.  Qd, 
y  own  shirt,  but  they  clean  it  This  is 
Italian  house.  In  English  house  it  is 
ind  no  shirt  I  have  breaki^t  of  coffee 
1 1  like,  and  we  club  together.  "We  have 
jid  butter,  sometime  herring,  sometime 
what  we  likes.  In  the  day  I  buy  a 
h  of  bread  and  a  pen'orth  of  cheese, 
ne  beer,  and  at  night  I  have  snpi>er.  I 
aaccarone — what  you  call  it? — or  rice 
bbage,  or  I  make  soup  or  bile  some 
with  nil  four  together  it  come  to  about 
.Od.  a- day  for  living. 
the  house  where  I  live  they  are  all 
i.  They  are  nearly  all  Italians  that 
»utI^athcr-lano  and  Saffron -hill.  There 
>d  bit  of  them  live  there.  I  should  say 
dare  sny  there  is.  The  house  where  I 
uy  own.  I  let  empty  room ;  they  bring 
wn  things,  yon  know.  It  is  my  lease, 
ay  the  rent. 

s  only  the  people  say  that  the  Italian 
•e  badly  used:  they  are  not  so,  the 
( are  very  kind  to  them.  If  he  make  Is, 
g  it  home ;  if  3s.  or  4s.  or  0//.  he  bring 
!.  He  is  not  command^  to  bring  home 
ti ;  that  is  what  the  people  say.  I  was 
e  magistrate  of  pohce  in  Marlborough- 
3ar  days  ago,  about  a  little  Itahan  boy 
e  policemen  take  for  asking  money. 
ne.ask  to  buy  his  monkey  and  talk  with 
d  then  he  ask  for  a  penny,  and  the  police 
n.  A  gentleman  ask  me  about  the  boys, 
m  it  is  all  nonsense  what  the  people  say. 
I  no  more  boys  sent  liere  now.  If  a  boy 
over,  and  he  is  bad  boys,  he  goes  and 
the  street  instead  of  working;  then,  after 
BO  much  for  his  coming  to  England,  it 
I.  It  does  not  pay  the  boys.  If  I  was 
>r  I  would  not  have  the  boys,  if  they 
are  for  nothing. 

ypose  I  have  two  organs,  then  one  is  in 
use  doing  nothing.  Then  some  one 
ad  say, '  Lend  me  the  organ  for  to-day.' 
say,  *  Yes/  and  charge  him,  some  44f., 
4^. ;  or  if  somebody  ill  and  he  cannot 
then  he's  organ  doing  nothing,  and  he 
out  for  4</.  or  Od,  There  is  two  or  three 
ion  who  sends  out  men  with  organs, 
ont  know  who  has  got  the  most  of  us. 
hey  pny  the  men  1/.  a-mont!i  and  their 
r  some  lbs.  Then,  some  goes  half  and 
m :  then,  it's  more  profits  to  the  man 
le  master. 

cistmas-time  is  nothing  like  the  sum- 
ae.  Sometimes  they  give  you  a  Christ - 
X,  but  it's  not  the  time  for  Christmas- 
)w.  Sometimes  it's  a  glass  of  beer: 
*  a  Christmns-box  for  you.'  Sometimes 
lass  of  gin,  or  rum,  or  a  piece  of  pud- 


ding :  •  Here's  a  Christmas-box  for  you.'  I 
have  had  Gd,^  but  never  Is.  for  a  Christmas- 
box.  Sometimes  on  a  boxing-day  it  is  3«.,  or 
2s.  ed.  for  the  doy. 

"  I  have  never  travelled  in  the  countiy  with 
my  organ,  only  once  when  I  was  young,  as  ftr 
as  Liverpool,  but  no  fhrthcr.  Many  has  got 
his  regular  time  out  in  the  countiy.  "When  I 
go  out  with  the  organ  I  should  say  it  make 
altogether  that  I  walk  ten  miles.  I  want  two 
new  pairs  of  boots  every  year.  I  start  off  in 
the  morning,  sometimes  eight,  sometimes  nine 
or  ten,  whether  I  have  f&rio  go,  I  never  stop 
out  after  seven  o'clock  at  night  Some  do, 
but  I  don't. 

"  I  don't  know  music  at  all.  I  am  middling 
fond  of  it.  There  is  none  of  the  Italians  that 
I  know  that  sings.  The  French  is  very  fond 
of  singing. 

"  When  first  you  begins,  it  tries  the  wrist, 
turning  the  handle  of  the  organ ;  but  you  soon 
gets  accustomed  to  it.  At  first,  the  arm  was 
sore  with  the  work  all  day.  When  I  am  play- 
ing I  ttun  the  handle  regularly.  Sometimes 
there  are  people  who  say,  *  Go  a  little  quick,' 
but  not  often. 

"If  the  silk  in  flront  of  the  organ  is  bad,  I  get 
new  and  put  it  in  myself ;  the  rain  spoil  it  vieiy 
much.  It  depend  upon  what  sort  of  organ  he 
is,  as  to  the  sort  of  silk  he  gets :  sometimes 
'2s.  6d,  a-yard,  and  he  take  about  a  yard  and  a 
half.  Some  like  to  do  this  once  a-year ;  but 
some  when  he  see  it  get  a  little  dirty,  like 
fresh  things,  yon  know,  and  then  it  is  twiee 
a-ycnr. 

•*The  police  are  very  quiet  to  us.  When 
anybody  throw  up  a  window  and  say,  *  Go  on/ 
I  go.  Sometime  they  say  there  is  sick  in  the 
house,  when  there  is  none,  but  I  go  just  the 
same.  If  I  did  not,  then  the  policeman  come, 
and  I  get  into  trouble.  I  have  heard  of  the 
noise  in  the  papers  about  the  organs  in  the 
street,  but  we  never  talk  of  it  in  our  quarter. 
They  pay  no  attention  to  tlie  subject,  for  they 
know  if  anybody  say, '  Go/  then  we  must  de- 
part   That  is  what  we  do." 

Italian  Pipebs  and  Claiuonet  Pulysbs. 

"  The  companion  I  got  about  with  me,  is  with 
me  from  Naples,  not  the  city,  but  in  the 
coimtiy.  His  is  of  my  family ;  no,  not  my 
cousin,  but  my  mother  was  the  sister  of  his 
cousin.  Yes!  yes!  yes!  my  cousin.  Some 
one  told  me  he  was  my  nephew,  but  it's 
cousin.  Naples  is  a  pretty  city.  It  is  more 
pretty  than  Paris,  but  not  so  big.  I  worked 
on  the  groimd  at  Naples,  in  the  countiy,  and  I 
guarded  sheep.  I  never  was  a  domestic ;  but 
it  was  fbr  my  father.  It  was  groimd  of  his. 
It  was  not  much.  He  worked  the  earth  for 
yellow  com.  Ho  had  not  much  of  sheep, 
only  fifteen.  WTien  I  go  out  with  the  sheep  I 
corry  my  hngpipes  alwoys  with  me.  I  play 
on  them  when  I  was  sixteen  years  of  age.  I 
play  thorn  when  I  guard  my  sheep.    In  mj 


LXV. 


M 


178 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


cotmtiy  they  call  my  instrument  de  'zam- 
pogna.'  All  the  boys  in  my  coantry  play  on 
it,  for  there  are  many  masters  there  who  teach 
it.  I  taught  myself  to  play  it.  I  bought  my 
own  instrument.  I  gave  the  money  myself 
for  that  affair.  It  cost  me  seven  francs.  The 
bag  is  made  of  a  skin  of  goat.  Thero  are 
four  clarionets  to  iL  There  is  one  for  the 
high  and  one  for  the  bass.  I  play  them 
with  different  hands.  The  other  two  clarionets 
make  a  noise  to  make  the  accord ;  one  makes 
high  and  the  other  the  low.  They  drone  to  make 
himmony.  The  airs  I  play  are  the  airs  of  my 
countiy.    I  did  not  invent    them.    One   is 

*  La  Tarentule  Italien,'  and  another  is  what  we 
call  *•  La  Badend/  but  I  not  know  what  you  call 
it  in  French.  Another  is  the  '  Death  of  the 
Roi  de  France.*  I  know  ten  of  these  airs.  The 

*  Pastorello  Naopolitan '  is  veiy  pretty,  and  so 
is  the  *  Pastorelle  Komaino.' 

"  When  I  go  out  to  guard  my  sheep  I  play 
my  zampogna,  and  I  walk  along  and  the 
sheep  foUow  me.  Sometimes  1  sit  down  and 
the  sheep  eat  about  me,  and  I  play  on  my 
instrument  Sometimes  I  go  into  the  moun- 
tains. There  are  plenty  of'  mountains  in  my 
country,  and  with  snow  on  them.  I  can  hear 
the  guardians  of  sheep  playing  all  around  me 
in  the  mountains.  Yes,  many  at  once, — six, 
ten,  twelve,  or  fifteen,  on  every  side.  No,  I  did 
not  play  my  instrument  to  keep  my  sheep 
together,  only  to  leom  the  airs.  1  was  a  good 
player,  but  there  were  others  who  played 
much  better  than  me.  Every  night  in  my 
village  there  are  four  or  six  who  play  together 
instruments  like  mine,  and  all  the  people 
dance.  They  prefer  to  dance  to  the  *  Taren- 
tule Italien.'  It  is  a  pretty  dance  in  our 
costmne.  The  English  do  not  dance  like  nous 
autres.  We  are  not  paid  for  playing  in  the 
village,  only  at  ffites,  when  gentlemen  say, 
'  Flay ; '  and  then  they  give  20  sous  or  40  sons, 
like  that.  There  is  another  air,  which  is  playpd 
only  for  singing.  There  is  one  only  for  smging 
cl^ansons,  and  another  for  singing  *  La  Pridre 
de  la  Vierge.'  Those  th^t  play  the  zampogna 
go  to  the  houses,  and  the  candles  are  lighted 
on  the  altar,  and  we  pUy  while  the  bourgeois 
sing  the  pri^. 

^  I  am  aged  23  years  next  March.  I  was 
sixteen  when  I  learnt  my  instrument  The 
twelfth  of  this  month  I  shall  have  loft  my 
country  nine  months.  I  have  traversed  the 
states  of  Home  and  of  France  to  come  to 
England.  I  marched  all  the  distance,  playing 
my  zampogna.  I  gain  ten  sous  French  whilst 
I  voyage  in  the  states  of  France.  I  march 
from  Marseilles  to  Paris.  To  reach  Marseilles 
by  the  boat  it  cost  15  fr^.  by  head. 

«*The  reason  why  we  left  our  native  land 
is  this : — One  of  our  comrades  hod  been  to 
Pans,  and  he  had  said  he  gained  much  money 
by  painters  by  posing  for  his  form.  Then  I 
had  envy  to  go  to  Pans  and  gain  money. 
In  my  country  they  pay  20  sous  for  each  year 
for  each  sheep.     I  had  200  to  guard  for  a 


monsieur,  who  was  very  xidL.  There  were 
four  of  us  left  our  village  at  the  same  time. 
We  all  four  played  de  zampogna.  My  father 
was  not  content  that  I  voyage  the  world.  He 
was  very  sorry.  We  got  our  passport  ar- 
ranged tout  de  suite,  two  passport  for  us  four. 
We  all  began  to  play  our  instruments  together, 
as  soon  &s  we  were  out  of  the  village.  Four 
of  our  friends  accompanied  us  on  our  road, 
to  say  adieu.  We  took  bread  of  com  vrith  ni 
to  eat  for  the  first  di^.  When  we  had  finished 
that  we  played  at  the  next  village,  and  they 
give  us  some  more  bread. 

*'  At  Paris  I  posed  to  the  artists,  and  they 
pay  me  20  sous  for  the  hour.  The  most  I  pose 
is  four  hours  for  the  day.  We  could  not  pl^y 
our  instruments  in  tlie  street,  because  the 
Serjeant- de-ville  catch  us,  and  take  us  di- 
rectly to  prison.  I  go  to  play  in  the  courts  be- 
fore the  houses.  I  asked  the  concierge  at  the 
door  if  he  would  give  me  permission  to  play 
in  the  court  I  gain  15  sous  or  1  franc  par 
jour.  For  all  the  time  I  rest  in  Paris  I  gain 
2  francs  for  the  day.  This  is  with  posing  to 
artists  to  paint,  and  for  playing.  I  also  plij 
at  the  barri6re  outside  Paris,  where  the  wine 
is  cheap.  They  gave  us  more  there  than  in 
the  courts;  they  are  more  generous  when 
they  drink  the  wine. 

"  When  I  arrive  at  Paris  my  comrades  hsfe 
leave  me.  I  was  alone  in  Paris.  There  an 
Italian  proposed  to  me  to  go  to  America  aa 
his  servant  He  had  two  organs,  and  he  had 
two  servants  to  play  them,  and  they  gave  him 
the  half  of  that  which  they  gained.  He  said 
to  me,  that  he  would  search  for  a  {nno 
organ  for  me,  and  I  said  I  would  give  lum 
the  half  of  that  which  I  gained  in  the  stareetk 
He  made  us  sign  a  card  before  a  notary. 
He  told  us  it  would  cost  150  francs  to  go  to 
America.  I  gave  him  the  money  to  pay  from 
Paris  to  Folkestone.  From  tliere  we  voyaged 
on  foot  to  Londres.  I  only  worked  for  mni 
for  eight  days,  because  I  said  I  would  not 
go  to  Am^rique.  He  is  here  now,  for  he  has 
no  money  to  go  in  Am^que. 

"  I  met  my  cousin  here  in  Londres.  I  w« 
here  fifteen  da}'s  before  I  met  him.  We 
neither  of  us  speak  Anglais,  and  not  French 
either,  only  a  little  very  bad ;  but  we  under- 
stand it  We  go  out  together  now,  and  I 
play  the  zampogna,  and  he  the  '  bifora 
Italien,'  or  what  the  lYench  call  flageolet^ 
and  the  English  pipes.  It  is  like  a  fiageolet. 
He  knows  all  the  airs  that  I  play.  He  play  well 
the  airs — that  ho  does.  Ho  wears  a  cloak 
on  his  shoulders,  and  I  have  one,  too ;  but  I 
left  it  at  home  to-day.  It  is  a  very  large 
cloak,  with  tliree  yards  of  etoffe  in  it.  He 
carry  in  his  hat  a  feather  of  what  you  call 
here  peacock,  and  a  French  lady  give  hixii 
the  bright  ribbon  which  is  round  his  hat 
I  have  also  plume  de  peacock  and  flowen 
of  stuff,  like  at  tlie  shops,  round  my  hat  In 
my  couutrj-  we  always  put  roimd  our  hit 
white  and  red  tlowers. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


179 


imetbnes  ve  go  to  pose  to  the  artists, 
is  not  always.  There  are  plenty  of 
near  Newman-street,  but  in  other 
rs  there  are  none  at  alL  It  is  for  our 
ae  they  paint  ns.  The  colours  they  put 
3  pictures  are  those  of  our  costume.  I 
been  three  times  to  a  gentleman  in  a 
street,  where  they  took  our  portraits 
jnraphique.  They  give  a  shilling.  I  know 
>nses  where  I  go  to  be  done  for  a  por- 
but  I  don't  know  the  names  of  the 
surs,  or  the  streets  where  they  reside. 
3  artists'  they  pay  1a.  par  heure,  and  we 
two  or  three  heures,  and  the  most  is 
eures.  When  we  go  together  we  have 
eh  for  the  hour.  My  cousin  is  at  an 
I  to-day.  They  paint  him  more  than 
ecause  he  carries  a  sash  of  silk  round 
aist,  with  ornaments  on  it.  I  haven't 
le,  because  I  want  the  money  to  buy 

e  gain  \s.  each  the  day.  Ah !  pardon, 
eur,  not  more  than  that.  The  artists 
t  for  every  day,  perhaps  one  time  for 
eek.  "When  we  first  come  here,  we  take 
ween  the  two,  but  now  it  makes  cold, 
B  cannot  often  play.  Yesterday  we  play 
ville,  and  we  take  Td,  each.  Plenty  of 
IS  look  at  us,  but  when  my  comrade 
bis  hat  they  give  nothing.  There  is 
onth  we  take  25.  each  the  day,  but  now 
l«.  For  the  tlirce  months  that  we  have 
lere,  we  have  gained  12s.  the  week  each, 
,if  wo  count  what  we  took  when  first  we 
rrived .  For  two  months  we  took  always 
m  every  day — always,  always ;  but  now 
ily  1«.,  or  2«.,  or  Id.  I  had  saved  72«., 
had  it  in  my  bourse,  which  I  place  un- 
jT  head  when  I  sleep.  "We  sleep  three  in 
-myself,  my  cousin,  and  another  Italian. 

night  this  other  toko  my  bourse  and 
ray.  Now  I  have  only  8».  in  my  bourse, 
rly  broke  the  heart  when  I  was  robbed. 
9  pay  2rf.  for  each  for  our  bed  every 

We  live  in  a  house  held  by  a  Mossieu 
I.  There  are  three  who  sleep  in  one 
ne,  and  my  comrade,  and  another.  We 
i  large.  This  mossieu  let  us  lodge 
ir  than  otliors,  because  we  are  miserable, 
ive  not  much  money.    For  breakfast  we 

half-loaf  each  one.  It  is  a  loaf  that 
list  pay  Ad.  or  44rf.  We  pay  Hid.  each 
at,  and  \d.  each  for  a  cup  of  tea  or 
In  the  day  we  eat  '2d.  or  3</.  between 
>r  some  bread,  and  we  come  home  the 
It  half- past  eight,  and  we  eat  supper. 
f  maccaroni,  or  potatoes  boiled,  and  we 
d.  each.  It  costs  us  Qd.  each  ihe  day 
There  are  twenty-four  Italian  in  the 
where  we  live,  and  they  have  three 
is.  When  one  is  more  miserable  than 
lers,  then  he  is  helped ;  and  at  another 
le  assists  in  his  turn.  We  pay  2rf.  a- 
0  wash  our  shirt.  I  always  share  with 
iisin  what  he  makes  in  the  day.  If  he 
>  work  and  I  stop  at  home,  it  is  the  same 


thing,  and  the  same  with  me.  He  carries  the 
money  always,  and  pays  for  what  we  have 
want  to  eat;  and  then,  if  I  wish  to  go  back  to 
my  own  country,  then  we  share  the  money 
when  we  separate. 

**  The  gentlemen  give  ns  more  money  than 
the  ladies.  We  have  never  had  anything  to 
eat  given  to  us.  They  have  asked  us  to  sing, 
but  we  don't  know  how.  Only  one  we  have 
sung  to,  an  Italian  mossieu,  who  make  our 
portraits.  We  sang  the  *  Prayer  of  the  Sainte 
Vierge.'  They  have  also  asked  us  to  dance, 
but  we  did  not,  because  the  seijeant-de^ville, 
if  we  assemble  a  great  mob,  come  and  defend 
us  to  play. 

**  We  have  been  once  before  the  magistrate, 
to  force  the  mossieu  who  brought  us  over  to 
render  the  passport  of  my  native  village.  He 
has  not  rendered  to  me  my  card.  We  shall 
go  before  a  magistrate  again  some  day. 

"  I  can  write  and  read  Italian.  I  did  not  go 
much  to  the  school  of  my  native  village,  but 
the  master  taught  me  what  I  know.  I  can 
read  better  than  I  write,  for  I  write  very  bad 
and  slow.  My  cousin  cannot  read  and  write. 
I  also  know  my  numbers.  I  can  count  quickly. 
When  we  write  a  letter,  we  go  to  an  Italiui 
mossieu,  and  we  tell  him  to  say  this  and  that, 
and  he  puts  it  down  on  the  paper.  We  pay 
1«.  for  the  letter,  and  then  at  the  post  th^ 
make  us  pay  2«.  2</.  When  my  parents  get  a 
letter  from  me,  they  take  it  to  a  mossieu, 
or  the  schoolmaster  of  the  village,  to  read 
for  them,  because  they  cannot  read.  They 
have  sent  me  a  letter.  It  was  well  written 
by  a  gentleman  who  wrote  it  for  them.  I 
have  sent  my  mother  five  pieces  of  five  francs  , 
from  Paris.  I  gave  the  money,  and  they  gave 
me  a  letter ;  and  then  my  mother  went  to  the 
consul  at  Naples,  and  they  gave  her  the 
money.  Since  I  have  been  here  I  could 
send  no  money,  because  it  was  stolen.  If  I 
had  got  it,  I  should  have  sent  some  to  my 
parents.  When  I  have  some  more,  I  shall 
send  it. 

"  I  love  my  mother  very  much,  and  she  is 
good,  but  my  father  is  not  good.  If  he  gain  a 
piece  of  20  sous,  he  goes  on  the  morrow  to  the 
marchand  of  wine,  and  play  the  cards,  and 
spend  it  to  drink.  I  never  send  my  money 
to  my  father,  but  to  my  mother." 

Italian  with  Mokket. 

Alt  Italian,  who  went  about  with  trained  mon- 
keys, furnished  me  with  the  following  account. 

He  had  a  peculiar  boorish,  and  yet  good- 
tempered  expression,  especially  when  he  laugh- 
ed, which  he  did  continually. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  brown,  ragged,  doth 
jacket,  which  was  buttoned  over  along,  loose, 
dirty,  drab  waistcoat,  and  his  trowsers  were  of 
broad-ribbed  corduroy,  discoloured  with  long 
wearing.  Bound  his  neck  was  a  plaid  hand- 
kerchief, and  his  shoes  were  of  the  extreme 
*'  strong-men's"  kind,   and   grey  with  dust 


160 


LOXDOX  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LOSJJOS  POOR, 


and  want  of  Maoking.  He  wurc  the  Savoy 
Aud  broad-briiimicd  felt  hat,  aud  witli  it  ou  hid 
head  had  a  vur>'  picturesque  apiMUiraiice,  and 
the  sliadow  of  the  brim  falling  on  the  upper 
part  of  his  brown  face  gave  luui  abuoiit  a  Mu- 
zillo-like  look.  There  was,  howtnrcr,  an  udour 
about  him, — half  monkey,  half  dirt, — that 
was  far  from  agreeable,  aud  which  pervaded 
the  aiiartmeiit  in  which  he  sat. 

'*  1  have  jf;ot  monkey, "  lie  said,  "  but  1 
mustn't  call  in  London.  I  goes  out  in  eoun- 
tree.  I  was  frightened  to  come  here.  I  was 
frightened  you  give  me  months  in  prison 


I  did  cr}'  I — I  cry  because  I  have  no  money  to 
go  and  buy  anoder  monkey  !  Yes  !  I  did  love 
my  monkey !  I  did  love  him  for  the  sake  of 
my  life !  I  give  de  raiiUDa,  and  bile  dcm  for 
him.  He  have  eveiy  ting  he  like.  I  am 
come  here  from  Parma  .about  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen year  ago.  I  used  to  work  in  my  coon- 
tree.  I  used  to  go  and  look  at  de  ship  in  d« 
montapfiK's :  non !  non !  pas  des  vaisaeauz, 
mais  lies  moutons !  I  beg  your  pardon  to 
laugh.  ]^L*  master  did  bring  me  up  here,— 
dat  master  is  gone  to  America  now, — he  is 
comi!  to  mo  and  tell  me  to  come  to  Angletexxe. 


Someafmycouutr}Tncni8ver}'frightenedwhat  j  Hi' has  tell  mc  I  make  plenty  of  money  m 
yon  do.     Ko,  sir,  I  never  play  de  monkey  in  dc  i  dis  country.    All !  I  could  get  plenty  of  mo* 
I  have  been  out  varu  dere  is  so  many  ;  ucy  in  dat  time  in  London,  but  now  I  get  not 


donkey,  up  a  top  at  dat  village — vat  you  call :  iniK)sh.    I  vork  for  myself  at  present 
—I  cant  tell  de  name.    JJey  goes  dere  for 
pastime,  —  pleasure,  —  when   it    makes 


line 
weatlier.  iJere  is  two  church,  aud  two  large 
hotel, — yes,  I  tiuk  it  is  Blackheath!  1  goes 
dere  somt^tiine  >iil  my  monkey.  1  have  got 
only  one  ninnkey  now, — homcLiine  I  have  got 
two; — he  is  dressed  coLiiue  un  soldat  rouge, 
like  one  soldier,  vid  a  red  jacket  and  a  Jiona- 
parte'b  hat.  My  monkey  only  pull  olf  his 
hat  a:ul  take  a  de  money.  lie  u&ed  to  ride  a 
de  dojT ;  but  dey  stole  a  dedfi*;, — some  of  de 
tinkare,  a  mun  vid  de  unibrella  goiii^'  by,  stole 
a  him.  JJere  is  only  tree  uiontlis  dut  I  have 
got  my  monkey.  It  is  iny  own.  I  ^avc  dirt^- 
livc  shilling  for  dis  one  I  got.  lie  did  not 
know  no  tricks  when  he  come  to  me  lirst.  1 
did  teach  u  him  all  he  know.  I  Utich  a  hiiu 
vid  de  kindness,  do  you  see.  I  must  look 
rough  for  irco  or  four  times,  but  not  to  l>eat 
him.  lie  can  hardly  stir  about ;  he  is  afraid 
dat  you  go  to  liit  him,  you  sec.    I  mustn't 


My 

master  give  me  nine — ten  shilhng  each  veei, 
and  my  ftwit,  and  my  lodging— yes !  eveiy- 
tiu<;  ven  I  am  lirst  come  here.  I  used  to  go 
out  vid  de  organ, — a  good  one, — and  I  did  get 
two,  tree,  and  more  sliillan  for  my  master 
each  day.  It  was  chance-work :  sometiuet 
I  did  get  noting  ut  all.  Do  organ  was  nr 
master's.  He  had  no  one  else  but  me  wid 
him.  We  use«l  to  travel  about  togeder,  and 
he  took  all  de  money.  He  had  one  Ger- 
man piano,  and  )dny  de  moosick.  I  cant  tdl 
how  nioosh  ho  did  make, — ho  never  tt-ll  to 
me, — but  I  did  shoat  him  sometimes  myself. 
Sometime  when  I  take  de  two  sliillan  I  did 
give  him  dc  eighteen -pence !  I  b<'g  your  par- 
don to  laugh !  De  man  did  bring  up  many 
lUihons  t^)  dis  countr}',  but  now  it  is  difficutt 
to  get  de  passports  for  my  couutrj'men.  I 
was  C'ightoeu  months  with  my  master ;  after 
dat  I  vent  to  fann -house.  1  run  away  ftoBi 
my  master.    He  pave  mo  a  slaj)  of  do  face, 


feed  him  ven  I  am  teaching  1dm.  Some- 1  you  know,  von  time,  so  I  don't  like  it.  yon 
times  1  buy  a  happorth  of  nuts  to  give  him, !  know,  and  run  awny!  I  beg  your  panlon  to 
after  ht>  ha.s  done  what  I  wont  him  to  do. .  lau^h !  I  used  to  do  good  many  tings  at  de 
Dis  one  has  not  de  force  behind ;  he  is  weuk  i  riirni -house.  It  was  in  Yorkshire.  1  used  to 
in  de  back.  Some  monkey  is  like  de  children  |  look  at  di:  beasts,  and  takf  a  de  vater.  1  don-t 
at  de  school,  some  is  very  hard  to  teush,  ^'et  noting  for  ray  vork,  only  for  de  sake  of  de 
and  some  learn  de  more  quick,  you  see.  De  |  ln-lly  I  do  it.  I  was  dere  about  tree  year, 
one  I  had  before  dis  one  could  do  many  lings.  .  Dvy  behave  to  me  verj'  Will.  Dey  give  me  de 
He  had  not  much  esjtrit  pas  pi'iinde  chose ;  clothes  and  all  I  wont.  After  dat  I  go  to 
but  he  could  ploy  de  drum, — de  litldle,  too, —  I  Livi-iiiool,  and  I  meet  some  r»f  my  couutry- 
Ah  !  but  he dont  play  de  fiddle  hkc  de  Chris- 1  ;uiii  den\  and  d(?y  lend  me  de  monkey,  and 
iian.  you  know  :  but  like  de  monkey.  He  I  teash  liim  to  danse,  light,  and  jomp,  mu.sh 
used  to  fight  wid  de  sword, — not  exactly  like  I  us  1  could,  and  I  go  wid  my  monkey  about  d« 


de  Cliribtian,  but  like  de  m(mkey  too, — much 
betttr.  1  beg  your  pardon  t«3  laugh,  sir !  He 
u.sed  to  move  his  leg  and  jom]>, — 1  call  it 
danse, — but  he  could  not  do  x'uH^a  like  de 
Christian. — I  have  seen  the  Chi-islian  though 
what  cant  dnuse  more  dan  de  njonkey!  I 
beg  your  pardon  to  laugh.  1  did  pky  valtz  to 
him  on  de  oi>;mii.  Non  t  he  had  not  moosh 
cor  for  de  miisick,  but  I  force  liim  to  keep  de 
time  by  de  Jerk  of  de  siring.  He  commence  to 
valtz  veil  wlien  lie  die.  He  is  dead  the  vinter 
dat  is  passed,  at  Sheltonham.  He  eat  soim? 
red-ec  paint.  1  \!,\\v  him  some  castor-oil.  but 
no  good  :  he  tlio  in  gn-at  deal  pain,  poor  fellow  I 


c(uuitr>'. 

"  Some  day  I  make  tree  shillan  wid  xny 
monkey,  sometime  only  sixp<>nce,  and  some- 
time noting  at  all.  "When  it  rain  or  snow  I 
can  get  noting.  I  gain  peut-etre  a  dozcii 
sliillan  a  week  isid  my  inonkv'y,  sometime 
more,  but  not  ofli^n.  Den^  is  long  time  1  have 
been  in  d*;  environs  of  London ;  but  I  dont 
like  to  go  in  do  streets  here.  I  dont 
like  to  go  to  prison,  ^loiikey  is  defended, 
—  dcfimdUf — what  you  call  it,  London.  Bni 
dere  is  many  monkey  in  London  still.  Oh, 
non !  not  a  dozen.  Dere  is  not  one  do- 
z»n  monkey  wot  play  in  Angleterre.    1  Know 


I  rather  lose  six  pouiiJ.a  than  lose  my  monkey.  \  dere  is  two*  monkey  it  Suflron  hiU,  and  one  go 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


181 


Jon ;  bat  he  do  no  harm.  I  don't  know 
monkej  was  train  to  go  down  de  area 
eol  a  de  silver  spoons  out  of  de  kitchen, 
onld  be  great  fool  to  tell  dat ;  but  every 
ust  get  a  living  de  best  dey  can.  Wot 
ron  about  de  monkey  I'm  frightened  vill 
le! 

tell  jou  dey  is  defended  in  de  streets, 
»y  take  me  up.  I  hope  not  My  mon- 
very  honest  monkey,  and  get  mo  de 
I  never  was  in  prison,  and  I  would 
:e  to  be.  I  play  de  nioosick,  and  please 
ople,  and 'never  steal  noting.  Non! 
Die  no  steal,  nor  my  monkey  too.  Dey 
ooen  never  say  noting  to  me.  I  am  not 
r,  but  artiste  \ — every  body  know  dat — 
\j  monkey  is  artiste  too !  I  beg  your 
1  to  laugh. " 

The  DiNdiio  Doas. 

EiTED  the  following  narrative  from  the 
m  who  has  been  so  long  known  about 
xeots  of  London  with  a  troop  of  x>er- 
ig  dogs.  He  was  especially  picturesque 
I  appearance.  His  hair,  which  was 
3d  rather  than  grey,  was  parted  down 
iddle,  and  hung  long  and  straight  over 
lonlders.    He  was  dressed  in  a  coach - 

blue  greatcoat  with  many  capos.  His 
ind  was  in  a  shng  made  out  of  a  dirty 
^-handkerchief,  and  in  his  other  he  held 
k,  bj  means  of  which  l^e  could  just 
;e  to  hobble  along.  Ho  was  vor^'  ill, 
Tj  poor,  not  having  been  out  with  his 
ir  nearly  two  months.    He  appeared  to 

in  great  pcdn.  The  civiUty,  if  not 
less  of  his  manner,  threw  an  air  of 
nent  about  him,  that  Btruck  me  more 
y  from  its  contrast  with  tlie  manners 

English  belonging  to  the  same  class. 
gan: — 

tiave  do  dancing  dogs  for  de  streets- 
hare  nothing  else.  I  have  tree  dogs — 
I  called  Finette,  anoder  von  Favorite, 
}  her  nomme,  on  de  odor  von  Ozor. 
16  said,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
jrer  to  my  inquiiy  as  to  what  the  dogs 

un  danse,  un  valse,  un  jomp  a  dc 
ind  troo  de  hoop  —  non,  noting  else. 
ime  I  had  de  four  dogs— •  I  did  lose  de 

Ah!    sho    had    bcaucoup    d'esprit — 

of  vit,  you  say — she  did  jomp  a  de 
Btter  dan  all.  H  or  nomrao  was  Taborine ! 
is  dead  dare  is  lung  time.  All  ma  dogs 
les  habillements  —  the  dress  and  dc 
hat  Dey  have  a  leotcl  jackette  in 
colours  en  ^toffe — some  de  red,  and 
le  green,  and  some  de  bleu.  Deir  hats 
rouge  et  noir — red  and  black,  wit  a 
plume- fedder,  you  say.  Dere  is  some 
.1  year  I  liave  been  in  dis  country.  I 
from  Italic  —  Italie  —  Oui,  Monsieur, 
:  did  live  in  a  leetle  ville,  trento  migUa, 
uile,  de  Parma.  Jc  travaille  dans  le 
pc,  I  YGck  out  in  de  countrie — ^je  ne 


sais  comment  vous  appellez  la  campagne. 
There  is  no  commerce  in  de  montagne.  I  am 
come  in  dis  countiy  here.  I  have  leetel 
business  to  come.  I  thought  to  gagner  ma 
vie — to  gain  my  life  wid  my  leetel  dogs  in 
dis  coimtrie.  I  have  dem  dej&  when  I  have 
come  here  from  Parma — j'cu  avail  dix.  I 
did  have  de  ten  dogs — je  les  apporte.  I  have 
carried  all  de  ten  from  Italie.  I  did  learn — 
yes — yes — de  dogs  to  donsoin  ma  own  coun- 
trie. It  did  make  de  cold  in  de  montagne  in 
winter,  and  I  had  not  no  vork  dere,  and  I 
must  look  for  to  gain  my  life  some  oder  place. 
Apr^s  9a,  I  have  instruct  my  dogs  to  clanse. 
Yes,  ils  learn  to  danse ;  I  play  de  music,  and 
dey  do  jomp.  Non,  non — pas  du  tout!  I 
did  not  never  beat  ma  dogs ;  dare  is  a  way  to 
learn  de  dogs  without  no  vip.  Premierement, 
ven  I  am  come  hero  I  have  gained  a  leetel 
monnaie — plus  que  now — beaucoup  d'avan- 
tage — plent}'  more.  I  am  left  ma  logcment 
— my  lodging,  you  say,  at  W  hours  in  do 
morning,  and  am  stay  away  vid  ma  dogs  till  7 
or  8  hours  in  de  evening.  Oh !  I  cannot  count 
how  many  times  de  leetel  dogs  have  danse  in 
de  day  —  twenty  —  dirty  —  forty  peut-Ctre — 
all  depends  :  sometimes  I  woulil  gain  de  tree 
shilling — sometime  de  couple — sometime  not 
nothing — all  depend.  Ven  it  did  make  bad 
time,  I  could  not  vork;  I  could  not  danse. 
I  could  not  gain  my  life  den.  If  it  make  cold 
de  dogs  are  ill — like  tout  de  mondc.  I  did 
pay  plenty  for  de  nourilure  of  dc  dogs.  Some- 
time dey  did  get  du  pain  do  leetel  dops  it^ 
bread)  in  de  street — sometime  I  give  dem 
de  meat,  and  make  do  soup  for  dem.  Ma 
dogs  danse  comme  les  chiens,  mais  dey  valtz 
comme  les  dames,  and  dey  stand  on  daro 
back-legs  hke  les  gentilhommes.  Alter  I  am 
come  here  to  dis  countrie  two  day,  am  terrible 
malade.  I  am  gone  to  hospital,  to  St  Bai^ 
tolome,  de  veek  before  de  Jour  dc  Ni>cl  (Christ- 
mas-day).    In  dat  moment  1  have  du  fevre. 

I  have  rested  in  I'hospital  quatre  semaine 

four  veek.  Ma  dogs  vero  at  hbertie  all  de 
lime.  Von  compagnon  of  mine  have  pro- 
mised mo  to  take  de  care  of  ma  dogs,  and  ho* 
have  lose  dem  all — tout  les  dix.  After  dat  I 
have  bought  tree  oder  dogs — one  eananol, 
anoder  von  appelU  *  Grifon,'  and  de  oder  vas 
de  dog  ordinaire, — non!  non!  nt.t  one  *pull 
dog.'  He  no  good.  I  mast  have  one  mouth, 
or  six  semaine,  to  instruite  ma  dogs.  I  have 
rested  in  a  logcment  Ilalien  at  Saffron-hill, 
ven  I  am  come  here  to  Lt^ndon.  Dure  vas 
plenty  of  Italiens  dare.  It  was  tout  plein — 
quite  full  of  strangers.  All  come  dare — dey 
come  from  France,  from  Germany,  from  ItoUe. 
I  have  paid  two  shillings  per  semaine  each 
veek — only  pour  le  lit,  for  de  bed.  Every 
von  make  de  kitchen  for  himself.  Vol  number 
vas  dare,  you  say?  Sometime  dare  is  i^O 
person  dere,  and  sometime  dere  is  dirty  per- 
son in  de  logement,  sometime  more  dan  dat 
It  is  vexy  petite  maison.  Daro  is  von  dozen 
beds— dat  is  all — and  two  sleep  demselves 


182 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


ill  each  bed.  Sometimes,  vcn  dere  arrive 
plenty,  dey  sleep  demselves  tree  in  von  bed  — 
but  ordinoircment  dere  is  only  two.  Dey  is 
nil  musicians  dere — one  play  de  organ,  de 
piano,  de  guitar,  do  Hute,  yes,  dare  vos  some 
\ot  played  it,  and  de  viol  too.  Do  great  part 
vas  Itailens.  Some  of  dem  have  des  monkeys, 
dti  odcrs  d<»  mice  white,  and  des  pigs  d'Indes, 
(guinea-pigs)  and  encore  oders  have  des 
dolls  vid  two  lieads,  and  des  puppets  vot 
danse  vid  de  foot  on  de  boards.  Des  animals 
are  in  an  appartcmcnt  apart  vid  do  moosick. 
Dare  vos  sometime  tree  dancing  dogs,  one 
dozen  of  mice,  five  or  six  pigs  d'Indes,  and 
ma  monkey,  altogether  vid  de  moosick,  by 
demselves. 

**  Dare  is  all  de  actors  vot  vas  dare.  Ma 
treo  dogs  gained  mo  sometime  two  shillnn, 
sometime  von  shillan,  and  sometime  I  would 
rest  c»n  my  feet  all  day,  and  not  gain  two  sous. 
Sometimes  do  boys  would  cnsault  ma  dogs 
vid  de  stones.  Dare  is  long  time  I  have 
rested  in  London.  Dare  is  short  time  I  vas 
in  tie  cttmpogne  de  countree  here,  not  much. 
London  is  better  dan  de  canipagne  for  ma 
dogs — dare  is  always  de  vorld  in  London  — 
de  rity  is  large — yes  !  I  am  always  rested  at 
SaCrron-hill  for  JO,  11  yoars.  I  am  malade 
at  prt-seut,  since  the  ir>th  of  Mars ;  in  ma 
anus,  ma  legs,  ma  tighs  have  do  douleure — I 
have  pltnty  of  pains  to  march.  Ma  dogs  are 
in  df  logement  now.  It  is  since  the  lOth  of 
Man»  d:it  I  have  not  vent  out  vid  ma  dogs — 
yes,  since  de  15th  of  Mars  I  have  done  no 
vork.  Since  dat  time  I  have  not  paid  no 
money  for  ma  logement — it  is  due  encore. 
Non!  non!  1  have  not  gained  my  life  since 
tlie  L'ith  of  Mars.  Plenty  of  time  I  have  been 
vitout  noting  to  eat.  Des  Itoliens  at  de  loge- 
ment dL*y  have  given  mo  pieces  of  bread  and 
bouilli.  All !  it  is  verj-  miserable  to  be  poor, 
like  lac.  I  have  sixty  and  tirtcen  years.  I 
cannot  march  now  but  vith  plenty  of  pains. 
Von  doctrir  have  give  to  me  a  letter  for  to 
present  ti>  de  poor-house.  YIq  did  give  me  my 
medicine  ftT  nothing — gratis.  He  is  obliged, 
he  is  dc  doctor  of  de  paroisse.  He  is  a  very 
brave  und  honest  man,  dat  doctor  dare.  At  de 
poor-house  day  have  give  to  me  a  bread  and 
six  sous  on  Friday  of  de  veek  dat  is  past,  and 
told  mo  to  como  de  Vedncsday  next.  But  I 
am  arrive  dere  too  late,  and  dey  give  me 
noting,  and  tell  me  to  come  de  Vednesdsy 
next  encore.  Ma  dogs  dfy  march  now  in  de 
street,  and  cat  something  dare.  Oh!  ma 
God,  tion !  dey  eat  noting  but  what  dey  find 
in  de  street  ven  it  makes  good  times;  but 
ven  it  makes  bad  times  dey  have  noting  at 
all,  poor  dogs !  ven  I  have  it,  dey  have  it, — 
but  ven  dere  is  noting  for  me  to  oat,  dare  is 
not  nig  for  dem,  and  dey  must  go  out  in  de 
streets  and  get  de  nouriture  for  themselves. 
Des  enfans  vot  know  ma  dogs  vill  give  to  dem 
to  eat  sometimes.  Oh!  yes,  if  I  had  de 
means,  1  would  return  to  Italia,  ma  countree. 
But  I  have  not  no  silver,  and  not  no  legs  to 


walk.  Vot  can  I  do  ?  Oh !  jes,  I  am  voy 
sick  at  present.  All  my  limbs  have  great 
douleur — Oh,  yes !  plenty  of  pain.** 

CONCEBTINA  PlJlYER  ON  THE  StEAMBOATI. 

"  I  WAS  always  very  fond  of  music,  and  if  efV 
I  heard  any  in  the  streets,  I  always  followed 
it  about.  I'm  nearly  fifteen  now ;  hot  I  en 
remember  when  I  was  seven,  being  partiea- 
larly  taken  with  music.  I  had  an  uncle  who 
was  captain  of  a  steamer  that  run  to  Bidl- 
mond,  and  I  was  always  on  board  with  hia; 
and  they  used  to  have  a  band  on  board.  It 
wasn't  in  particular  a  passage-boat,  but  m 
excursion  one,  and  let  to  private  parties,  and 
a  band  always  went  along  with  them.  I  wii 
taken  ahmg  to  run  after  orders  for  tlM 
steward ;  and  when  I  had  nothing  to  do,  I 
used  to  go  and  listen  to  them.  I  learn  all 
their  tunes  by  heart.  They  mostly  pli^fld 
dances,  and  very  seldom  any  sentimental 
songs,  unless  anybody  asked  them.  For  nw- 
self,  I  prefer  lively  tunes.  I  don't  know  modi 
operatic  music,  only  one  or  two  airs;  but' 
they're  easier  to  play  on  the  concertina  than 
lively  music,  because  it's  difficult  to  move  the 
fingers  very  quickly.  You  can't  hardly  plm 
a  hornpipe.  It  makes  the  arm  ache  b^ora 
you  can  play  it  all  through,  and  it  makes  such 
a  row  with  the  valve  working  the  bellows  iqp 
and  down,  that  it  spoils  the  music. 

*'*'  I  had  not  got  my  instrument  when  I  was  ia 
this  steamboat.  'When  I  heard  a  tune,  I  tued 
to  whistle  it.  I  asked  my  father  to  buy  mas 
instrument  but  he  wouldn't.  I  was  always  on 
the  steamboat,  helping  uncle;  and  I  coold 
have  had  lots  of  time  to  learn  music  there. 
When  they,  the  musicians,  put  the  harp  down 
in  the  cabin,  I'd  get  placing  on  it.  There  wai 
a  hole  in  the  green  baize  cover  of  the  hup, 
and  I  used  to  put  my  hand  in  and  work  awsf 
at  it.  I  learnt  myself  several  tunes,  such  as 
the  '  Sultan  Polka.'  I  must  have  been  eight 
years  old  then.  I  didn't  play  it  with  both 
hands  :  I  couldn't  do  the  bass. 

**  I  never  had  any  lessons  in  music.  Prs 
done  it  all  out  ()f  my  own  head.  Before  I  had  ^ 
a  concertina,  I  used  to  go  about  amusing  my. 
self  with  a  penny  tin  whistle.  I  could  play  It 
pretty  well,  not  to  say  all  tunes,  but  all  sndi 
as  I  knew  I  could  play  very  well  on  it.  The 
*  Ked,  White,  and  Blue '  was  my  favouzits 
tune. 

"  I  have  a  brother,  who  is  younger  than  I 
am,  and  he,  before  he  was  ten,  was  put  oat  to 
a  master  to  learn  the  'violin.  Father's  a 
labourer,  and  does  something  of  anything  he 
can  get  to  do ;  but  bricklaying  genendly.  Ha 
paid  so  much  a  quarter  for  having  my  brother 
Henry  taught.  I  think  it  was  about  IGs.  s> 
quarter.  It  was  a  great  expense  for  father  at 
first ;  but  afterwards,  when  we  was  hard  iqs 
Henry  coiUd  always  ily  to  the  fiddle  to  earn  a 
crust.  Heniy  never  took  to  music,  not  to  si^ 
well.    I  can  play  more  out  of  my  own  hssa 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


183 


can  by  notes.  He's  a  very  good 
rw. 

8  about  getting  on  for  twelve  when 
rst  bought  me  a  concertina.  That 
nt  was  very  fashionable  then,  and 
y  had  it  nearly.  I  had  an  accordion 
out  it  was  only  a  1«.  iid.  one,  and  I 
ce  a  fancy  to  it  somehow,  although  I 
y  a  few  tunes  on  it.  I  used  to  see 
»ut  my  own  height  carrying  concer- 
)ut  the  streets,  and  humming  them, 
wanted  one.  There  was  a  little  boy 
he  got  one,  and  then  I  wanted  one 
Be  used  to  come  to  our  house,  and 
orts  of  tunes,  for  he  played  very  well, 
le  concertina,  because  it's  like  a  full 
t's  like  haWng  the  fiddle  and  the  harp 
I  used  to  ask  this  little  boy  to  lend 
instrument,  and  I'd  work  the  keys 
ittle,  but  I  couldn't  do  any  airs, 
y  entirely  out  of  my  own  head,  for  I 
d  any  lessons  at  alL  I  learn  the 
)m  hearing  other  people  playing  of 
f  I  hear  a  street  band,  such  as  a 
1  harp  and  cornopean  playing  a  tune, 
them  and  catch  the  air;  and  if  it's 
3f  a  easy  tune  at  all,  I  can  pick  it  up 
n,  for  I  never  want  to  hear  it  more 
e  played  on  an  instrument. 
St,  after  bothering  father  a  long  time, 
t  me  a  half-crown  concertina.  I  was 
len  he  brought  it  into  my  room,  and 
on  the  bed ;  when  I  woke  up  I  see  it. 
ly  set  to  work,  and  before  I  had  got 
I  learnt  *  Pop  goes  the  Weasel.'  I 
pleased.  I  was  up  and  dressed,  and 
,  all  day  long.  I  never  used  to  let 
x>uch,  not  even  my  own  father  hardly, 
tie  should  break  it.  I  did  break  it 
I  then  I  was  regular  dull,  for  fear  I 
86  my  tunes. 

•k  me  six  months  before  I  could  play 
id  then  I  could  play  a'most  any  tune 

The  fingers  had  learnt  the  keys,  and 
ere  the  notes  was,  so  that  I  could 
16  dark.  My  brother  could  play  the 
U,  long  before  I  could  do  any  tunes. 

to  play  together  duets,  such  as  *A 
Boat  unto  the  Ferry.'  We  never 
3nt  out  together  in  the  streets  and 
ther,  only  once  or  twice,  because  a 
d  a  concertina  don't  sound  well  to- 
iless  a  harp's  with  it,  and  then  it's 

I  came  to  get  on  the  steamboats  was 
ler  went  to  take  a  trip  up  to  Kew  one 
wanted  to  go,  and  he  said  if  I  could 
fSare  I  might  go.  So  I  thought  I'd 
»)ncertina  and  tiy.  So  I  went,  and  I 
Ukt  day  about  9«.,  all  in  halfpence  and 
That  was  only  by  going  up  to  Kew 
ng  back  again.  It  was  on  a  Whitsun- 
Then  I  thought  I'd  do  it  again  the 
and  I  think  I  took  about  the  same, 
ept  on  them  all  together.  I  didn't 
he  Kew  boats,  because  they  had  got 


their  regular  musicians,  and  they  complained 
to  the  superintendent,  and  he  forbid  me  going. 
Then  I  went  to  the  Woolwich  boats,  and  I 
used  to  earn  a  heap  of  money,  as  much  as 
10«.  every  day,  and  I  was  at  it  bSX  the  week  for 
the  season. 

"  I  usen't  to  pay  any  fare,  but  I  got  a  free 
pass.  It  was  mostly  the  crow.  When  I  got 
out  at  the  pier.  I  used  to  tell  them  I'd  been 
playing,  and  they  would  let  me  pass.  Now  I 
know  near  every  man  that  is  on  the  river,  and 
they  let  me  go  on  any  boat  1  like.  They  con- 
sider I  draw  customers,  and  amuse  them 
during  the  trip.  They  won't  let  some  hardly 
play  on  board  only  me,  because  I've  been  on  " 
them  such  a  long  time — these  three  years. 
I  know  all  the  pier-masters,  too,  and  they  are 
all  very  kind  to  me.  Sometimes,  when  I'm 
waiting  for  a  boat  to  go  up  anywhere,  I  play 
on  the  piers,  and  I  always  do  pretty  fair. 

'*  In  winter  I  go  on  the  boats  all  the  same, 
and  I  play  down  in  the  cabin.  Some  of  the 
passengers  will  object  to  it  if  they  are  reading, 
and  then  1  have  to  leave  off,  or  I  should  put 
my  own  self  in  a  hobble,  for  they  would  go  and 
tell  the  captain ;  and  if  he  wouldn't  say  any- 
thing, then  they  would  tell  the  superintendent. 
In  winter  and  wet  weather  is  my  worst  time ; 
but  even  then  I  mostly  take  my  3«.  In  the 
winter  time,  my  best  time  is  between  three 
o'clock  and  six,  when  the  gentlemen  are 
coming  home  from  office ;  and  I  never  hardly 
come  out  before  two  o'clock.  In  summer  its 
good  from  twelve  till  eight  o'clock.  The  pas- 
sengers come  to  go  to  the  Crystal  Palace  in 
the  morning  part  Those  that  are  going  out 
for  pleasure  are  my  best  customers.  In  the 
summer  I  always  take  at  the  rate  of  about  6«. 
a-day.  Pleasure-people  mostly  ask  me  for 
dancing  times;  and  the  gentlemen  coming 
from  business  prefer  song  tunes.  I  have  got 
a  good  many  regular  gentlemen,  who  always 
give  me  something  when  they  are  coming 
from  business.  There  are  some  who  give  me 
Qd,  every  day  I  see  them  ;  but  sometimes  they 
go  up  by  a  different  boat  to  what  I'm  in. 
There's  one  always  gives  me  6</.,  whether  I'm 
playing  or  not ;  and  it's  about  four  o'clock  or 
half-past  that  I  mostly  see  him. 

"  Li  winter  my  hands  gets  very  cold  indeed, 
so  that  I  can  scarcely  feel  the  keys.  Some- 
times I  can't  move  them,  and  I  have  to  leave 
off,  and  go  down  below  and  warm  my  hands  at 
the  cabin  fire. 

**  In  the  summer  I  sometimes  go  out  with  a 
mate  of  mine,  who  plays  the  piccolo.  He's 
very  clever  indeed,  and  plays  most  extraordi- 
naxy.  He's  a  little  bigger  than  me.  He  lives 
by  playing  music  in  the  boats.  W^e  don't  play 
in  the  streets.  I  never  played  in  the  streets 
in  my  life.  He  don't  play  in  the  winter,  but 
works  with  his  father,  who  makes  hair-oil  and 
that,  and  sends  it  out  in  the  country.  He's  a 
regular  perfumer;  aj^d  serves  chandlers*  shops 
and  that  like. 

**  There's  a  tone  we  play  together  called  the 


184 


L0NJ>OK  LABOUR  AND  TBB  LOiU)0»  fOOE. 


*Camp  at  Chobham/  It  begins  ^Ui  my 
doing  the  bugle,  and  he  answers  it  on  his  fife. 
Then  we  do  it  in  the  distance  like.  Then 
come  all  the  different  marches  the  soldiers 
march  to.  Some  people  are  so  fond  of  it, 
that  when  they  see  us  they  come  up  and  ask 
us  to  give  it  them.  It  takes  a  good  quarter  of 
an  hour  to  play  it  When  I'm  with  him,  1 
earn  about  the  same  as  when  I'm  alone ;  but 
I  like  to  go  with  him,  because  it's  company. 

*'  One  of  the  songs  I  play  is,  *  Mother,  is  the 
battle  over?'  That's  lately  come  out.  It  is  a 
lady's  song,  and  they  generally  ask  me  for  it. 
They  also  ask  me  for  &e  Varsoyienne.  At  the 
present  time,  the  girls  mostly  ask  me  for 
*  PoUy,  won't  you  tiy  me,  oh ! '  They  like 
anything  that  is  new,  if  it  is  a  very  pretty 
tune  like  *  Polly,  won't  you  try  me,  oh ! ' 
Sometimes  I  forget  the  tunes ;  they  go  right 
out  of  my  head,  and  then,  perhaps,  a  month 
afterwards  they'll  come  back  again.  Perhaps 
I'll  be  fingering  tlie  keys,  and  I'll  accidental 
do  the  beginning  of  the  air  I'd  forgot,  and 
then  I  remember  it  all  of  a  sudden  the  same 
as  before.  Then  I  feel  quite  glad  that  I've 
got  it  back  again,  and  I'll  keep  on  playing  it 
for  a  long  time. 

**  When  once  I  begin  to  play,  I  can  scarcely 
leave  off.  I  used  at  first  to  play  as  I  went 
along  the  streets,  but  now  I  fieel  too  tired  to 
do  it.  If  I  haven't  been  out  in  the  boats,  I 
must  have  a  play  just  the  same.  I  like  it  very 
much.  I  don't  like  any  of  the  other  instru- 
mcnts,  now  I've  learnt  this  one  so  welL  The 
fiddle  is  pretty  good,  but  nothing,  to  my  fancy, 
Uke  the  concertina. 

"  The  concertina  I  use  now  cost  mo  16«. 
It's  got  twenty  double  keys — one  when  I  pull 
the  bellows  out  and  one  when  I  close  iu  I 
wear  out  an  instrument  in  three  months.  The 
edges  of  the  bellows  get  worn  out :  then  I 
have  to  patch  them  up,  till  they  get  so  weak 
that  it  mostly  doubles  over.  It  costs  me  about 
1<.  a- week  to  have  them  kept  in  order.  They 
get  out  of  tune  very  soon.  They  file  them, 
and  put  fresh  notes  in.  I  get  all  my  repairs 
done  trade  price.  I  tune  my  instrument 
myself.  The  old  instruments  I  sell  to  the 
boys,  for  about  as  much  as  I  give  for  a  new  one. 
They  are  very  dear ;  but  I  get  them  so  cheap 
when  I  buy  them,  I  only  give  10«.  for  a  20«. 
instrument. 

"  I've  got  a  beautiful  instrument  at  home, 
and  I  give  a  pound  for  it,  and  it's  worth  two. 
Those  I  buy  come  from  Germany,  where  they 
make  them,  and  then  they  are  took  to  this 
warehouse,  where  I  buy  them. 

"  Once  I  was  turned  off  the  penny  steam- 
boats.  There  was  such  a  lot  of  musicians 
come  on  board,  and  they  got  so  cheeky,  that 
when  they  was  told  not  to  play  they  would. 
just  the  same,  and  so  a  stop  was  put  to  all 
music  on  board.  If  one  was  stopped  all  must 
be  stopped,  co  I  was  told  not  to  go.  I  still  had 
my  fourpenny  boats.  I  never  used  to  go  on 
the  penny  boats  hardly,  for  I  never  used  to 


get  much  money  in  th«m.    Kowl  mia 
go  on  them  just  the  same  as  before. 

**  I  caa't  say  how  often  I've  been  i 
Thames.  I  never  go  as  far  as  Chelsea  1 
only  about  twice  a-day,  for  most  of  tike 
get  out  between  London-bridge  and 
ehns.  My  general  run  is  down  to  Hun( 
and  back  to  Blackfriare;  and  I  do  that 
fifty  times  a-day. 

"  I  never  go  out  on  the  Sunday.  I 
go  to  a  Sunday-school,  and  then  take  i 
Father  wants  me  to  be  a  scholar :  I  ei 
and  write.  I'm  a  teacher  at  the  S 
school,  and  make  the  children  read 
lessons.  I  know  multiplication,  and  ad 
and  all  them.  I  go  to  school  every  ni 
half-past  six  and  come  home  at  nine, 
makes  me  and  my  brother  go  to  school 
day,  and  we  pay  1«.  each  »-week.  It's 
p:()od  school,  and  the  master  is  very 
There  are  about  30  night  scholars  a 
day  ones,  besides  about  20  girls.  His  da 
teaches  the  girls. 

'*  At  night  when  I  leave  school  I  ( 
play  music  three  nights  a- week  at  a  bal 
brother  goes  with  me.  Wegotoaplaoc 
Westminster-road  on  Mondays,  Wedm 
and  Thursdays.  It's  a  very  nice  ball 
and  there  are  generally  about  200 
They  pay  1«.  each.  There  are  four  mac 
a  fiddle,  a  harp,  a  fife,  and  a  conceiti] 
isn't  a  Casino;  it's  an  assembly-roomf 
teaches  on  three  nights  in  the  week,  a 
pupils  assemble  and  practise  on  ttaie 
nights. 

**  The  room  is  like  a  street  almost,  i 
music  sounds  well  in  it.  The  othei 
play  from  notes,  and  I  join  in.  I  lean 
airs  this  way.  My  mother  and  fathe 
very  fond  of  dancing,  and  they  used 
there  nearly  every  night,  and  I'd  go 
with  them,  and  then  I'd  Usten  and  lai 
tunes.  My  brother  regularly  played 
He  was  about  ten  years  old  when  1: 
went  to  play  there ;  but  he  could  pi 
music  that  was  put  before  him.  In  U 
time  he  blows  the  bellows  at  a  blac 
and  engineer's.  The  first  time  I  pUyc 
orchestra  I  felt  a  little  strange.  I  had  1 
rehearsal.  I  went  twenty  times  before 
confident  enough  to  appear  at  night, 
play  the  tunes  well  enough,  but  I  didn' 
when  to  leave  off  at  the  exact  time  th 
At  last  I  learnt  how  to  do  it.  I  don't  ha 
stand  before  me.  I  never  look  at  any 
others'  music.  I  look  at  the  dancing, 
got  to  look  at  the  time  tliey're  dancing  i 
watch  their  figures  when  they  leave  ofi 
proprietor  knew  father,  and  that's  how  '. 
to  have  the  job.  I  get  24.  Gd,  a-nig 
plaj-ing  there,  and  plenty  to  eat  and 
There's  bread  and  cheese  and  a  drop  o 
On  the  other  three  nights  when  I'm  not 
ball  I  stop  at  home,  and  get  a  bit  c 
Father  sends  us  to  bed  early,  about  ha 
nine,  when  I  come  home  from  schoo 


ZOKBOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


189 


baU-nights  rm  sometimea  up  to  two  o'clock  in 
tUe  moming. 

**  I  take  all  the  money  I  earn  home  to  father, 
and  he  gives  me  a  few  halfipence  for  myself. 
All  the  year  round  it  comes  to  5«.  a-dny.  I 
buy  my  own  food  when  I'm  out  on  the  boats. 
I  go  to  a  cookshop.  I  like  pudding  or  pie 
better  than  anything,  and  next  to  that  I  like 
a  bit  of  bread  and  butter  as  well  as  anything, 
except  pie.  I  have  meat  or  veal  pi(;s.  They 
ehargo  you  Qd,  a-plate,  and  you  have  potatoes 
•od  all.  .fVftcr  that  I  have  a  couple  of  pen  orth 
of  pudding  with  sugar.  I  drink  water.  My 
dinner  comes  to  about  9<i.  a-day,  for  I  genonilly 
liave  a  pen'orth  of  apples  as  dessert  Itmnkes 
you  very  hungry  going  about  in  the  steam- 
boats— very  much  so. 

*•  I'm  tlie  only  boy  that  goes  about  tho 
BtPara-boats  with  a  concertina ;  indeed,  I'm  the 
only  boy  above-bridge  that  goes  abrnit  with 
music  at  all  on  the  boats.  I  know  the  old 
gentleman  who  plays  the  harp  at  the  Essex 

Eier.  I  often  go  and  join  in  with  him  when  I 
md  there,  and  we  go  shares.  He  mostly 
plays  there  of  a  moming,  and  we  mostly  of  an 
tficmoon.  We  two  are  tho  only  ones  that 
play  on  the  piers." 

TOK-TOM  PlATEHS. 

Wtthtn  the  last  few  years  East  Indians  play- 
inn  on  the  tom-tom  have  occasionally  mrnie 
thf  ir  appearance  in  the  London  streeti).  The 
hidian  or  Lascar  crossing-sweepers,  who 
earned  their  living  by  alternately  plying  the 
hrwtm  and  sitting  as  models  to  artists — tho 

»  Indian  converted  to  Christianity,  who,  in  his 
calico  clothes,  with  his  brown  bosom  showing, 
mw  seen,  particularly  on  cold  days,  croucliing 
on  the  pavement  and  seUing  tracts,  have 
latvly  disapi>caro{l  from  our  Ijighways,  and  in 
thi-ir  sieatl  the  tom-tom  players  have  made 
their  appearance. 

I  saw  two  of  these  performers  in  one  of  tho 
WvMt-end  streets,  creeping  slowly  down  the 
ceutfi;  of  the  road,  and  b<*ating  their  drums 
with  their  hands,  whilst  they  drawled  out  a 
kind  of  moumftd  song.  Their  mode  of 
parading  the  streets  is  to  walk  one  following 
the  ntbiT,  beating  their  oystcr-harrel-shaped 
dmms  with  their  hands,  which  they  make  llap 
aU>ut  from  the  wrist  like  flounders  out  of 
water,  whilst  they  continue  their  droning 
Bong,  and  halt  at  every  twenty  paces  to  look 
round. 

One  of  these  performers  was  a  haudsome 
lad,  with  a  face  such  as  I  have  seen  in  the 
drawings  of  the  princes  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights 
Kutertainments."  He  had  a  copper  skin  and 
long  black  hair,  which  he  brushed  behind  his 
ears.  On  his  head  was  a  white  turban,  msule 
to  cock  over  one  ear,  like  a  hat  worn  on  ono 
side,  and  its  rim  stood  out  like  the  stopper  to 
a  scent-bottle. 
The  costume  of  the  man  greatly  resembled 

,    tW  of  ft  gentleman  wearing  his  waistcoat  out- 


side his  shirt,  only  tho  waisteoat  was  of  green 
merino,  and  adorned  with  silk  embroidery,  his 
waist  being  bound  in  with  a  scarf.  Linen 
trowsors  and  red  knitted  cuffs,  to  keep  his 
Avrists  worm,  completed  his  costume. 

This  man  was  as  tall,  slim,  and  straight, 
and  as  gracefully  proportioned,  as  a  bronze 
image.  His  face  had  a  serious,  melancholy 
h^ok,  which  seemed  to  work  strongly  on  tho 
feelings  of  the  niurses  and  the  ser\'ant-girls  who 
stopped  to  look  at  him.  His  companion, 
although  dressed  in  the  same  costume,  (tho 
only  difference  being  that  the  colour  of  his 
waistcr)at  was  red  instead  of  green,)  formed  a 
comiral  contrast  to  his  sentimental  Othello- 
loftking  partner,  for  he  was  wliat  a  Yankee 
would  call  "  a  rank  nigger."  His  face,  indeed, 
was  as  black  and  elastic-looking  as  a  printer's 
dabber. 

The  name  of  the  negro- boy  was  Peter.  Be- 
yond '*  Yes"  and  *'  No,"  he  appeared  to  be  per- 
fectly unacquainted  with  the  Enghsh  language. 
His  Othello  friend  was  17  years  of  age,  and 
fi])oko  English  perfectly.  I  could  not  help 
taking  great  interest  in  tliis  lad,  both  from  tho 
pecuharity  of  his  conversation,  which  turned 
chiefly  upon  the  obedience  due  from  children 
to  their  parents,  and  was  almost  fanatical  in 
its  tlieory  of  perfect  submissicm,  and  also  from 
his  singularly  handsome  countenance;  for 
his  eyes  were  almond-shaped,  and  as  black  as 
eM(T-berries,  whilst,  as  he  spoke,  the  nostrils 
of  his  aquilino  nose  beat  like  a  pulse. 

When  1  attempted  to  repeat  after  them  one 
of  their  Indian  songs,  they  both  burst  out  into 
uproarious  merriment.  Peter  rolling  about  in 
his  chair  like  a  serenader  playing  *'  the  bones," 
and  the  young  Othello  laughing  as  if  he  was 
being  tickled. 

In  speaking  of  the  duties  which  they  owed 
to  their  parents,  tho  rules  of  conduct  which 
they  laid  down  as  those  to  he  followed  by  a 
good  son  were  wonderful  for  the  completeness 
of  the  obedience  which  they  held  should  be 
paid  to  a  father's  commands.  They  did  not 
seem  to  consider  that  the  injunctions  of  a 
mother  should  be  looked  upon  as  sacredly  as 
those  of  the  male  parent.  They  told  me  that 
tho  soul  of  the  child  was  damned  if  even  he 
disputed  to  obey  the  father's  command, 
althouffh  he  knew  it  to  be  wrong,  and  contrary 
to  God's  laws.  "-iVllah,"  they  said,  would 
xnsit  any  wickedness  that  was  committed 
through  such  obedience  upon  the  father,  but 
he  would  bless  the  child  for  his  submission. 
Their  story  was  as  follows : — 

•♦  Most  of  the  tom-tom  players  arc  Indians, 
but  we  are  both  of  us  Arabs.'  Tlie  Arabs  are 
ju«5t  equally  as  good  as  the  Indians  at  playing 
the  tom-tom,  but  they  haven't  got  exactly  to 
tho  learning  of  the  manufacture  of  them  yet. 
I  come  from  Mocha,  and  so  does  Peter,  my 
companion;  only  his  father  belongs  to  what 
we  call  the  Abshee  tribe,  and  that's  what  makes 
him  so  much  darker  than  what  I  am.  Tho 
Abshee  tribe  are  now  outside  of  Arabia,  up  by 


186 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  Golf  of  Persia.  They  are  much  the 
same  as  the  Mucdad  people, ^^ it's  all  the  same 
tribe  like. 

**  My  name  is  Usef  Asman,  and  my  father 
has  been  over  here  twelve  years  now.  He  came 
here  in  the  English  army,  I've  heard  him  say, 
for  he  was  in  the  77th  Bengal  Native  Infantry ; 
but  he  wasn't  an  Indian,  but  enlisted  in  the 
service  and  fought  through  the  Sikh  war,  and 
was  wounded.  He  hasn't  got  a  pension,  for 
he  sent  his  luggage  through  Paris  to  England, 
and  he  lost  his  writings.  The  East  India 
Company  only  told  him  that  he  must  wait  un- 
til they  heard  fh>m  India,  and  that's  been 
going  on  for  now  six  years. 

**  Mother  came  homo  with  father  and  me, 
and  two  brothers  and  a  sister.  I'm  the  se- 
cond eldest.  My  brother  is  thirty-six,  and  he 
was  in  the  Crimea,  as  steward  on  board  the 
Hoyal  Hydaspes,  a  steam  screw  she  is.  He  was 
17  and  I  was  G  years  old  when  I  came  over. 
My  brother  is  a  fine  strapping  fellow,  over  six 
feet  high,  and  the  musdes  in  his  arms  are  as 
big  round  as  my  thigh. 

*•*■  I  don't  remember  my  native  country,  but 
Peter  does,  for  he's  only  been  here  for  two 
years  and  five  months.  He  likes  his  own 
country  better  than  England.  His  father  left 
Arabia  to  go  to  Bombay,  and  there  he  keeps 
large  cofiee-shops.  He's  worth  a  little  money. 
His  shops  are  in  the  low  quarter  of  the  town, 
just  the  same  as  Druiy  Lane  may  be,  though 
it's  the  centre  of  the  town.  They  call  the 
place  the  Nacopoora  taleemoulla. 

"  Before  father  went  into  the  army  he  was 
an  interpreter  in  Arabia.  His  father  was  a 
horse-dealer.  My  father  can  apeak  eight  or 
nine  different  languages  fluently,  besides  a 
litUe  of  others.  He  was  the  interpreter  who 
got  Dr.  Woolfe  out  of  Bokhara  prison,  when 
he  was  put  in  because  they  thought  he  was  a 
spy.  Father  was  sent  for  by  the  chief  to  ex- 
plain what  this  man's  business  was.  It  is  the 
Mogul  language  they  speak  there.  My  father 
was  told  to  get  him  out  of  the  country  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  my  father  killed  his  own  horse 
and  camel  walking  so  hard  to  get  him  away. 

"  We  was  obliged  to  put  ourselves  up  to 

Soing  about  the  streets.  Duty  and  necessity 
rst  compelled  me  to  do  it.  Father  couldn't 
get  his  pension,  and,  of  course,  we  couldn't 
sit  at  home  and  starve ;  so  father  was  obliged 
to  go  out  and  play  the  drum.  He  got  his  tom- 
toms from  an  Arab  vessel  which  came  over, 
and  they  made  them  a  present  to  him. 

"We  used  before  now,  father  and  myself, 
to  go  to  artists  or  modelers,  to  have  our  like- 
nesses taken.  We  went  to  Mr.  Armitage, 
when  he  was  painting  a  battle  in  India.  If 
you  recollect,  I'm  leaning  down  by  the  rocks, 
whilst  the  others  are  escaping.  I've  also  been 
to  Mr.  Dobson,  who  used  to  Uve  in  Newman- 
street  I've  sat  to  him  in  my  costume  for 
several  pictures.  In  one  of  them  I  was  like  a 
chief's  son,  or  something  of  that,  smoking  a 
hubble-bubble.    Father  used  to  have  a  deal  of 


work  at  Mr.  Gale's,  in  Fitzroy-square.  Idont 
know  the  subjects  he  painted,  for  I  wasnt 
there  whilst  father  used  to  sit  It  used  to 
lire  me  when  I  had  to  sit  for  two  or  three  hours 
in  one  position.  Sometimes  I  had  to  strip  to 
the  waist.  I  had  to  do  that  at  Mr.  Dobson's 
in  the  winter  time,  and,  though  there  was  a 
good  fire  in  the  room,  it  was  very  wide,  and  it 
didn't  throw  much  heat  out,  and  I  used  to  be 
very  cold.  Ho  used  to  paint  religious  subjects. 
I  had  a  shilling  an  hour,  and  if  a  person  could 
get  after-work  at  it,  I  coidd  make  a  better  li>ing 
at  it  than  in  the  streets ;  in  fact,  I'd  rather  do 
it  any  time,  though  it's  harder  work,  for  there 
is  a  name  for  that,  but  there  is  no  name  for 
going  about  playing  the  tom-tom ;  yet  it's  bet- 
ter to  do  that  than  sit  down  and  see  other 
people  starving. 

'*  Father  is  still  sitting  to  artists.  He 
doesn't  go  about  the  streets — he  couldn't  face 
it  out. 

It's  about  eight  years  ago  since  father  got 
the  tom-toms.  They  are  very  good  ones,  and 
one  of  them  is  reckoned  the  best  in  England. 
They  are  made  out  of  mango  tree.  It  grows 
just  the  same  as  the  bamboo  tree ;  and  they 
take  a  joint  of  it,  and  take  out  the  pith — for 
it's  pithy  inside,  just  like  elderberry  wood, 
with  the  outside  hi^i.  Father  had  these  tom- 
toms for  a  month  before  we  went  out  with 
them. 

*•*  The  first  day  father  went  out  with  me. 
and  kept  on  until  he  got  employ ;  and  then  I 
went  out  by  myself.  I  was  about  for  four 
years  by  myself,  along  with  sister ;  and  then  I 
went  with  Peter ;  and  now  we  go  out  together- 
My  sister  was  only  about  seven  years  old  when 
she  first  went  out,  and  she  used  to  sing.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  costume  with  a  short  jacket^ 
with  a  tight  waistcoat,  and  white  trowsers. 
She  had  a  turban  and  a  sasli. 

"  When  we  first  went  out  we  dono  very 
well.  Wo  took  6,  7,  or  8#.  a-day.  Wo  was 
the  first  to  appear  with  it ;  indeed  there's  only 
mc  and  my  cousin  and  another  man  that 
does  it  now.  Peter  is  my  cousin.  His  real 
name  is  Busha,  but  wc  call  him  Peter,  bC' 
cause  it's  more  a  proper  name  like,  because 
several  jMJople  can  call  him  that  when  they 
can't  Busha.  We  arc  all  turoed  Christians ; 
wo  go  to  school  every  Sunday,  in  Great 
Queen -street,  Lincohi's  Inn,  and  always  to 
chapel.    They  are  joined  together. 

"  I  and  Peter  take  now,  on  a  fine  day  in 
summer-time,  generally  5  or  6s.,  but  coming 
on  winter  as  it  does  now  it's  as  much  as  we 
can  do  to  take  2«.  or  9«.  Sometimes  in  winter 
we  don't  take  more  than  1#.  6rf.,  and  some- 
times 1#.  Take  the  year  round  it  would  come, 
I  should  think,  to  d«.  a-day.  On  wet  days 
we  can't  do  nothing. 

"We  were  forced  to  become  Christians 
when  we  came  here.  Of  course  a  true  Mus- 
sulman won't  toko  anything  to  eat  that  has 
been  touched  by  other  people's  hands.  We 
were  forced  to  break  caste.    The  beasts  were 


LOyj>OU  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


187 


ilAoghteied  by  other  peojile,  and  we  wanted 
meat  to  eat.  The  bread,  too,  was  made  by 
Christians.  The  school-teachers  used  to 
come  to  father.  We  remained  as  Mussulmen 
as  long  as  we  conld,  bat  when  winter  camo 
on,  and  we  had  no  money,  wo  was  obliged  to 
eat  food  from  other  people's  hands. 

*'  Peraona  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  little 
£uiuly  as  we  are  it  takes  4«.  o-day  to  keep  us. 
Yet  mother  speaks  English  weU.  I'm  sure 
£rther  doesn't  goont  and  drink  not  half-a  pint 
a  beer  of  a  night,  but  always  waits  till  we 
come  home,  and  then  our  3«.  or  4«.  go  to  get 
bread  and  rice  and  that,  and  we  have  a  pot 
of  beer  between  us. 

*'  Peter's  father  married  my  father's  sister, 
that^s  how  we  are  cousins.  He  come  over 
by  ship  to  see  ua.  He  sent  a  message  before 
to  say  that  he  was  coming  to  see  his  uncle, 
and  he  expected  to  go  back  by  the  same  ship, 
but  he  was  used  so  cruelly  on  board  that  he 
preferred  staying  with  us  until  we  can  all 
return  together.  Because  he  couldn't  under- 
stand English  and  his  duty,  and  coming  into 
a  cold  country  and  all,  he  couldn't  do  his 
work,  and  they  flogged  him.  Besides,  they 
bad  to  summon  the  captain  to  get  their 
lights.  He  very  much  wonts  to  get  back  to 
India  to  his  father,  and  our  family  wants  to 
get  back  to  Mocha.  I've  foiigot  my  Arabic, 
and  only  talk  Hindostonee.  I  did  speak 
French  very  fluently,  but  I've  foiigot  it  all 
except  such  things  as  Yenez  id,  or  Youlez- 
vous  danscr  ?  or  such-like. 

**  When  we  are  at  home  we  mostly  oat  rice. 
Kb  very  cheap,  and  we  like  it  better  than  any- 
thing else,  because  it  fills  our  bellies  better. 
It  wouldn't  be  no  use  putting  a  couple  of  half- 
quartern  loaves  before  us  two  if  we  were 
bongry,  for,  thank  God,  we  are  very  hearty- 
eating,  both  of  us.  Bice  satisfies  us  better 
tban  Ifread.  We  mix  curry-powder  and  a 
little  meat  or  fish  with  it  If  there's  any  fish 
in  season,  such  as  fresh  hnrrings  or  mackerel, 
we  wash  it  and  do  it  with  onions,  and  mix 
it  with  the  curr>'-powder,  and  then  eat  it  with 
lice.  Plaice  is  the  only  fish  we  don't  use,  for 
it  makes  the  curry  very  wcitery.  We  wash  the 
tice  two  or  three  times  after  looking  over  it  to 
take  out  any  dirt  or  stones,  and  then  we  boil 
it  and  let  it  bctil  about  five  minutes.  Rice- 
water  is  very  strengtheninpr,  and  the  ^Vrabs 
drink  a  deal  of  it,  because  whenever  it  lays  in 
the  stomach  it  becomes  Holid.  It  turns,  when 
cold,  OS  thick  as  starch,  and  -M-ith  some  salt 
it's  not  a  bad  thing. 

"*  Our  best  places  for  playing  the  tom-tom 
is  the  West-end  in  summer-time,  but  in  winter 
we  goes  round  by  Islington  and  Shoreditch, 
&nd  such-like,  for  there's  no  quality  at  home, 
and  wo  have  to  depend  on  the  tradespeople. 
Sometimes  we  very  often  happen  to  meet 
^th  a  gentleman — when  the  quality's  in  town 
—who  iias  been  out  in  India,  and  can  speak 
the  language,  and  he  will  begin  chatting  with 
us  and  gi>0  ua  a  shilling,  or  sometimes  more. 


I've  got  two  or  three  ladies  who  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  us,  and  they  give  me  6rf.  or  1*.  when- 
ever I  go  round.  There's  one  old  lady  and 
two  or  three  young  ones,  at  several  houses  in 
different  places,  who  have  such  kindness  for 
us.  I  was  in  place  once  with  Captain  Hines, 
and  he  was  very  kind  to  me.  He  had  been 
out  in  India,  and  spoke  the  language  vexy 
fluently.  I  didn't  leave  him,  ho  left  me  to  go 
to  the  Crimea  ,*  and  he  told  me  he  was  very 
sorry,  but  he  had  a  servant  allowed  him  by 
the  (Government,  and  couldn't  take  me. 

"  Some  of  the  servant-girls  ore  very  kind 
to  us,  and  give  us  a  \d,  or  2d.  We  in  general 
tries  to  amuse  the  people  as  much  as  we  can. 
All  the  people  are  very  fond  of  Peter,  ho 
makes  them  laugh;  and  the  same  people 
generally  gives  us  money  when  we  goes  round 
again. 

**  When  we  are  out  we  walk  along  side  by 
side  beating  the  tom-toms.  Wo  keep  on 
singing  different  songs, —  foreign  ones  to 
English  tunes.  The  most  favourite  tune  is 
what  we  calls  in  Hindostanee, — 

'  Toaa  bi  taaa,  no  be  no 
Mutra  bakooch,  no  arber  go  ; 
Toaa  bi  tasa,  no  be  no 
Attipa  bo  fjora  puxmn 
Mara  gora  gora  cheloiiageon. 
l\iaa  bi  taao.  no  be  no. 
O  sunna  key  taho  baroo 
DiUa  chuniTay  gurroy  kumahajroo. 
Tiuvi  bi  taaa,  no  be  no 
Lutfellee  karu  basha  bud 
Bhibbe  do  lum  aesta  bud 
loaa,  bi  tan,  no  bo  no.' 

"  This  means : — 

« « I  want  something  fresh  (such  as  fish) 
in  the  value  of  nine.  And  after  he  went  and 
bought  these  fresh  goods  ho  looked  at  them, 
and  found  them  so  good,  that  he  was  very 
pleased  with  them  (*  mutra  bakooch '  is 
pleased),  tliat  he  says  to  his  servant  that  he 
will  give  him  leave  to  go  about  his  business, 
because  he's  made  such  a  good  bargain.' 

*'  That's  all  the  meaning  of  that,  sir,  and  we 
sing  it  to  its  original  Indian  tune.  We  some- 
times sing  aVrab  songs — one  or  two.  They  are 
very  diflercnt,  but  we  can't  explain  them  so 
wcU  as  we  con  the  Hindostanee.  They're 
more  melancholy,  and  towards  the  parents 
sentimental-like.  There's  one  song  they  sing 
in  Arabia,  that  it  puts  them  in  that  way  they 
don't  know  what  they  are  doing  of.  They 
begin  the  song,  and  then  they  bend  the  body 
about  and  beat  their  knees,  and  keep  on  so 
until  they  tumble  off  their  chairs.  They 
nearly  strangle  themselves  sometimes.  It's 
about  love  to  their  parents,  and  as  if  they  left 
them  and  went  far  away.  It's  a  sort  of  a 
cutting  song,  and  very  sentimental.  There's 
always  a  man  standing  in  one  comer,  looking 
after  those  singing,  and  when  he  sees  them  get 
into  a  way,  he  reads  a  book  and  comes  and 
rouses  them.  He's  a  kind  of  magician-like. 
Father  sings  it,  and  I  know  a  verse  or  two  of 
it.    Fve  seen  fhther  and  another  man  singing 


188 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


it,  and  they  kept  on  sec -sawing  about,  and  at 
last  tliey  both  fell  off  the  chair.  We  got  aliule 
water  uiid  sprinkled  their  faces,  and  hit  them 
on  the  back  very  hard,  and  said,  *  Salleo  a 
nabbec/  wliich  is  just  the  same  as  *  Kise,  in  the 
name  of  tlie  Loxxi,'  and  they  came  to  instantly, 
and  after  they  got  up  was  vcr}*  calm — ah,  very 
tame  ulterwards ! 

^  The  tom-tom  hasn't  got  much  music  in  it 
beyond  beating  like  a  drum.  There  are  first- 
rate  players  in  India,  and  they  can  make  the 
tom-tom  speak  in  the  same  way  as  if  you  was 
to  ask  a  gentleman,  ^  How  do  you  do?'  and 
they'll  answer  you,  *  Very  well,  thank  you.' 
They  only  go  to  the  feasts,  which  are  called 
'  mad^Kolc^s/  aiid  then  the  noblemen,  after 
heahii;;  them,  will  give  them  great  sums  of 
money  as  u  haudsuine  present.  The  girls, 
t^jo,  daiK-e  to  the  tom-tom  in  India.  Peter  is 
a  ver}'  gdod  player,  and  he  can  make  the  tom- 
tom Xi>  uns>wer.  One  side  of  the  drum  asks 
Uio  question,  that  is  tlie  treble  side,  and  the 
bass  one  answers  it,  for  in  a  tom-tom  each 
end  gives  a  different  note. 

^  Father  makes  all  our  clothes  for  us.  We 
wear  flannel  under  our  shirts,  which  a  lady 
made  me  a  prosciit  of,  or  else  we  never  used  to 
wear  them  before.  All  through  that  sharp 
nintor  we  never  used  to  wear  anything  but 
our  dress.  All  the  Arab  boys  are  brought  up 
to  respect  their  parents.  If  they  don't  they 
will  be  punished.  For  myself,  I  always  obey 
mine.  My  father  has  often  called  shame  on 
the  laws  of  tliis  country,  to  hear  the  children 
abusing  tlieir  parents.  In  our  country,  if  a 
son  disobeys  his  father's  command,  he  may, 
even  though  the  child  be  as  tall  as  a  giant, 
take  up  his  sword  and  kill  him.  My  brother, 
who  is  on  board  ship,  even  though  he  has 
learnt  the  laws  of  this  country,  always  obeys 
my  father.  One  night  be  wouldn't  mind  what 
was  said,  so  my  father  goes  up  and  hit  him  a 
side  slap  on  the  chops,  and  my  brother  turned 
tlie  other  cheek  to  him,  and  said  in  Arabic, 
*  Father,  hit  this  cheek,  too;  I  have  done 
wrong.'  He  was  about  30  then.  Father  said 
he  hoped  he'd  never  disobey  his  orders  again. 

"  The  Arabs  ore  very  clean.  In  our  countxy 
we  bathe  tlirec  times  a-day ;  but  over  here  we 
only  go  to  the  buth  in  Endcll-street  (a  public 
one)  twice  a-week.  Wo  always  put  on  clean 
things  tlircc  times  a- week. 

**  There's  a  knack  in  twisting  the  turban. 
A  regular  Arab  always  makes  the  rim  bind 
over  the  right  ear,  like  Peter's.  It  don't  Uke 
more  than  five  minutes  to  put  the  turban  on. 
W'e  do  it  up  in  a  roll,  and  have  nothing  inside 
it  to  stiffen  it.  Some  turbans  have  30  yards 
in  them,  all  silk,  but  mine  is  only  3|  yards, 
and  is  calico.  The  Arab  waistcoat  always  has 
a  pocket  on  each  side  of  the  breast,  with  a 
length wuys  opening,  and  a  bit  of  braid  round 
the  ed^e  of  the  stuff,  ending  where  the  waist 
is,  so  that  the  flaps  ore  not  bound. 

^  The  police  ore  very  kind  to  us,  and  never 
interfere  with  us  unless  there  is  somebody  ill, 


and  we  are  not  aware  of  H.  The  tom-tom 
makes  a  very  humming  sound,  and  is  heaid  to 
a  great  distance." 

AxoTHEB  *' Tox-Toif  **  Pliteb. 

A  VERT  handsome  man,  swarthy  even  for  i 
native  of  Bengal,  with  his  black  glos^  hur 
most  picturesquely  disposed,  alike  on  his  head 
and  in  his  whiskers  and  moustache,  gave  me, 
after  an  Oriental  salute,  the  following  state- 
ment His  teeth  were  exquisitely  white,  and 
his  laugh  or  smile  lighted  up  his  countenance 
to  an  expression  of  great  intelligence.  His 
dress  was  a  garb  of  dark-brown  cloth,  fitting 
close  to  his  body  and  extending  to  his  knee. 
His  trowser^  were  of  the  same  coloured  cloth» 
and  he  wore  a  girdle  of  black  and  white  cotton 
round  his  waist.  He  was  accompanied  by  his 
son,  (whom  he  sometimes  addressed  in  Hin- 
doostanee),  a  round-faced  boy,  witli  large 
bright  black  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks.  The  father 
said:  — 

*'  I  was  bom  in  Calcutta,  and  was  Mussul- 
man— my  parents  was  Mussulman — but  I 
Christian  now.  I  have  been  in  dis  contree 
ten  year.  I  come  first  os  servant  to  miliidrr 
officer,  an  Englishman.  I  lived  wit  him  in 
Scotland  six,  seven  roont.  He  left  Scotland, 
saying  he  come  back,  but  he  not,  and  in  a 
mont  I  hear  ho  dead,  and  den  I  com  London. 
London  is  very  great  place,  and  Indian  city 
little  if  you  look  upon  London.  I  use  tink  it 
plenty  pleasure  look  upon  London  as  de  great 
government  place,  but  now  I  look  upon  Lon- 
don, and  it  IS  plenty  bod  pleasure.  I  wuh 
very  of^n  return  to  my  own  contree,  where 
eveiyting  sheap— living  sheap,  rice  sheap.  I 
suffer  from  climate  in  dis  contree.  1  suffer 
dis  winter  more  dan  ever  I  did.  I  have  no 
flannels,  no  drawer,  no  waistcoat,  and  have 
cold  ui>on  my  chest.  It  is  now  near  five  year 
I  come  London.  I  try  get  service,  but  no  get 
service.  I  have  character,  but  not  from  my 
last  master.  He  could  not  give  me ;  be  dead 
ven  I  want  it.  I  put  up  many  insult  in  dis 
contree.  I  struck  sometime  in  street.  Ma- 
gistrate punish  man  gave  me  blow  dat  left 
mark  on  my  chin  here.  Gentlemen  sometime 
save  me  from  harm,  sometime  not.  De  boye 
call  me  black  dis  or  de  oder.  Wen  I  get  no 
service,  I  not  Uve,  and  I  not  beg  in  street,  so  I 
buy  tom-tom  for  10*.  De  man  want  80». 
De  I0«.  my  last  money  left,  and  I  start  to  play 
in  streets  for  daily  bread.  I  beat  tom-tom, 
and  sing  song  about  greatness  of  God,  in  my 
own  language.  I  had  den  wife.  Englishwoman, 
and  dis  little  boy.  I  done  pretty  well  first  wid 
tom-tom,  but  it  is  very  bad  to  do  it  now.  Wen 
I  began  first,  I  make  3«.,  4«.,  ft».,  or  ««.  n-day. 
It  was  someting  new  den,  but  nine  or  ten 
monts  it  was  someting  old,  and  I  took  less 
and  less,  until  now  I  hardly  get  piece  of  bread. 
I  sometime  get  few  shilling  ttom  two  or  three 
picture-men,  who  draw  me.  ft  is  call  model. 
Anyting  for  honest  bread.     I  must  not  be 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


180 


proad.  I  cannot  make  above  R«.  a-week  of 
tom-tom  in  street.  Dare  is,  well  as  I  know, 
about  fifty  of  mj  contreemen  playing  and 
beg^Dg  in  streets  of  London.  Dose  who 
sweep  crossing  are  Malay,  some  Bengal.  Many 
are  impostor,  and  spoil  'spectable  men.  My 
contreemen  live  in  Icniging-house ;  often  many 
are  plenty  blackguard  lodging-houses,  and  dere 
respectable  man  is  always  insult.  I  have  room 
for  myself  dis  tree  mont,  and  cost  me  tree 
shilling  and  sixpennies  a-week ;  it  is  not  own 
furniture ;  dey  bum  my  coke,  coal,  and  candle 
too.  My  wife  would  moke  work  wid  needle, 
bat  dere  is  no  work  for  her,  poor  ting.  She 
servant  when  I  marry  her.  De  little  boy  make 
jump  in  my  con  tree's  way  wen  I  play  tom- 
tom— he  too  little  to  dance — ho  six  year.  Most 
of  my  contreemen  in  street  have  come  as  Las- 
ear,  and  not  go  back  for  bosen  and  bosen- 
loaie,  and  flog.  So  dey  stay  for  beg,  or  sweep, 
or  anyting.  Dey  are  never  i)ickpocket  dat  I 
ever  hear  of." 

Perforjier  on  Drum  and  Pipes. 

A  STOUT,  reddish-faced  man,  who  wm  familiar 
with  all  kinds  of  exhibitions,  and  had  the 
coaxing,  deferential  manner  of  many  persons 
who  ply  for  money  in  the  streets,  gave  me 
an  account  of  what  he  called  **  his  experience" 
as  tlie  '*  drum  and  pipes  :" — 

^  I  have  played  the  pondean  pipes  and  the 
drum  for  thirty  years  to  street  exhibitions  of 
all  kinds.  I  was  a  smith  when  a  boy,  serving 
seven  years'  apprenticesliip ;  but  after  that  I 
married  a  young  woman  that  I  fell  in  love 
irith,  in  the  music  line.  She  played  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  in  the  streets,  so  I  bought  pandean 
pipes,  as  I  was  always  fbnd  of  practising 
music,  and  I  joined  her.  Times  for  street- 
musicianers  were  good  then,  but  I  was  foolish. 
Im  aware  of  that  now ;  but  I  wasn't  particu- 
larly partial  to  hard  work ;  besides,  I  could 
make  more  as  a  street-musicianer.  When  I 
first  started,  my  wife  and  I  joined  a  fantoccini. 
It  did  well.  My  wife  and  I  made  from  Qs.  to 
10*.  a-day.  We  had  half  the  profits.  At  that 
time  the  public  cxliibitions  were  different  to 
what  they  are  now.  Gentlemen's  houses 
were  pood  then,  but  now  the  profession's  sunk 
to  street  comers.  Bear-dancing  was  in  vogue 
then,  and  clock-work  on  the  round  board,  and 
Jaek-i'-the-green  was  in  aU  his  glory  every 
May,  thirty  years  ago.  Things  is  now  very 
dead  indeed.  Li  the  old  times,  only  sweeps 
were  allowed  to  take  part  with  the  Jack ;  they 
^cre  particular  at  that  time ;  all  were  sweeps 
but  tlie  musicianers.  Now  it's  everybody's 
money,  when  there's  any  money.  Every 
sweep  showed  his  plate  then  when  perform- 
ing. •  My  lady '  was  anybody  at  all  likely  that 
they  could  get  hold  of;  she  was  generally  a 
Watercress-seller,  or  something  in  the  public 
way.  *My  lady'  had  2s.  Od.  a-day  and  her 
keep  for  three  days  —  that  was  the  general 
hire.     The   boys,  who   were   climbing-boys, 


had   Is.  or  6d.,  or  what  the  master  gave 
them ;  and  they  generally  went  to  the  pUy 
of  a  night,   after   washing    themselves,    in 
course.    I  had  0«.  a-day  and  a  good  dinner 
— shoulder  of  mutton,  or  something  prime — 
and  enough   to   drink.    *My  lord'   and   the 
other    characters   shared   and   shared  alike. 
They  have  token,  to  my  knowledge,  ^i.   on 
the  1st  of  May.    This  year,   one   set,  with 
two  *  My  ladies,'  took  3/.  the  first  day.    The 
master  of  the  lot  was  a  teetotaler,  but  the 
others  drank  as  they  liked.    Ho  turned  tee- 
totaler because  drink  always   led  him  into 
trouble.    The   dress  of  the  Jack  is  real  ivy 
tied  round  hoops.    The   sweeps   gather  the 
ivy  in  the  country,  and  make  the  dresses  at 
their  homes.    My  lord's  and  the  other  dresses 
are  generally  kept  by  the  sweeps.    My  lord's 
dress  costs  a  mere  trifle  at  the  second-hand 
clothes  shop,  but  it's  gold-papered  and  orna- 
mented up  to  the  mark  required.     "What  I 
may  call   war  times,   such   as  *The   White 
Cockade,'  the  *  Downfall  of  Paris,'  (I've  been 
asked  for  that  five  or  six  times  a-day — I  don't 
rememberthe  composer),  'Bonaparte's  March,' 
and  the  *Duke  of  York's   March,'  were  in 
vogue  in  the  old  times.    So  was  *  Scots  wha 
hae '  (very  much),  and  *  Off  she  goes  ! '   Now 
new  tunes  come  up  every  day.   I  play  waltzes 
and  pokers  now  chiefly.    They're  not  to  com- 
pare to  the  old  tunes;    it's   like  playing  at 
musicianers,   lots  of   the  tunes  now-a-days. 
I've  played  with  Michael,    the  Italy  Bear. 
I've  played  the  fife  and  tabor  with  him.    The 
tabor  was  a  little  drum  about  the  size  of  my 
cap,    and  it  was  tapped  with  a  little  stick. 
There  are  no  tabors  about  now.    I  made  my 
75.  or  8s.  a-day  with  Michael.     He  spoke  bro- 
ken English.    A  dromedary  was  about  then, 
but  I  knew  nothing  of  that  or  the  people; 
they  was  all  foreigners  together.     Swinging 
monkeys  were  in  vogue  at  that  time  as  well.    I 
was  with  them,  with  Antonio  of  Saffron  Hill. 
He  was  the  original  of  the  swinging  monkeys, 
twenty  years  ago.     They  swing  from  a  rope, 
just  like  slack -wire  dancers.    Antonio  made 
money  and  went  back  to  his  own  country. 
He  sold  his  monkeys, — there  was  three  of 
them, — small  animals  they  were,  for  70/.  to 
another  foreigner ;  but  I  don't  know  what  be- 
came of  them.    Coarse  jokes  pleased  people 
long  ago,  but  don't  now ;  people  get  more  en- 
lightened,   and  think  more  of   chapel    and 
church  instead  of  amusements.    My  tratle  is 
a  bad  one  now.    Take  the  year  through,   I 
may  make  12*.  a-week,  or  not  so  much ;  say  1  Os. 
I  go  out  sometimes  playing  single, —  that's  by 
myself, — on  the  drum  and  pipes;    but  it's 
thought  nothing  of,  for  I'm  not  a  German. 
It's  the  same  at  Brighton  as  in  London ;  brass 
bands  is  all  the  go  when  they've  Germans  to 
play  them.    The  Germans  will  work  at  2».  a- 
day  at  any  fair,    when  an  Enghshman  will 
expect   Qs.    The  foreigners  ruin  this  country, 
for  they  have  more  privileges  than  the  EngUsh. 
The  Germans  pull  the  bells  and  knock  at  the 


100 


ZONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  ^OOR. 


doors  for  money,  vhicli  an  Englishman  has 
hardly  face  for.  I'm  now  wiUi  a  fantoccini 
figures  from  Canton,  brought  over  by  a 
seaman.  1  can't  form  an  exact  notion  of  how 
many  men  there  arc  in  tO¥ru  who  are  musician- 
era  to  the  street  exhibitions ;  besides  the  oxhi- 
bitions'  own  iieople,  I  should  say  about  one  hun- 
dred. 1  don't  think  that  they  are  more  drun- 
ken than  other  people,  but  they're  liable  to  get 
top-heavy  at  times.  None  that  I  know  live  with 
women  of  the  town.  They  live  in  lodgings, 
and  not  in  lodging-houses.  Oh !  no,  no, 
we've  not  come  to  that  yet.  Some  of  them 
succeeded  their  fathers  as  street-musiciauers ; 
others  took  it  up  casalty-Uke,  by  having  learn- 
ed different  instruments;  none  that  I  know 
were  ever  theatrical  performers.  All  the  men  I 
know  in  my  lino  would  objaot,  I  am  sure,  to 
hard  work,  if  it  was  with  confinement  along 
with  it.  We  can  never  stand  being  confined 
to  hard  work,  after  being  used  to  the  freedom 
of  the  streets.  None  of  us  save  money ;  it 
goes  i'ither  in  a  lump,  if  we  get  a  lump,  or 
in  dribs  and  drabs,  which  is  tlie  way  it  mostly 
comes  to  uh.  I've  known  several  in  my  way 
who  have  died  in  St.  Giles's  workhouse'.  In 
old  age  or  sickness  we've  nothing  but  the  parish 
to  look  to.  The  newest  thing  I  know  of 
is  tlie  singing  dogs.  I  was  with  that  as  musi- 
cian, and  it  answers  pretty  well  amongst  the 
quality.  The  dogs  is  three  Tobies  to  a  Punch - 
and- Judy  shuw,  and  they  sing, —  that  is,  they 
make  a  noise, — it's  really  a  howl,  —  but  they 
keep  Umo  with  Mr.  Punch  as  he  sings." 


in.— STREET  VOCALISTS. 

The  Street  Vocalists  aro  almost  as  large  a 
body  as  the  street  musicians.  It  will  be  seen 
that  there  are  00  Ethioy)ian  serenaders,  and 
above  250  who  live  by  baUud-siugiiig  alone. 

Street  Neqbo  Serenaders. 

At  present  I  shall  deal  with  the  Ethiopian 
seronuders,  and  the  better  class  of  ballad- 
singers.  Two  young  men  who  are  of  tin; 
former  class  gave  tlie  following  account  Loth 
were  dressed  like  decent  mechanics,  with  per- 
fectly clean  faces,  excepting  a  Uttle  of  the 
professional  black  at  the  root  of  the  hair  on 
the  foreliead  :-* 

"  We  are  niggers,"  said  one  man,  •*  as  it's 
commonly  called;  that  is,  negro  melodists. 
Nigger  bands  vai>'  from  four  to  seven,  and 
have  numbered  as  many  as  nine ;  our  band  is 
now  six.  We  all  share  alike.  I  (said  the 
same  man)  was  the  first  who  started  the 
niggers  in  \he  streets,  abour  four  years  ago.  I 
took  the  hint  from  the  performance  of  PeU  and 
the  others  at  the  St  James's.  When  I  first 
started  in  the  streets  I  had  five  performers,  four 
and  myself.  There  were  the  bai]^o-player,  the 
bones,  fiddle,  and  tambourine.    We  are  regu- 


larly ftiU-dressed,  in  fiishionaUe  black  coati 
and  trowsers,  open  white  waiatcoats,  pumps 
(bluchers  some  had,  just  as  they  could  spring 
them),  and  wigs  to  imitate  the  real  negro 
head  of  hair.  Large  white  wxists  or  cufis  came 
out  after.  It  was  rather  a  venturesome  'spec, 
the  street  niggers,  for  I  had  to  find  all  the 
clothes  at  first  start,  as  I  set  the  achuul  a-gdng. 
Perhaps  it  cost  me  Q*.  a-head  all  nmnd— u 
second-hand  dress  except  the  wigs,  and  eadi 
man  made  his  own  wig  out  of  hone-hair  d|yed 
black,  and  sown  with  black  thread  on  to  the 
skin  of  an  old  silk  hat  Well,  we  first  Btarted 
at  the  top  uf  the  liverpool-road,  but  it  was  no 
gnrnt  suoccsH,  as  we  weren't  quite  up  in  oar 
parts  and  didn't  iilay  exactly  into  one  anothefl 
hands.  None  of  us  were  perfect,  we'd  had  id 
few  rehearsals.  One  of  us  had  been  a  street 
singer  before,  another  a  street  fiddler,  another 
had  sung  nigger-songs  in  public -houses,  the 
fourth  was  a  mud-lark,  and  I  had  been  t 
street  singer.  I  was  brought  up  to  no  trade 
n'giilarly.  When  my  father  died  I  was  left  on 
the  world,  and  I  worked  in  Marjlcbone  stone- 
yartl,  and  afterwords  sung  about  the  streets,  or 
sliiftcd  as  I  could.  I  first  sung  in  the  streets  just 
before  the  Queen's  coronation — and  a  hard  lifb 
it  was.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  like  the 
thoughts  of  hardlaliour — bringing  a  man  in  so 
little,  too — that's  where  it  is ;  and  as  soon  as 
I  «'ould  make  any  sort  of  living  in  the  streets 
^ith  singing  and  such-like,  I  got  to  like  it 
The  first  •debew,'  as  I  may  say,  of  the  niggers, 
bronglit  us  in  about  IO5.  among  us,  be^ddes 
paying  fi>r  our  dinner  and  a  pint  of  beer 
a-piiHje.  We  were  forced  to  bo  steady  you  see, 
sir,  as  wo  didn't  kn(»w  liow  it  would  ans^fer. 
We  sung  from  eleven  in  tlie  morning  till  half- 
past  ten  at  ni<^'ht,  summer  time.  We  kept  on 
da^'  after  day.  not  rehearsing,  but  practising  in 
tiie  streets,  for  rehearsing  in  private  was  of 
little  use — voices  are  as  different  in  private 
rooms  and  the  public  sti-eets  as  is  chalk  fVom 
cheese.  We  got  more  confidence  as  we  weut 
along.  To  be  sure  we  had  all  cheek  enough 
to  start  M-ith,  but  this  was  a  fresh  line  of  busi- 
ness. Times  mended  as  we  got  better  at  onr 
work.  Last  year  was  tlie  best  year  Pve  known. 
We  start  generally  about  ten,  and  play  till  it's 
dork  in  fine  weather.  We  averaged  U 
a- week  last  year.  The  evenings  are  the 
beat  time.  Regent-street,  and  Oxford-street, 
and  the  greater  part  of  St  James's,  are  our  best 
places.  The  gentry  arc  our  best  customers 
but  wo  get  more  from  gentlemen  tlian  from 
ladies.  The  City  is  goo<l,  I  fancy,  but  they 
won't  let  us  work  it ;  it's  only  the  lower  parts, 
Whitecliapel  and  Smithfteld  ways,  that  we 
have  a  chance  in.  Business  and  nigger-songs 
don't  go  well  togetlier.  The  first  four  days  of 
the  week  are  pretty  much  alike  f(»r  our  busi- 
ness. Friday  is  bad,  and  so  is  Satuniaj',  until 
night  comes,  and  we  then  get  money  lixim  the 
working  people.  The  markets,  such  as  Cle\'C- 
land-street,  Fitzroy-squaro  (Tottenh. am -court- 
rood's  no  good  at  any  time).   Caruaby-morkct,     I 


LQifDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


IXL 


irt-market.  Great  ^^Uxyleboiie-street,  and 
Igawaie-road,  are  good  Saturday  nights. 
Ustreet  is  middling.  The  New-cat  is  as 
[dace  as  can  be.  When  we  started,  the 
we  knew  was  '  Old  Mr.  Coon.'  *  Bofijedo 
'  Ooing  ober  de  Mountain/  *X>andy  Jim 
olina,'  'Bowlj  Boly  0/  and  <  Old  Johnny 
r.*    We  studs  to  them  a  twelvemonth. 

Builalo  Gals'  was  best  liked.  The 
i' — we^ve  real  bones,  hb-of-beef  bones, 
me  have  ebony  bones,  which  sound  bet- 
n  lib-bones — they  tell  best  in  *  Going 
e  Mountain,'  for  there's  a  symphony  be- 
every  line.  It's  rather  diffioidt  to  yhy 
oes  well ;  it  requires  hard  practice,  and 
igB  the  skin  off;  and  some  men  have 
tf  but  with  so  little  success  that  they 
their  bones  and  flung  them  away.  The 
is  the  hardest  to  learn  of  the  lot  We 
uept  changing  our  songs  all  along ;  but 
)f  the  old  ones  are  still  sung.  The  other 
ites  are,  or  were,  '  Lucy  Neole,'  ^  0, 
oah,'  '  Undo  Ned,' '  Stop  dat  Knocking,' 
er  Blue,'  and  <  Black-eyed  Susannah.' 
s  are  not  so  good  as  they  were.  V/e  can 
;e  1/.  a-piece  now  in  the  week,  but  it's 
er-time,  and  we  can't  make  that  in  bad 
2r,  Then  tlierc's  so  many  of  us. 
'8  the  Somcr'8-town  *mob'  now  in  Lon- 
the  King-street,  the  four  St.  Giles's 
thoKast-end  (but  they're  white  niggers), 
t>  W^estminater  mobs,  the  Maiylebone, 
10  Whitechapcl.  Wo  interfere  with  one 
o's  beats  sometimes,  for  we  have  no 
lemeub  with  each  other,  only  we  don't 
ner.  the  others  when  they're  at  work. 
en  mobs  now  ia  London  will  have  00 
Q  I  im  at  least ;  and  there's  plenty  of 
lers,  who  are  not  regular  niggers: 
.    so  many  dodges  now  topick  up   a 

sir.  The  Marylebone  and  Whitechapol 
ay  at  nights  in  penny  theatres.    I  have 

in  the  Uaj-market  in  '  the  New  Planet,' 
lare's  no  demand  for  us  now  at  the 
es,  except  such  as  the  Pavilion.  There 
1  sorts  of  characters  in  the  different 
B,  but  I  don't  know  any  runaway  gen- 
i,  or  any  gentleman  of  any  kind  among 
.  one ;  we're  more  of  a  poorer  sort,  if  not 
a  ragged  sort,  for  some  are  without  shoes 
:kings.  The  *  niggers '  that  I  know  have 
*rnmd-boys,  street-singers,  turf-cutters, 
avers,  chandlers,  paviours,  mud -larks, 
,  slioemakers,  tinmen,  bricklayers'  la- 
's, and  people  who  have  had  no  line  in 
liar  but  their  wits.  I  know  of  no  con- 
I  with  pickpockets,  and  don't  believe 
is  any,  though  pickpockets  go  round  the 
;  but  the  poUco  fling  it  in  our  teeth  that 
K>nnected  with  pickpockets.    It's  a  great 

to  us  is  such  a  notion.  A  good  many  of 
iggers — both  of  us  here  likes  a  little 
-drink  as  hard  as  they  can,  and  a  good 

of  them  live  with  women  of  the  town. 

are  married.  Some  niggers  are  Irish, 
's  Scotdi  niggers,  too.    1  don't  know  a 


Welsh  one,  but  one  of  the  street  niggor-aiDgeKB 
tt  a  real  black — an  AMcan." 

firaXSllEMT  OF  AM OTBSB  EtHIOFZAJI 
SSRENADEB. 

•<Ix  must  be  ei^ht  years  ago,"  he  commenced, 
^  since  Uie  Ethiopian  serenading  come  up  — 
aye,  it  must  be  at  least  that  time,  because  the 
twopenny  boats  was  then  running  to  London- 
bridge,  and  it  was  before  the  '  Cricket'  was 
blown  up.  I  know  that,  because  we  used  to 
work  tlie  boats  serenading.  I  used  to  wear  a 
yellow  waistcoat,  in  imitation  of  them  at  the 
St.  James's  Theatre. 

**  The  flrst  came  out  at  St  James's  Theatre, 
and  they  made  a  deal  of  money.  There  were 
five  of  them — Pell  was  bones,  Harriugton  was 
concertino,  I  think.  White  was  violin,  Stan- 
wood  the  bai^jo,  and  Germain  the  tambourine. 
I  think  that's  how  it  was,  but  I  can  easy  ascer- 
tain. After  them  sprang  up  the  'limtum 
Sercnoders '  and  the  *  Ohio  Serenaders,'  the 

*  SouUi  Carolina  Serenaders/  the  *  Kentucky 
Minstrels,'  and  many  other  schools  of  them ; 
but  Pell's  gang  was  at  the  top  of  the  tree. 
Juba  was  along  with  Pell.  Juba  was  a  first 
class — a  regulu^'  A  1 — he  was  a  regular  black, 
and  a  splendid  dancer  in  boots. 

**^Vssoon  as  I  could  get  in  to  vamp  the 
tunes  on  the  banjo  a  little,  I  went  at  it,  too. 
I  wasn't  long  behmd  them,  you  may  take  your 
oath.  We  judged  it  would  be  a  hit,  and  it  was 
fine.  We  got  moro  money  at  it  then  than  we 
do  at  any  game  now.  First  of  all  we  formed 
a  scliool  of  three — two  bauj os  and  a  tambourine, 
and  after  tliat  we  added  a  bones  and  a  fiddle. 
We  used  to  dress  up  just  the  same  tlien  as 
now.  We'd  black  our  faces,  and  get  hold  of  a 
white  hat,  and  put  a  bluok  band  round  it,  or 
have  big  straw  hats  and  high  collars  up  to  the 
ears.  We  did  uncommonly  well.  The  boys 
would  follow  us  for  mdes,  and  were  as  good  as 
advertisements,  for  they'd  shout,  *  Here's  the 
blacks ! '  as  if  they  was  trumpeting  us.  The 
first  songs  we  came  out  with  were  *  Old  Joe,' 

*  Dan  Tucker,'  and  *  Going  ober  de  Mountain,' 
and  *0  come  along,  vou  sandy  boys.'  Our 
opening  chorus  was  *  The  Wild  Eacoon  Track,' 
and  we  finished  up  with  the '  Railway  OvcrtuzV 
and  it  was  more  like  the  railway  than  music, 
for  it  was  all  thumping  and  whistling,  for  no- 
body knowed  how  to  play  the  baiyo  then. 

**  When  I  went  out  jaitching  first  I  could 
sing  a  good  song ;  but  it  has  ruined  my  voice 
now,  for  I  used  to  sing  at  the  top — tenor  is 
the  professional  term. 

*'  It  wasn't  everybody  as  could  be  a  nigger 
then.  We  was  thought  angels  then.  It's  got 
common  now,  but  still  I've  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that,  keep  steady  and  sober,  and  it 
works  well  to  the  present  day.  You  can  go 
and  get  a  good  average  living  now. 

**We  could  then,  after  our  *mungare'and 
<  buvaie '  (that's  what  we  call  eat  and  drink, 
and  I  think  it's  broken  Italian ),  cany  home  our 


109 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


&c.  or  0«.  each,  easy.  We  made  loDg  days,  and 
did  no  night-work.  Besides,  we  was  always 
veiy  inditt'erent  at  our  business,  indeed.  I'd 
bo  blowcd  if  I'd  trust  myself  out  singing  as  I 
did  then :  we  should  get  murdered.  It  was  a 
new  thing,  and  peoplo  thought  our  blunders 
was  intended.  We  used  to  use  blacking  then 
to  do  our  faces — ^we  got  Messrs.  Day  and 
Martin  to  do  our  complexion  then.  Burnt 
cork  and  beer  wasn't  so  popular  then. 

**  I  continued  at  the  nigger  business  ever 
since.  I  and  my  mate  have  been  out  together, 
and  we've  gonu  out  two,  and  three,  or  four, 
up  to  eleven  in  a  school,  and  we've  shared 
better  when  eleven  than  when  we  was  two. 
The  highest  we've  got  in  a  day  has  been  1/.  Os. 
each,  at  the  l*urtsmouth  roiew,  when  Napier 
went  out  with  tlie  Heet,  above  two  years  ago. 
We  walked  down  to  Portsmouth  a-purpose. 
Wo  got  14j.  0</.  each — and  there  was  five  of 
us — at  the  launch  of  the  *  Albert' 

^  The  general  dress  of  the  nigger  is  a  old 
white  hat  and  a  Irmg-tailed  coat;  or  some- 
times, when  we  first  come  out,  in  white  waist- 
coats and  coats ;  or  even  in  striped  shirts  and 
wigs,  and  no  hats  at  all.  It's  all  according  to 
fancy  and  fashion,  and  what  takes. 

"When  we  go  to  a  cheap  concert-room, 
such  as  the  Albion,  Ratcliffe-highway,  or  the 
Ship  and  Camel,  Bermondsey,  our  usual  busi- 
ness is  to  open  with  a  chorus,  such  as  *  Happy 
are  we,'  though,  perhaps,  we  haven't  had  a  bit 
of  grub  all  day,  and  been  as  wretched  as  pos- 
sible ;  and  then  we  do  a  song  or  two,  and  then 
'  crack  a  wid/  as  we  say,  that  is,  tell  an  anec- 
dote, such  as  this : — 

**  Three  old  niggers  went  to  sea  on  a  paving- 
stone.  The  first  never  had  any  legs,  the  next 
never  had  any  arms,  and  the  other  was  strip 
stark  naked.  So  the  one  without  any  legs 
said,  *  I  see  de  bird ;  so  the  one  without  any 
arms  took  up  a  gun  and  shot  it,  and  the  one 
without  any  legs  run  after  it,  and  the  one  that 
was  strip  stark  naked  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
Now,  you  tell  me  what  pocket  that  was?' 

*'  Then  another  says,  *  In  his  wainscoat 
pocket.'  Then  I  return,  *  How  can  he  if  he 
was  naked  ?  Can  you  give  the  inflammation 
of  that  story  ?  Do  you  give  it  up  ?  *  Then  he 
says,  'No,   won't  give  it  up.'    Then  I  say, 

*  Would  you  give  it  up  if  you  had  it'  Then  he 
says,  *  Yes ! '  and  I  reply,  *  The  inflammation 
of  that  is  the  biggest  lie  that  ebber  was  told.' 

'*  Sometimes  we  do  conundrums  between 
the  songs.  I  ask,  *  Can  you  tell  me  how  to  spell 
bUnd  pi^  in  two  letters  ?'  and  then  he,  remem- 
bering the  first  stoiy,  answers, '  Yes,  the  big- 
gest lie  that  ebber  was  told.'  *  No,  that's  not 
it'  Then  I  continue,  *  P,  g ;  and  if  you  leave 
the  i  out  it  must  be  a  blind  pig,  Jim.' 

*'  Then  we  go  on  with  the  concert,  and  sing 
perhaps,   *  Going   ober  de    Mountain '   and 

*  Mary  Blane,'  and  then  I  ask  sach  conun- 
drums as  these: 

*'  *  Why  is  mahogany  like  flannel  ? '  '  Because 
they    are   both   used   to  manufacture   into 


drawers ;'  and  then  we  do  this  xiiyme^ '  Be* 
cause  mahogany  makes  drawers  to  pit  your 
clothes  in,  and  flannel  makes  drawers  to  put 
your  toes  in.' 

"  Perhaps  we  do  another  connndnun,  mih 
as  this : — *  Supposing  you  nigger  was  deed, 
what  would  be  the  best  time  to  buxy  yon?* 
One  says,  '  I  shan't  suppose.'  Another  w^ 
*  I  don't  know.'  And  then  I  say,  *  Why,  Un 
latter  end  of  the  summer ;'  and  one  asks, '  Wlqrj 
Jim  ?'  *  Because  it's  the  best  time  for  bla^. 
berrying.'  Then  I  cry  out,  *  Now,  you  nigg«n^ 
go  on  with  the  consort;'  and  one  of  thoB 
will  add,  *  Now,  Jim,  well  have  that  lemoe- 
choly  song  of  Dinaii  Clare,  that  poor  gid 
that  fell  in  the  water-butt  and  got  bnznt  tB 
death.' 

**  Another  of  our  dialogues  is  this  one>-*- 
'  Did  I  ebber  tell  you  about  that  lemonehollj 
occurrence,  Maiy  Blane,  the  young  girlthit; 
died  last  night  in  the  house  that  was  boned 
down  this  morning,  and  she's  gone  to  live  in 
a  garret  ?'  *  I  shall  call  and  see  her.'  *  Yoi 
canV  *  'Cos  why?'  *  'Cos  she  moved  fiat 
where  she  lives  now ;  she's  gone  to  live  whtii 
she  used  to  come  from.'  '  Did  you  ever  see  hv 
broderBill?'  •  No ;  he's  dead.'  'What!  brodtf 
Bill  dead,  too  ?'  Yes ;  I  seed  him  this  tduxof 
ing,  and  axed  him  how  he  was.'  *  Well,  sad 
what  did  he  told  you? '  *  He  told  me  he  wm 
wery  well,  thankye,  and  he  was  going  to  Hb 
along  with  Dinah ;  and  he'd  only  been  manied 
three  weeks.  So  I  asked  him  how  maiy 
children  he'd  got  He  said  he'd  only  got 
one.  So  I  said,  ^  Dere  something  veiy  din 
about  that,  and  I  dont  think  all  goes  righi  if 
you  was  to  have  a  son  in  three  weeks.'  So 
he  said,  *  Look  you  here,  sir ;  if  the  woild 
was  made  in  six  days,  it's  debblish  hard  if  m 
can't  make  a  son  in  three  weeks.*  *  Go  M 
with  the  consort* 

*'  Another  of  our  dialogues  is  this :  ^  *  Did 
I  ever  tell  yon,  Jim,  about  my  going  ont 
a-riding?'  *  Neber.'  'Well,  then,  ni  told 
you,  I  had  two  dollars  in  my  pocket'  *  Had 
you  ?'  *  And  I  thought  I'd  do  it  gentlemaft- 
tell-like.'  *  Yes.'  *  So  I  went  to  the  libeiy 
dealer.'  *  Who?  '  The  libery  dealer— the 
man  that  keeps  the  horses'  stable.'  '  Oh! 
golly!  you  mean  the  stable-man.'  *Ym. 
Well,  I  axed  him  if  he  could  lend  me  a  hotie 
to  ride  on ; '  so  he  said,  he'd  only  got  oae 
horse.'  *  Wall  ?'  *  And  that  was  a  grey  mils. 
I  thought  that  would  do  just  as  welL  *  Of 
course.'  *  And  I  axed  him  what  that  would 
cost  me?  and  he  said  he  should  charge  me 
two  dollars  for  that  —  so  I  paid  the  two 
dollars.'  *  Wall  ? '  '  And  he  put  me  the  spnxs 
on  my  boots,  and  he  put  de  bridle  on  the 
horse's  back.'  *  The  bridle  on  the  horse's 
back! — ^what  did  he  do  with  the  bit? '  *  He 
neber  had  a  bit  at  all ;  he  put  the  stirrups 
in  the  mouth.'  '  Now  stop — you  mean,  he 
put  the  saddle  on  the  back,  and  the  bridle 
m  the  mouth.'  '  I  know  it  was  something- 
Den  they  put  me  on  the  saddle,  and  my  feet 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


198 


e.'  '  You  mean  he  put  your  foot 
aps/  •  So  I  wont  out  very  well.' 
-e  begun  for  to  galley,  so  I  caught 
i  tunnel  of  the  saddle.'  *The 
Yes,  Jim,  the  tumrael.'  *  No,  no  ; 
the  pummel.'  *  Wall,  hah  it  the 
-ou  Imows — but,  but,  I  know,  I'm 

caught  hold  of  the  mane,  and  I 
y  YT&l  till  I  come  to  a  hill,  when 
egan  to  gollop  hard  down  the  hill, 
1  was  shy.'    *  What  was  she  shy 

saw  a  new-found-out-land  dog 
3  wood.'  *  A  new.found-out-land 
J  the  road ! '    *  Yes ;  so  I  thought 

stop  her:  so  I  stuck  my  knees 
le,  and  my  spur  into  her,  and  by 
ent  too  fast.'  *  And  did  she  now  ? ' 
died  down  and  broke  her  knees.' 
! '  •  Aye,  and  pitched  poor  nigger 
1;  so  I  got  up  and  tought  I'd  take 
fa  mare  back  to  the  stable.  So 
back  I  told  the  libbery  man  about 
the  stable-man.'  *  And  he  said 
2L  10*.'  *  What  for? '  *  For  re- 
mare;  so  I  said  I  wouldn't;  so 
would  take  me  before  the  court, 
le  might  take  me  down  the  alley, 
so  I  thought  I  had  better  go  and 
Ji  ob  do  law  about  it.  So  I  went 
ob  the  law's  house  and  pulled  at 

and  out  comed  the  bell.'  *  No ; 
pulled  the  bell,  and  out  corned 
.  Wall?'  *I  said,  Can  you  con- 
de  man  ob  de  law  at  home  ?'  so 
)  he  was  out,  but  the  man  ob  de 
ras  at  home,  so  down  she  come. 
[  wanted  to  insult  the  man  ob  de 
le  said.  Insult  me;  I  do  just  as 
9  says,  *  Plane  yourself.'  So  I  said, 
supposing  you  was  a  gray  mare, 

you  for  two  dollars  to  ride  you, 
LS  rader  rusty,  and  went  too  fast 
I  wanted  to  stop  you,  and  I  stuck 
I  your  side,  and  my  spur  into  you, 
led  down  and  broke  your  knees, 
'.  help  it  ?'  So  she  flung  the  door 
and  weut  iu.    So  now  go  on  with 

aes,  when  we  are  engaged  for  it, 
mcert-rooms  and  do  the  nigger- 
ich  is  the  some  as  the  tableaux 
Te  illustrate  the  adventures  of 
•  the  life  of  a  negro  slave.  The 
L  is  when  he  is  in  the  sugar-brake, 
sugar  cane.  Then  he  is  supposed 
be  weighed,  and  not  being  weight, 
i  to  be  flogged.  My  mate  is  then 
orator  and  explaining  the  story. 
I  bit  of  business  as  ever  was  done, 
it-and-out.  You  see,  it's  a  new 
he  white  ones.  The  next  position 
3  being  flogged,  and  then  when  he 
ige  upon  the  overseer,  and  after- 
he  murders  the  overseer.  Then 
flight  of  Pompey,  and  so  on, 
ide  with  a  variety  of  sctdptures 


from  the  statues,  such  as  the  Archilles  in 
Hyde-park,  and  so  on.  This  is  really  good, 
and  the  finest  bit  of  business  out,  and 
nobody  does  it  but  me ;  indeed  it  says  in  the 
bill — if  you  saw  it — 'for  which  he  stands  un- 
rivalled.' 

"  We  sometimes  have  a  grecDhom  wants  to 
go  out  pitching  with  us — a  *mug,'  we  calls 
them;   and   there's  a    chap  of   the  name  of 

*  Sparrow-back',  as  we  c^ed  him,  because  he 
always  wore  a  bob-tailed  coat,  and  was  a  rare 
swell ;  and  he  \^ished  to  go  out  Ynih  us,  and 
we  told  him  he  must  have  his  head  shaved 
first,  and  Tom  held  him  down  while  I  shaved 
him,  and  I  took  every  bit  of  hair  off  him.  Then 
he  underwent  the  operation  of  mugging  him 
up  with  oil-colour  paint,  black,  and  not  for- 
getting the  lips,  red.  Ah,  he  carried  the  black 
marks  on  him  for  two  months  afterwards,  and 
made  a  real  washable  nigger.  We  took  him 
with  us  to  Camberwell  fair,  and  on  the  way  he 
kept  turning  round  and  saying  how  strong  he 
smelt  of  turps,  and  his  face  was  stiff.  Ah,  he 
tp<u  a  serenader !  How  we  did  scrub  it  into 
him  with  a  stiff  brush !  When  we  washed  at 
a  horse-trough,  coming  home,  he  couldnt  get 
a  bit  of  the  colour  off  It  all  dried  round  his 
nose  and  eyes. 

*•  >Vhen  we  are  out  pitching,  the  finest  place 
for  us  is  where  there  is  anybody  sick.  If  we 
can  see  some  straw  on  the  ground,  or  any  tan, 
then  we  stays.  We  are  sure  to  play  up  where 
the  blinds  are  down.  When  we  have  struck 
up,  we  rattle  away  at  the  banjos,  and  down 
will  come  the  servant,  saying,  *  You're  to  more 
on;  we  don't  want  you.'  Then  I'll  pretend 
not  to  understand  what  she  says,  and  I'll  say, 

*  Mary  Blane  did  you  ask  for  ?  0  yes,  cer- 
tainly, Miss ;'  and  off  we'll  go  into  full  chorus. 
We  don't  move  for  less  than  a  bob,  for  six- 
pence  ain't  enough  for  a  man  that's  ill.  We 
generally  get  our  two  shillings. 

'*  Sometimes  gents  will  come  and  engage  us 
to  go  and  serenade  people,  such  as  at  wed- 
dings or  anything  of  that  sort.  Occasionally 
young  gents  or  students  will  get  us  to  go  to  a 
house  late  in  the  morning,  to  rouse  up  some- 
body for  a  lark,  and  we  have  to  beat  away  and 
chop  at  the  strings  till  all  the  windows  are 
thrown  up.  We  had  a  sovereign  given  us  for 
doing  that. 

'*  The  Christmas  time  is  very  good  for  us, 
for  we  go  out  as  waits,  only  we  don't  black,  but 
only  sing  ;  and  that  I  bcheve — the  singing,  I 
mean — is,  I  believe,  the  original  waits.  With 
what  we  get  for  to  play  and  to  go  away,  and 
what  we  collect  on  boxing  Monday,  amounts 
to  a  tidy  sum. 

**  There's  very  few  schools  of  niggers  going 
about  London  now.  I  don't  think  there  are 
three  schools  pitching  in  the  streets.  There's 
the  Westminster  school — they  have  kettle- 
drums and  music-stands,  and  never  sings; 
and  there's  the  New  Kent-road  gang,  or 
Houghton's  mob,  and  that's  the  best  singing 
and  playing  school  out ;  then  a  St.  Giles's  lot. 


IM 


LONDON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POim. 


but  they  are  dickj— not  worth  much.  The 
SpiUlflulds  school  is  broke  up.  Of  course 
tliera  are  otiier  niggen  going  about,  but  to  the 
be»t  of  my  calouiation  there  ain't  more  than  40 
men  scattered  about. 

**  Houghton's  gang  make  the  tour  of  the 
watering-places  every  year.  Pve  been  to 
Brighton  with  them,  and  we  did  pretty  well 
there  in  the  fine  season,  making  sure  of  30«. 
a^week  a  man;  and  it's  work  that  continues 
all  the  year  round,  for  when  it's  fine  weather 
we  do  pitching,  and  when  it's  wet  we  divide  a 
school  into  parties  of  two,  and  go  busking  at 
the  public-huuscs." 

The  following  comic  dialogue  was  composed 
by  the  "professional"  who  was  kind  enough 
to  favour  mo  with  his  statement:— 

'*We  arc  finishing  a  song,  and  after  the 
song  we  generally  do  a  sympathy,  as  we  calls 
it  (a  symphony,  you  know) ;  and  when  I've 
finished,  Jim.  my  mntc,  keeps  on  beating  the 
taml>ounne,  as  if  he  couldn't  leave  off.  Then  I 
turn  round  to  liim  and  say,  *  By  golly,  if  you 
don't  leave  otT,  V\\  broke  you  over  dc  jaw.'  He 
answers,  *  Go  on,  dig  a  hole  and  buiy  your- 
self.' Then  I  say,  *Why  don't  you  'splain 
yourself  properly.'  Then  ho  kocps  on  playing 
still,  and  I  say,  '  Can't  you  leave  off",  nigger?' 
and  ho  roplii^s,  *  I'm  ti^'inR  to  broke  my  trow- 
sers.'  Then  ho  leaves  otf,  and  I  say,  *  What 
de  debil  <lo  you  do  dat  for?'  and  he  says, 
'Because  I  belong  to  de  boulding  (building) 
society.'  Then  I  puts  another  question,  and 
then  begins  this  dialogue: — 

"  Hi) -says,  *  Pm  going  to  sustire  from  dis 
profession.'  •  What  shfldl  you  do  den?'  *  I'm 
going  to  be  a  boulder.'  '  Go  along !  what 
shall  you  build  ? '  *  I'm  going  to  be  a  boulder 
of  trousers.'  *  By  golly,  you  shall  bould  me  a 
pair  den.'  'Well,  den,  how  would  you  like 
dcm  made  ?  would  you  like  dem  with  high- 
pomted  collars,  full  bozomed,  and  nice  ivTist- 
bands?*  *What,  do  trowsems?'  *  Made  of 
lining  nor  calico?'  *  What  I  lining  or  calico 
trowsems?'  *Xo!  shirt  I'  *Why,  you  neber 
said  a  wonl  about  shirt ! '  'By  golly,  yon  did 
though.'  'Well,  don,  bould  me  a  shirt.'  *Well, 
den,  how  would  yer  like  it?  will  you  like  it 
with  nice  square  toes,  and  bilingtaiy  heels?' 

*  What!  bilingtary  heels  shirts? '  *  With  a  row 
of  hobnails?'  Then  I  turn  round  in  a  passion, 
and  cry,  *  By  golly,  I  cant  stand  this !  What ! 
hobnails  shirt?'  *  No ;  I  was  talking  about  a 
pair  of  boots.'  *  Now,  you  neber  said  a  word 
about  boots.'  *  Oh  yes,  I  did.'  Then  I  get 
into  a  passion,  and  afterwards  say,  *Well, 
bould  me  a  pair  of  boots :  now  mind,  you  say 
a  pair  of  boots.'  *  Yes.  Well,  how  would  you 
like  dem  boulded?  Newmarket  cut,  rolling 
collar,  face  of  welwet?'    Then  I  say,  aside, 

*  W]iat !  rolling  collar  and  faced  with  welwet 
l)Oots?'  and  he  continues,  *With  pockets  in 
de  tail,  and  two  row  of  gold  buttons?*  *  >Vhat! 
pockets  in  de  tail,  and  two  row  of  gold  button 
boots  ?    By  golly,  dat'a  a  coat.'    *  Yes ;  didn't 


you  say  a  coat  ?  *  « Neber  spoke  a  w 
coat  in  all  my  life.  Did  I?'  (that  tc 
ence).  *  Yes,  ob  coone  yer  did.'  T 
into  a  passion  again,  but  at  last  I  n 
den,  bould  me  a  coat.'  *•  Well,  how  ^ 
like  it?  with  a  nice  high  crown ?'  T! 
aside,  *What!  a  high.crowned  coat 
a  nice  cork  body,  patent  Paris  nap, 
lining,  with  a  return-up  rhnr  *  Whiu 
rim  coat  ?  Golly,  dat's  a  hat !'  '  Tas, 
spoked  a  work  about  a  hat.'  «0h 
now.'  Then  I  get  excited  again ;  b^ 
say,  *  Well  den,  bould  me  a  hat'  •  '^ 
how  would  you  like  it?  Seben  st 
with  a  nice  green  waterbutt  behinc 
nice  palings  round  the  garden?*  • 
palings  round  de  garden  of  a  hat?' 
said  de  house.'  *  By  golly,  you  said  h 
I  said  de  house.'  *By  goUy,  you  s 
Then  we  get  into  a  terrific  passior 
gets  up  and  hits  my  tambourine,  and 
golly,  you  said  de  house ! '  and  I  gi 
hit  him  with  the  banjo  on  the  head, 
*By  golly,  you  said  a  hat!'  Thei 
height  of  my  excitement,  I  turn  to 
pie,  and  ask,  *  Didn't  he  say  a  hat?' 
thoy  don't  answer,  and  I  conclude  I  r 
made  a  mistake,  so  I  reply,  *  Well,  d 
me  a  house.'  *  Well,  den,*  how  woulc 
it  made  ?  Of  the  best  elm,  with  de  in 
plate  on  the  hd,  tree  rows  of  nails, 
dies  at  each  side?'  *Well,  by  goDj 
coffin  I  •  *Ya8,  Jim.'  *^Vhat  do  ji 
wants  a  coffin  for?'  'AVhy,  because 
in  such  a  passion,  I  thought  you'd 
die.'  Then  I  get  sulky,  and  growl  oi 
den,  go  on  wid  de  consort,' " 

Street  Glee-Sinoers. 

An  experienced  street  "s-ocalist  of  tl 
kind,  upon  whose  statements  I  sati: 
self  that  every  reliance  might  be  pi 
scribed  to  me  the  present  conditio 
calling.  He  was  accompanied  by  his 
"  I  have  been  in  the  profession  of  a 
he  said,  "  for  twenty-five  years.  Be 
I  was  a  concert-singer.  I  was  not  br 
to  the  profession ;  I  was  a  shipping  a 
I  married  a  concert-singer,  and  then 
the  profession.  I  was  young,  and  a  lit 
struck,"— ("Rather,"  said  his  wife, 
"  he  was  struck  with  those  who  wet 
stage" )  —  and  so  I  abandoned  the  shi] 
I  have  tried  my  fortune  on  the  sti 
singer,  and  can't  say  but  what  I  1: 
ceeded.  In  fact,  my  wife  and  I  ha 
more  than  any  two  singers  that  h 
appeared  in  the  humble  way.  We  hi 
street  vocalists  for  twenty-fiVe  years, 
solos,  duets,  and  pices*  and  only  t 
When  we  started,  the  class  of  songs 
difl'erent  to  what  it  is  now.  We  we3 
♦  the  Royal  Glee-singers.'  *  Cheny  rip< 
me  by  moonlight,' '  Sweet  home,' were 
then.    Haynes  Bailey's  ballads  were 


LOimoy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


19» 


*h  of  Bbhop's  nasic;  as,  indeed,  it  is 
arnetf  s  or  Lee's  mnsie,  howcrer,  is 
re  flpproved  in  the  concert-rooms  than 
.  Oiir  plan  wan,  and  is,  to  inquire  at 
en*s  houses  if  thej  wish  to  hear  glee 
inging,  and  to  sing  in  the  street  or  in 
^  as  well  a?  at  porties.  '^Vlien  we  first 
ced  we  have  made  Si.  and  3/.  ]0j.  in 
this  way ;  but  that  was  on  extraor- 
ccasioDs ;  and  3/.  a- week  might  be  the 
earnings,  take  the  year  thnnigh. 
amings  continued  eight  or  ten  years, 
1  fell  off.  Oilier  amusements  attracted 
u  Now,  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  I 
ke  25«.  u-week  by  open-air  singing, 
singing  is  extra,  and  the  best  payment 
wn  per  ht;a«l  a  night  for  low-priced 
.  The  inferior  vocalists  get  4a.,  3»., 
and  some  as  low  as  2«.  Very  many 
%  at  con«!crts  have  received  a  high 
education;  but  the  profession  is  so 
ked,  that  excellent  singers  iire  com- 
>  take  poor  engagements."  The  beiter 
heap  concert-singers,  the  man  and  wife 
■eed  in  stating,  wore  a  well-conducted 
people,  often  struggling  for  a  very  poor 
ance,  the  women  rarely  being  im- 
haracters.  •*  Jiut  now,"  said  the  bus- 
John  Bull's  taste  is  inclined  to  the 
ind  filthy.  Some  of  the  •  character 
nich  as  *  Sam  Hall,*  *  Jack  Sheppard,' 
ns,  are  so  indelicate  that  a  respectable 
rht  not  to  take  his  wife  and  daughters 
iiem.  The  men  who  sing  character 
re  the  worst  class  of  singers,  both  as 
eharacter  and  skill ;  they  are  generally 
UoVB ;  some  are  what  is  called  *  fancy 
ersons  supportetl  wliolly  or  partly  by 
of  the  town.  I  attempted  once  to  give 
;  without  these  low-cbaracter  singings ; 
,d  not  sncceed.  for  I  was  alone  in  tlie 
,  I  believe  there  are  not  more  than 
oten  street  vocalists  of  the  same  class 
dves.  They  are  respectable  persons ; 
Coinly  open-air  singing,  as  we  practise 
Mfe  respectable  than  popular  concert- 
as  now  carried  on.  No  one  would  be 
to  sing  such  songs  in  the  streets.  The 
ter'  concerts  are  attended  generally 
hanics  and  their  families;  tliere  are 
lales  than  females  among  the  audi- 


ET  P.aijad-Sin'gkhs,  or  Chacntisrs. 

eet  classes  that  are  still  undescribed  are 
er  class  of  street  singcrsi,  the  Street 
the  AVriters  without  Hands,  and  the 
Cxhibition-keepers.  I  shall  begin  with 
»et  Singers. 

•ming  the  ordinary  street  ballad-singers, 
ed  the  following  account  from  one  of 
s: — 

n  what  may  be  termed  a  regular  street 

Anger — either  sentimental   or  comic, 

I  can  take  both  branches.     I  have 


been,  as  near  as  I  can  gness,  about  five-and- 
twenty  years  at  the  business.  My  mother  died 
when  I  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  a  step-mother  home  became  too 
hot  to  hold  me,  and  I  turned  into  the  streets 
in  consequence  of  the  harsh  treatment  I  met 
with.  My  father  had  given  me  no  education, 
and  all  I  know  now  I  have  picked  up  in  the 
streets.  Well,  at  thirteen  years,  I  turned  into 
the  streets,  houseless,  friendless.  My  father 
was  a  jMcturc-frame  gilder.  I  was  never  taught 
any  business  by  him — neither  his  own  nor  any 
other.  I  never  received  any  benefit  ftora  him 
that  I  know.  Well  then,  sir,  there  was  I,  a 
boy  of  thirteen,  friendless,  houseless,  untaught, 
and  without  any  means  of  getting  a  living — 
loose  in  the  streets  of  London.  At  first  I  slept 
anywhere :  sometimes  I  passed  the  night  m 
the  old  Covent-gardeu-market ;  at  others,  in 
shutter-boxes;  and  at  otliers,  on  door-steps 
near  my  father's  house.  I  lived  at  this  time 
upon  the  refuse  that  I  picked  up  in  the  streets 
—  cabbage-stumps  out  of  the  maricet,  orange- 
peel,  and  the  like.  Well,  sir,  I  was  green 
then,  and  one  of  the  Stamp-ofBce  spies  got  me 
to  sell  some  of  the  Poor  MarCt  Guardian^ 
(an  unstamped  paper  of  that  time),  so  that  his 
fellow-spy  might  take  m(j  up.  This  he  did, 
and  I  had  a  month  at  Coldbath-fields  for  the 
business.  After  I  had  been  in  prison,  I  got  in 
a  measure  hardened  to  the  frowns  of  the  world, 
and  didn't  care  what  company  I  kept,  or  what 
I  did  for  a  living.  I  wouldn't  have  you  to 
fancy,  though,  that  I  did  anjrthmg  dishonest. 
I  mean,  I  wasn't  particular  as  to  what  I  turned 
my  hand  to  for  a  living,  or  where  I  lodged.  I 
went  to  hve  in  Church-lane,  St.  Giles's,  at  a 
threepenny  house ;  and  having  a  tidy  voice  of 
my  own,  I  was  there  taught  to  go  out  ballad- 
Hinging,  and  I  have  stuck  to  the  business  ever 
since.  I  was  going  on  for  fifteen  when  I 
first  took  to  it.  The  fir>t  thing  I  did  was  to 
lead  at  glee-singing ;  I  took  the  air,  and  two 
others,  old  hands,  did  tho  second  and  the  bass. 
We  used  to  sing  tho  *  Red  Cross  Knight,' 
*Hail,  smiling  Mom,'  and  harmonize  *The 
Wolf,'  and  other  popular  songs.  Excepting 
when  we  needed  money,  we  rarely  went  out 
till  tlie  evening.  Then  our  pitches  were  in 
qniet  streets  or  squares,  where  we  saw,  by  the 
light  at  the  windows,  that  some  party  was 
going  on.  Wedding-parties  was  very  good,  in 
general  quite  a  harvest.  Public-houses  we  did 
little  at,  and  then  it  was  always  with  the  par- 
loiur  company ;  the  tap-room  people  have  no 
taste  for  glee-singing.  At  times  we  took  from 
0«.  to  \Qn.  of  an  evening,  the  three  of  us.  I  am 
speaking  of  the  business  as  it  was  about  two 
or  three-and-twenty  years  ago.  Now,  glee- 
singing  is  seldom  practisctl  in  the  streets  of 
Jjondon :  it  is  chiefly  confined  to  the  provinces, 
at  present.  In  London,  concerts  are  so  cheap 
now-A-days,  that  no  one  will  stop  to  listen  to 
tlie  street  glee-singer* ;  so  most  of  the '  schools/ 
or  sete,  have  gone  to  sing  at  the  cheap  concerts 
held  at  the  public-houses.    Many  of  the  glee- 


-XVI. 


108 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


pot  one  at  Mr.  C<iopor's,  Surgeon,  in  Seven 
Dials,  when'  I  liOil  -U.  a  week.  I  UKod  to  lie 
then;  fnmi  bevoii  o'clurk  in  the  momin^  till 
nine  at  ui^'hU  but  I  went  hunie  to  my  meals. 
After  I'd  hncn  at  ni}'  \A\kcv  lour  inoutlis,  I  by 
accident  set  lire  t(i  suine  naphtho,  which  I  was 
stirring  up  in  th<.>  baek-yord,  and  it  burnt  ull 
all  luy  eyulashi's,  and  t»u  I  *  got  the  sock. ' 
AVhen  he  p^d  nie  my  wages, — as  I  was  al'raid 
to  tell  my  father  what  had  happened, — I 
started  olf  t4)  niy  old  quarters  in  Whilechapel. 
I  stopped  there  lUl  day  on  Sunday,  and  the 
next  three  dnys  I  wander«id  about  seeking 
work,  but  couldn't  get  none.  I  then  give 
it  up  as  a  had  job,  luid  picked  up  with  a  man 
named  Jack  Williams,  who  had  no  legs.  He 
was  an  old  bailor,  wlio  had  got  frost-bitten  in 
the  Arctic  regions.  I  used  to  lead  him  about 
with  a  big  painted  board  afore  him.  It  was 
a  picture  of  thi;  plocu'  where  lie  was  froze  in. 
We  used  tu  go  oil  about  Jlatchtfo  llighwoy, 
and  sometimes  work  up  as  for  as  Notting  Hill. 
On  thi?  averagj.',  we  got  from  8».  lo  IO5.  u-day. 
My  shore  wui>  about  a  tliird.  J  was  with  him 
for  lilteen  months,  till  one  ni^'ht  I  said  S(ime- 
thing  to  him  when  lie  was  a-btnl  that  didn't 
please  him,  and  ho  got  his  knife  out  and 
btabbed  my  leg  in  two  places, — hen»  arc  the 
marks.  I  bled  a  good  deal.  Tlii>-  other  h>dg- 
ers  didn't  like  to  hit  him  fur  it,  un  account  of 
his  having  no  legs,  but  they  kicked  him  out 
of  the  house,  and  would  not  La  him  ba<'k  nny 
mon\  Thi.*y  all  wanted  me  to  lock  him  up, 
but  I  wouldn't,  its  he  was  an  old  pal.  1  wo  or 
three  silk  hamlkerchiefs  was  tied  round  my 
log,  and  the  next  day  1  was  took  to  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital,  where  I  remained  for  o- 
bout  nine  days.  When  I  left  the  head-nurse 
gave  me  ten  shillings  on  account  of  being  so 
destitute — for  I  was  without  a  ha'penny  to 
coll  my  own.  As  soon  ns  I  got  out  of  tlie  lios- 
pital  I  W4'nt  down  to  UiUingsgate,  and  bought 
some  bri'iul  au'l  pickled  whelks  at  a  stall,  but 
when  I  pidled  out  my  money  to  pay  for  'em 
some  costennongrriug  chaps  knocked  me  down, 
and  rohlioil  me  ui  Oj.  I  was  completely  stunned 
by  the  blow.  The  police  came  up  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  and  took  mc  to  the  station- 
house,  where  I  stopped  till  the  next  morning, 
when  the  inspector  made  mo  tell  where  my 
father  lived,  and  I  was  taken  homo  to  him. 
l-'or  about  a  month  my  fattier  kept  nje  under 
lock  and  key,  and  after  I  had  been  with  him 
about  three  months  more  I  '  st«.pt  if  again, 
ftnd  as  I  couM  always  whistle  very  well,  1 
thought  I'd  tiy  it  for  a  living;  so- 1  made  a 
•pitch'  in  New-strea,  Covont  Garden,  and 
began  by  whiaUing  '  Will  you  love  me  then  as 
now  T  but  there  wasn't  many  in  this  worhl  as 
loved  me.  I  did  very  well  though  that  day, 
for  I  got  about  35.  (td.  or  Xs.,  so  I  thought  Td 
practise  it  and  stick  to  it.  I  worked  (dl  about 
town  till  I  got  well  known.  I  used,  somctim.js, 
to  go  into  public-houses  and  whistle  upon  a 
piece  of  'hocco  pipe,  blowing  into  the  bowl, 
and  moving  my  liugers  as  if  I  was  plfl,)ing  u 


flute ,^  and  nobody  could  tell  tlie  diSexeooe  if 
they  had  not  seen  me.  SonM;times  I  used  to 
be  asked  to  stand  outside  hotels,  tavenu,  and 
even  clnb-houses,  and  give  'om  a  tUDe:  I 
often  had  sixpences,  shillings,  and  kalTorowng 
thrown  me.  I  only  wish  I  had  sicb  lack  now, 
for  tlie  world's  topsy-turvy,  and  I  can't  gat 
liiu-dly  anything.  X  used  then  to  earn  8^ 
or  4f.  a- day,  and  now  it  don't  amount  to  vaam 
than  Ic.  (Sd, 

"  Aller  I'd  worked  London  pretly  well,  I 
sometimes  would  start  off  a  few  milea  out  ta 
the  towns  and  villages;  but,  genorally,  it 
wasn't  much  account.  The  country  chaps  lika 
sich  tunes  as  ^  The  Jiorley  Stack,'  or  *  The  Littk 
House  under  the  Hill.'  I  often  used  to  whisib 
to  them  while  they  danced.  They  liked  jigi 
mostly,  and  always  paid  me  a  penny  a  duioe 
each. 

'*  I  recollect  once  when  I  was  whistling  beforo 
a  gentleman's  house  down  at  Hoiualow,  he  sent 
his  servant  and  called  me  in.  I  was  taken 
into  a  fine  largo  room,  full  of  looking-glasseiy 
and  time -pieces,  and  pictures.  I  was  newr 
in  si<*h  a  room  before,  all  my  life.  The  goo- 
tleman  was  there  with  his  family, — about  six 
on  'em, —  and  he  told  me  if  I'd  whistle,  Ukd 
learn  his  birds  to  sing,  he'd  give  mo  a  sovereign. 
1  Le  had  tliree  tine  brass-wu'e  cages,  with  a  bird 
in  each,  slung  all  of  a  row  from  tliu  ceiling.  I 
set  to  work  *  likit  a  brick,'  and  the  birds  bcgim  to 
sing  directly,  ami  I  amused  'em  Tery  much« 
I  K(.op]>e(l  about  an  hoiu*  and  a  half,  and  let  'eia 
have  all  sorts  of  tunes,  and  then  he  gave  lue 
a  sovereign,  and  told  me  to  call  again  when  I 
come  that  way ;  but  before  I  left  ho  said  tha 
s(U'vants  was  to  give  mc  something  to  eat  and 
drink,  so  1  had  dinner  in  the  kiteiien  with  the 
sei*vants,  and  a  jolly  good  dinner  it  was. 

"From  H««unslow  1  wullied  t«)  Maidenhead, 
and  took  a  lodging  for  the  night  at  the  Turk'a 
Head.  In  the  evening  some  countrymen  come 
into  the  tap- room  and  kicked  up  a  row  nkith 
the  missus  because  she  couldn't  lodge  'em. 
She  run  in  to  turn  then  away,  when  three  of 
'em  ]»itehed  into  her  right  and  left;  and  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  me  and  another  chop  she'd 
have  gilt  killed.  When  tliey  got  hor  down  I 
Jumped  upon  the  table  and  suatchod  up  the 
only  weapon  I  could  lind,  a  brass  condlestiok, 
and  knocked  one  of  'em  down  senseless,  and 
the  other  fellow  got  hold  of  a  broomstick  and 
give  it  'em  as  hard  as  he  could,  till  we  beat 
*em  right  out  of  the  place.  There  happened 
to  be  some  police  outside,  drilling,  who  came 
over  and  took  three  of  them  to  the  stook^j 
where  tliey  was  locked  in  for  twenty  .four  hoan« 
The  next  day  tho  magistrato  sentenced  'em 
to  three  months'  impnsonmont  each,  and  I 
started  for  Limdon  and  never  whistled  a  tun* 
till  I  reatrhed  it,  which  was  tliree  days  aflcr- 
wards.  I  kept  on  at  the  old  game,  earning 
about  *i*.  Gd,  a.day,  till  the  militia  was  being 
QoWdd  out,  and  then  I  joined  them,  fur  I 
thought  it  would  be  the  host  thing  1  coiuld  do. 
I  was  sworn  in  by  Colonel  Scrivana  at  J:iton 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


IW 


W«  vn  taken  into  a  stable,  where 
iras  thfee  hones.  Four  of  us  laid  hold 
9ok  altogether ;  and  then,  after  asking 
ire  had  any  complaints,  or  were  lame, 
way  unfit  for  service,  or  was  married, 
I  any  children ;  and  when  we  had  said 
e  asked  us  if  we  was  fiiee,  able,  and 
I  to  serve  in  her  Majesty's  militia,  in 
Eiigland,  Ireland,  Scotland,  or  Wales, 
m  term  of  five  years,  if  so  long  her 
Ij  required  our  services ;  and  when  we 
«  was,  we  took  the  oath  and  kissed  the 

be  same  day,  which  was  the  11th  of 
1851,  we  was  packed  oS  firom  the  Water, 
ition  for  Portsmouth.  After  being  drilled 
ree  weeks  I  was  returned  for  duty,  and 
cm  guard.  The  first  guard  I  motmted 
I  I>etachod  Docic   at  Portsmouth — it's 

the  oonvicis  are.  I  didn't  do  any 
mg  there,  I  can  tell  yer;  I'd  different 
rf  work,  for  part  of  our  duty  was  to  bury 
»ar  iieUowii  that  died  after  coming  home 
led  from  the  Crimea.  Tlie  people 
(h  thai  used  to  call  us  the  '  garrison 
ttdnQTs/  I  was  there  thirteen  months, 
fifcr,  the  whole  time,  had  more  than  two 
i*  bed  a-week;  and  some  port  of  the 
he  weather  was  very  frosty,  and  we  was 
oivcr  our  ankles  in  snow.  I  belonged 
\  4Ch  Middlesex,  and  no  corjis  ever  did 
ish  duty,  or  went  through  so  much  hard- 

as    ours.     From  Portsmouth    I   was 

ed,  with  my  re^'iment,  U50  Btroug,  to 
rvant,  county  Cork,  Ireland.  When  wc 
ed  the  Irish  Channel  a  storm  arose, 
e  was  all  fastened  under  hatches,  and  not 
•d  to  come  ux»on  d^c^k  for  foiu-  days,  by 
,  time  we  reached  the  Cove  of. Cork: 
'■olonel's  horse  ha^l  to  be  thrown  over- 
,  and  they,  more  than  once,  had  serious 
hta  of  throwing  all  the  luggage  into  the 
I  weU.  I  was  ten  months  in  Ireland, 
it  do  any  whistling  there ;  and  then  the 
ent  was  orrlered  home  again  on  account 
3  peace.  But  before  wo  left  we  had  a 
gport,  con*4isting  of  greasy-polo  climbing, 
ng  in  sacks,  racing  after  a  pig  with  a 
r  tail,  and  all  tliem  sort  of  things ;  and 
fht  the  officers  had  a  grand  ball.  We 
d  at  Portsmouth  on  a  Monday  momhig 
ir  o'clock,  and  marched  through  to  tlie 
n,  and  reached  Hounslow  about  four 
k  the  same  afternoon.  A  month  after 
sre  disembodied,  and  I  came  at  once  to 
■m.    I  had  about  1/.  &«.  in  my  pocket, 

resolved  in  my  own  mind  never  to  go 
ling  any  more.  I  went  to  my  father, 
\e  refused  to  help  mo  in  any  way.  I 
for  work,  but  couldn't  got  any.  for  the 
e  said,  they  didn't  hke  a  militia  man ;  so, 
ha\-ing  spent  all  my  money,  I  found 
L  must  either  starve  or  whisUe,  and  so, 

ee,  I'm  once  more  on  the  streets. 

Hi  lie  I  was  in  Ireland  I  absented  my- 
rom  the  bazraeks  for  twenty-ooa  days, 


but  fearing  that  a  picket  would  get  hold  of 
me,  I  walked  in  one  morning  at  six  o'clock. 
I  was  instantly  placed  under  arrest  in  the 
guard-room,  where  I  remained  four  days, 
when  I  was  taken  before  the  GoUmel,  and  to 
my  great  surprise  I  saw,  sitting  aside  of  bim^ 
the  very  gentleman  who  had  fiiven  nia  the 
pound  to  whistle  to  his  birds ;  his  name  was 
Colonel  Bagot,  as  I  found  out  afterwaida,  and 
he  was  deputy-magistrate  for  Middlesex.  He 
asked  me  if  I  was  not  Uie  ohap  &s  had  been 
to  his  house ;  I  told  him  I  was,  so  he  got  me 
off  witli  a  gorid  reprimand,  and  saved  me 
being  tried  by  a  court-martial.  When  I  first 
took  to  sleeping  at  lodging-houses  they  was 
very  different  to  what  they  are  now.  I've 
seen  as  many  as  eighteen  people  in  one  cellar 
sleeping  upon  loose  straw,  covered  with  sheeta 
or  blankets,  and  as  many  as  three  in  one  bed  (,  < 
but  now  they  won't  take  in  any  little  boys  Uke^ 
as  I  was,  unless  they  are  with  their  parents  ; 
and  there's  very  few  beds  in  a  room,  and  never 
more  than  one  in  a  bed.  Married  people  have 
a  place  always  parted  off  for  themselves.  The 
inspector  comes  in  all  times— often  in  the 
middle  of  the  night-^to  see  that  the  regula. 
tious  ain't  brokefi. 

"  I  used,  one  time,  to  meet  another  man 
whistling,  but  like  old  IMck,  who  was  tlie  first 
at  the  profession,  he's  gone  dead,  and  so  I'm 
the  only  one  at  it  now  anywhere.  It's  very 
tiring  work,  and  makes  yon  precious  hungry 
when  you  keep  at  it  for  two  or  three  houn ; 
and  I  only  wish  I  could  get  something  else  to 
do,  and  you'd  see  how  soon  I'd  drop  it. 

"  The  tunes  that  arc  liked  best  in  the 
streets  is  sich  as  *  Ben  Bolt '  and  '  Will  you 
love  me  then  as  now  V  but  a  year  or  two  ago» 
nothin'  went  down  like  the  •  Low-back  Car.* 
I  was  always  being  asked  for  it.  I  soon  gets 
hold  of  the  new  tunes  that  comes  up.  I  dont 
think  whistling  hurts  me,  because  I  dont 
blow  so  hard  as  *  old  Dick '  used.  A  gentle> 
man  come  up  to  me  once  in  the  street  that 
was  a  doctor,  and  asked  me  whether  I  drunk 
much,  and  whether  I  drawed  my  breath  in  or 
blowed  it  out.  I  told  him  I  couldnt  get  much 
to  drink,  and  he  said  I  ought  at  least  to  have 
three  half-pints  of  beer  a-day,  or  else  I  should 
go  into  a  consumption;  and  when  I  said 
I  mostly  blowed  out  when  I  whistled,  he  said 
that  was  the  best,  because  it  didnt  strain 
the  lungs  so  much." 

WmsTLXKO  Am)  DmciNa  Bot. 

At  the  present  time  there  is  only  one  Eng- 
lish boy  going  about  the  streets  of  London 
dancing,  and  at  the  same  time  playing  his 
own  musical  accompaniment  on  a  tin  whistle. 
There  are  two  or  three  Italian  boys  who  danoe 
whilst  they  perform  on  either  tbe  flute  or  the 
hurdy-gurdy,  but  the  lad  who  gave  me  the 
following  statement  assured  me  that  be  waa 
the  only  Englishman  who  had  made  etreet 
td  danohig  "^  profesBioii.'* 


200 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOM. 


He  was  a  red-headed  lad,  of  that  peculiar 
white  complexion  which  acoompanies  hair  of 
that  colour.  EQb  forehead  was  covered  with 
freckles,  so  thiok,  that  they  looked  as  if  a 
quantity  of  cayenne  pepper  had  been  ^rinkled 
over  it;  and  when  he  frowned,  his  hair  moved 
baokwBids  and  forwards  like  the  twitching  of 
a  horse  shaking  off  flies. 

**  I've  put  some  ile  on  my  hair,  to  make  me 
look  tidy,"  he  said.  The  grease  had  tamed 
his  locks  to  a  fiery  crimson  colour,  and  as  he 
passed  his  hands  through  it,  and  tossed  it 
backwards,  it  positively  glittered  with  the  fat 
upon  it. 

The  lad  soon  grew  communicative  enough, 
and  proceeded  to  show  me  a  blue  jacket  which 
he  had  bought  that  morning  for  a  shilling, 
and  explain^  to  me  at  the  same  time  how 
artfrd  he  had  been  over  the  bargain,  for  the 
boy  had  asked  eighteenpenoe. 

I  remarked  that  his  shoes  seemed  in  a  bad 
state,  for  they  were  really  as  white  as  a 
baker's  slippers  from  want  of  blacking,  and  the 
toe  of  one  gaped  like  the  opening  to  a  tortoise- 
shell.  He  explained  to  me  that  he  wore  all 
his  boots  out  dancing,  doing  the  double 
shuffle. 

**  Now  these  *ero  shoes,"  he  said,  "  cost  me 
a  shilling  in  Petticoat-lane  not  a  week  since, 
and  looked  as  good  as  new  then,  and  even 
now,  with  a  little  mending,  they'll  make  a  tidy 
pair  of  crab-shells  again." 

To  give  force  to  tliis  remark,  he  lifted  his 
leg  up,  but,  despite  his  explanation,  I  could 
not  see  how  the  leather  could  possibly  be 
repaired. 

He  went  through  his  dances  for  me,  at  the 
same  time  accompanying  himself  on  his  penny 
whistle.  He  took  his  shoes  off  and  did  a 
hornpipe,  thumping  his  feet  upon  the  floor 
the  while,  like  palms  on  a  panel,  so  tlmt  I 
felt  nervous  lest  there  should  be  a  pin  in  the 
carpet  and  he  be  lamed  by  it 

The  boy  seemed  to  have  no  notion  of  his 
age,  for  although  he  accounted  for  twenty-two 
years  of  existence,  yet  he  insisted  he  was 
only  seventeen  "come  two  months.''  I  was 
sorxy  to  find,  moreover,  that  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  drinldng,  seldom  going  home  after  his 
night's  work  without  being  intoxicated ;  and, 
indeed,  his  thin  body  and  pinched  face  bore 
evidence  of  his  excess  in  this  respect,  though, 
but  for  his  assertion  that  "he  was  never 
hungry,  and  food  was  no  good  to  him,"  I 
should  have  imagined,  at  the  first  glance,  that 
he  was  pining  with  want. 

He  seems  to  be  among  the  more  fortunate 
of  those  who  earn  their  living  in  the  streets, 
for  although  I  questioned  and  cross-questioned 
him  in  eveiy  possible  way,  he  still  clung  to 
his  assertion  that  he  made  2L  per  week.  His 
clothes,  however,  bore  no  evidence  of  his 
prosperity,  for  his  outer  garment  was  a  washed- 
out  linen  blouse,  such  as  glaziers  wear,  whUst 
his  trousers  were  of  coarse  canvas,  and  as 
black  on  the  thighs  as  the  centre  of  a  drum-head. 


He  brought  with  him  a  penny  wh 
show  me  his  musical  talents,  anid,  cc 
his  execution  of  the  tin  instrument  wi 
and  certain. 

The  following  is  the  statement  1 
me : — 

**  Whistlino  Billy. 

That's  my  name,  and  I'm  known  all 
about  in  the  Borough  as  'Whistlin§ 
though  some,  to  be  sure,  calls  me  *  'W 
Bill,'  but  in  general  I'm  *  Billy.'  1 
looking  very  respectable  now,  but  you 
see  me  when  I'm  going  to  the  play ;  I  ] 
uncommon  respectable,  nobody  kno 
agoin.  I  shall  go  to  the  theatre  nea 
and  I  should  just  like  you  to  see  n 
surprising. 

"  I  ain't  a  vexy  fat  chap,  am  I  ?  but '. 
meaty  enough  for  my  perfession,  w 
whistling  and  dancing  in  public-house 
I  gives  'em  the  hornpipe  and  the  ba 
that's  dancing  with  my  toes  turned  in. 

"  My  father  was  a  barber.  He  only 
a  penny  for  shaving,  but  he  wouldn't  ( 
hair  under  twopence,  and  he  used  to  d( 
very  well  sometimes ;  I  don't  know  ^ 
he's  alive  now,  for  I  ain't  seen  him  tl 
years,  nor  asked  him  for  a  halfpenny, 
was  alive  when  I  left,  and  so  was  : 
brothers.  I  don't  know  whether  they*: 
now.  No,  I  don't  want  to  go  and  see  1 
I  can  get  my  own  living.  He  used  tc 
shop  near  Fitzroy  square. 

**  I  was  always  fond  of  dancing,  and  I 
away  from  home  for  to  follow  it.  I  doi 
my  own  age  exactly :  I  was  as  tall  tl 
am  now.  I  was  twelve  when  I  left  hoi 
it  must  be  ten  years  ago,  but  I  ain't 
two :  oh,  dear  no !  Why,  I  ain't  got  no  v 
nor  things.  I  drink  such  a  lot  of  h 
stuff,  that  I  cant  grow  no  taller ;  gei 
at  the  public-houses  gives  it  me.  W 
morning  I  was  near  tipsy,  dancing  t 
coalheavers,  who  gave  me  drink. 

"  I  used,  when  I  was  at  father's,  to 
ball,  and  that's  where  I  learned  to  dai 
was  a  shilling  ball  in  the  New-road, 
there  was  ladies,  regular  nice  ones,  bea 
dressed.  They  used  to  see  me  danci 
say,  when  I  growed  up  I  should  : 
beautif\il  dancer ;  and  so  I  do,  for  I't 
against  anybody,  and  play  the  whistle 
time.  The  ladies  at  these  balls  woi 
me  money  then  for  dancing  before 
Ah!  I'd  get  my  entrance  shilling  ba 
four  or  five  into  the  bargain.  I'd  gi 
take  it  home  to  mother,  after  buying 
sweet-stuff,  or  such-like,  and  I  thin 
why  mother  would  let  me  go,  'cos  I  pi> 
a  good  bit  of  money. 

•*  It  was  another  boy  that  put  me 
running  away  fr^m  home.  He  axed  n 
along  with  him,  and  I  went.  I  dare 
troubled  father  a  bit  when  he  found  I 
I  ain't  troubled  him  for  ten  years  no'^ 


LONDOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB. 


201 


»  go  back  to  fiim;  he'd  only  send  me  to 
and  I  make  a  better  living  bjr  myself. 
t  Uke  work,  and,  to  tell  yon  the  tmth,  I 
did  work,  for  it's  like  amosement  to  me 
ce ;  and  it  must  be  an  amusement,  'cos 
ises  the  people,  and  that's  why  I  gets  on 
1. 

hen  I  hooked  it  with  that  chap,  we  went 
ydoa,  in  Surrey.  We  went  to  a  lodging- 
where  there  was  men  and  women,  and 
nd  chaps,  and  all  like  that ;  we  all  slept 
I  room.  I  had  no  money  with  me,  only 
)the8 ;  there  was  a  very  nice  velvet  cap ; 
looked  very  different  then  to  what  I  do 
This  young  chap  had  some  tin,  and  he 
ne.  I  don't  know  how  he  earned  his 
ir  he'd  only  go  out  at  night  time,  and 
he'd  come  home  and  bring  in  money, 
leat  and  bread,  and  such-like.  He  said 
,  before  I  went  pals  with  him,  that  he'd 
ne,  and  that  he'd  make  plenty  of  money. 
Id  me  he  wanted  a  chum  to  mate  with, 
ent  with  him  right  off.  I  can't  say  what 
B.  He  was  about  thirteen  or  fourteen, 
never  seed  him  do  no  work.  He  might 
>een  a  prig  for  all  I  knows, 
[ter  rd  been  in  the  lodging-house,  this 
K)ught  a  stock  of  combs  and  cheap  jewels, 
ten  we  went  out  together,  and  he'd  knock 
houses  and  offer  the  things  for  sale,  and 
and  by.  There's  a  lot  of  gentlemen's 
«,  if  you  recollect,  sir,  roimd  Croydon, 
e  London  road.  Sometimes  the  servants 
I  give  us  grub  instead  of  money.  We 
)l^ty  to  eat.  Now  you  comes  to  speak 
I  do  remember  he  used  to  bring  back 
old  silver  with  him,  such  as  old  table- 
s  or  ladles,  broke  up  into  bits,  and  he'd 
a  deal  selling  them.  I  think  he  must 
seen  a  prig.  At  night  we  used  to  go  to 
iblic-houses  and  dance.  He  never  danced, 
t  down  and  looked  on.  Ho  said  he  was 
elation,  and  I  always  shared  my  drink 
dm,  and  the  people  would  say,  *  Feed  me, 
cay  dog,'  seeing  me  going  halves  with 

kept  along  with  him  for  three  years,  he 
Dg  in  the  day,  and  I  at  night,  dancing, 
arted  at  Plymoutli,  and  I  took  up  wiUi 
er  mate,  and  worked  on  to  Exeter.  I 
my  new  mate  was  a  regular  prig,  for  it 
hrough  his  putting  me  up  to  prigging 
got  into  trouble  there.  This  chap  put 
L  to  taking  a  brass  cock  from  a  fotmdry. 
\  in  a  big  wooden  butt,  with  150  gallons 
;er  in  it  X  got  over  a  gate  and  pulled  it 
md  sot  all  the  foundry  afloat  We  cut 
but  two  hours  afterwards  the  pohceman 
to  the  lodging-house,  and  though  there 
lot  of  boys  and  girls,  he  picked  me  out, 
had  two  months  for  it,  and  all  my  hair 
it  off,  and  I  only  had  dry  bread  and  gruel 
day,  and  soup  twice  a- week.  I  was  jolly 
for  that  cock  business  when  I  was 
It,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  never  to 
nothing  more.    It's  going  to  the  lodging. 


honaes  puts  feQows  up  to  priggiog.  The 
chi^s  brings  in  legs  of  beef,  and  pvddens, 
and  dothes,  and  then  they  sells  'em  cheap. 
You  can  sometimes  buy  a  pair  of  breeches, 
worth  ten  shillings,  for  two  bob,  for  the  chaps 
dont  like  to  take  'em  to  sell  at  the  shops, 
and  would  sooner  sell  'em  for  almost  nothing 
rather  than  be  found  out 

**  When  I  came  out  of  quod  I  had  a  shilling 
give  me,  and  I  went  and  bought  a  penny 
whistle.  I  was  always  fond  of  music  and 
dancing,  and  I  know'd  a  little  of  playing  the- 
whistle.  Mother  and  fiEither  was  both  uncom- 
mon fond  of  dancing  and  music,  and  used  to- 
go  out  dancing  and  to  concerts,  near  evexy  night 
pretty  weU,  after  they'd  locked  the  shop  up.  I 
made  about  eleven  bob  the  first  week  I  was 
out,  for  I  was  doing  very  well  of  a  night,, 
though  I  had  no  hair  on  my  head.  I  didn't 
do  no  dancing,  but  I  knew  about  six  tunes,, 
such  as  *  Kory  O'More,'  and  <  The  Girl  X  left 
behind  me,'  two  hornpipes,  (the  Fishers'  and 
theSailors')  'St  Patrick's  Day,' and*  The  SheUs- 
of  the  Ocean,'  anew  song  as  had  just  come  up. 
I  can  play  fifty  tunes  now.  Whistles  weren't  so 
common  tlien,  they  weren't  out  a  quarter  so 
much  as  now.  S  winden  had  the  making  of  them 
then,  but  he  weren't  the  first  maker  of  them. 
Clarke  is  the  largest  manufactory  of  them  now, 
and  he  followed  Swinden.  People  was  asto- 
nished  at  seeing  a  tune  played  on  a  tin  whistle, 
and  gave  pretty  liberal.  I  believe  I  was  the 
first  as  ever  got  a  living  on  a  tin  whistle. 
Now  there's  more.  It  was  at  that  time  as  I 
took  to  selling  whistles.  I  carried  'em  on  a 
tin  tray  before  me,  and  a  lid  used  to  shut  on 
it,  fixed.  I'd  pitch  before  a  hotel  amongst  the 
gentlemen,  and  I'd  get  'id,  a-pieco  for  the 
whistles,  and  some  would  give  me  sixpence  or  a 
shilling,  just  according.  The  young  gents  was 
them  as  bought  most,  and  then  they'd  begin 
playing  on  tliem,  and  afterwards  give  them  to 
the  young  ladies  passing.  They  was  veiy 
pleased  with  mc,  for  I  was  so  little,  and  I  done 
well.  The  first  two  months  I  made  about  17t. 
or  18*.  a-week,  but  after  Uiat  they  got  rather 
dull,  so  1  gived  up  selling  of  them  and  took  to 
dancing.  It  didn't  pay  me  so  well  as  the 
whistles,  for  it  was  pretty  near  all  profit  on 
them — tliey  only  cost  me  34<.  a-dozen.  I  tra- 
velled all  round  Devonshire,  and  down  to 
Land's  End,  in  Cornwall— 1^20  miles  fh)m 
London,  and  kept  on  playing  the  whistle  on 
the  road.  I  knew  all  about  them  parts.  I 
generally  pitched  before  the  hotels  and  the 
spirit-shops,  and  began  whistling  and  dancing; 
but  sometimes  I'd  give  the  cottagers  a  turn, 
and  they'd  generally  hand  over  a  ha'penny  a- 
piece  and  some  bread. 

^I  stopped  travelling  about  the  south  of 
England,  and  playing  and  dancing,  for  a  little 
better  than  four  years  and  a  half.  I  didn't  do  so 
well  in  winter  as  in  summer.  Harvest  time  was 
my  best  time.  I'd  go  to  the  fields  where  thej 
was  working,  and  play  and  dance.  Sometimes 
the  master  would  hollar  out,  *  Here,  you  get 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


cut  of  this ! '  but  tho  men  would  speak  up  for 
me  and  say, '  Lot  him  stop,  master.'  Muny  a 
chap's  pot  Uie  sack  through  me.  by  leaving  off 
hia  work  and  beginning  to  dance.  Sometimes, 
▼hen  the  last  lond  of  hay  was  going  liome 
(you  see,  that's  always  considered  the  joUiest 
part  of  tho  worit),  they'd  make  mo  get  up  to 
the  top  of  the  load,  and  then  whistle  to  them. 
They  was  all  merry — as  merry  as  could  be,  and 
would  follow  after  dancing  about,  men,  women, 
and  boys.  I  generally  played  at  the  han-est 
suppers,  and  the  farmer  himself  would  give 
me  4«.  id.  or  5s.  tho  night,  besides  my  quart  of 
ale.  Then  I'd  pick  up  my  6*.  or  7».  in 
ha'pence  among  the  men.  I've  hod  as  many 
as  two  harvest  suppers  a  week  for  three  weeks 
or  a  month  folloyring,  for  I  used  to  ax  the 
people  round  what  time  they  was  going  to 
hare  a  supper,  and  where,  and  set  off,  walk- 
ing nine  or  ten  mUes  to  roach  tho  farm,  and 
after  that  we  find  another  spot 

•*  It's  very  jolly  among  farm  people.  They 
give  you  plenty  of  cider  and  ale.  Tvo  drunk 
the  cider  hot,  whilst  they  wos  brewing  it — 
new  cider,  you  know.  You  never  want  food 
neither,  for  there's  more  than  you  can  eat, 
generally  bread  and  cheese,  or  maybe  a  little 
cold  bilcd  pork.  At  night,  the  men  and 
women  used  to  sleep  in  a  land  of  bam,  among 
the  clean  straw ;  and  after  tho  beer-shops  had 
closed — they  are  all  little  beer-shops,  3</.  a 
quart  in  your  own  jugs,  and  like  that — they'd 
say  to  me, '  Gome  up  to  the  doss  and  give  us  a 
tune,'  and  they'd  come  outside  and  dance  in 
the  open  air,  for  they  wouldn't  let  them  have 
no  candles  nor  matches.  Then  they'd  make 
thcirselves  hapj>y,  and  Pd  play  to  'em,  and 
they'd  club  up  and  give  me  money,  sometimes 
as  much  as  7«.,  but  I've  never  hod  no  higher 
than  that,  but  never  no  less  than  3s.  One 
man  used  to  take  all  the  money  for  me,  and 
Pd  give  him  a  pot  o'  ale  in  the  morning.  It 
was  a  penny  a  dance  for  each  of  'cm  as  danced, 
and  each  stand-up  touk  a  quarter  of  a  hour, 
and  there  was  generally  two  hours  of  it ;  that 
makes  about  seven  dances,  allowing  for 
resting.  I*ve  had  as  many  as  forty  dancing 
at  a  time,  and  sometimes  there  was  only  nine 
of  'em.  I've  seen  all  the  men  get  up  together 
and  dance  a  hornpipe,  and  tho  women  look 
on.  They  always  did  a  hornpipe  or  a  country 
dance.  You  see,  some  of  'em  would  sit  down 
and  drink  during  the  dance,  but  it  mnountotl 
to  almost  three  dances  each  perscm,  and 
generally  there  was  about  fifty  present. 
Usually  tho  men  would  pay  for  the  women, 
but  if  they  was  hani  up  and  been  free  with 
their  money,  the  girls  would  pay  for  them. 
They  was  mostly  Irish,  and  I  had  to  do  jigs 
for  them,  instead  of  a  hornpipe.  My  country 
dance  was  to  the  tune  '  Oh  don't  you  tease  me, 
pretty  little  dear.'  Any  fiddler  knows  that 
air.  If  s  always  played  in  tho  country  for 
country  dances.  First  they  dances  to  each 
other,  and  then  it's  hands  across,  and  then 
down  the  middle,  and  then  it's  back  again  and 


turn.  That's  the  countiy  dance,  sir.  I  used 
to  be  regular  tired  after  two  hours.  They'd 
stick  me  up  on  a  box,  or  a  tub,  or  else  they'd 
make  a  pile  of  straw,  and  stick  me  a-top  of  it; 
or  if  there  was  any  carts  standing  by  loaded 
with  hay,  and  the  horses  out,  I  was  told  to 
mount  that  There  was  very  little  drinking 
all  this  time,  because  tho  beer-shops  was  shot 
up.  Perhaps  there  might  be  such  a  thing  at 
a  pint  of  beer  between  a  man  and  his  partner, 
which  he'd  brought  in  a  can  along  with  him. 
They  only  dimccd  when  it  was  moonlight  It 
never  cost  me  nothing  for  lodgings  all  the 
lian-est  times,  for  they  would  xnake  me  stqp 
in  the  bam  along  with  them ;  and  they  was 
veiy  good  company,  and  took  especial  care  of 
me.  You  mustn't  think  this  dancing  took 
place  evcxy  night,  but  only  three  or  four  m^joSoL 
a-woek.  I  find  'em  out  travelling  along  the 
road.  Sometimes  they've  sent  a  man  fhm 
one  farm-house  to  bespeak  me  whilst  I  waa 
playing  at  another.  Thero  was  a  man  aa 
played  on  tlie  clarionet  as  used  to  bo  a 
favourite  among  haymakers,  but  they  preftr 
the  penny  tin  whistle,  because  it  makes  mon 
noise,  and  is  shriller,  and  is  easier  heazd; 
besides,  I'm  very  rapid  with  my  fingers,  and 
makes  'em  keep  on  dancing  till  they  are  tired 
out  Please  God,  111  be  down  among  them 
again  this  summer.  I  goes  down  regular- 
Last  year  and  tho  year  before,  and  ever  since 
I  can  recollect 

'^When  I'm  in  London  I  make  a  good 
living  at  dancing  and  plaving,  for  I'm  the  ontr 
one  that  plays  the  whistle  and  dances  at  titf 
same  time.  I'm  reckoned  the  best  hand  at  ft 
of  any  man  in  town  or  countiy.  Pve  often 
been  backed  by  the  company  to  dance  ud 

?lay  against  another  man,  and  I  generally  win. 
've  been  in  hotels,  and  danced  to  gentlemen* 
and  made  plenty  of  money  at  it  I  do  all 
manner  of  tricks,  just  to  make  'em  lau^— 
capering,  or  *  hanky-panky,'  as  I  term  it  I 
once  had  half-a-sovereign  given  to  me,  bat  I 
think  it  was  a  mistake,  for  he  says,  *  Take  that, 
and  go  on.'  I  went  home  to  clean  myself,  and 
had  luy  trousers  washed,  and  my  shoes  blacked, 
and  went  half-price  to  the  theatre^the  *"Wic,' 
I  think  it  was — and  paid  my  shilling,  and 
went  in  as  tidy  as  a  gentleman. 

"  When  I  first  go  into  a  public-house  I  go 
into  the  tap-room,  and  say,  *  Would  you  l»e 
to  hear  a  tune,  gentlemen,  or  see  a  dance,  or  a 
little  bit  of  amusement?'  If  they  say  *No,' 
I  stand  still,  and  begin  a  talking,  to  make  'em 
laugh.  I'm  not  to  be  choked  off  easy.  1 8ay» 
*■  Come,  gentlemen,  can't  you  help  a  poor  fellov 
as  is  the  best  dancer  in  England  7  I  must  hafe 
some  pudden  for  breakfast,  because  I  aint  had 
nothing  for  three  weeks.'  Then  some  atft 
*  Well,  I  will  see  the  best  dancer  in  England; 
I've  got  a  mag.'  Then  after  dancing  I  go  to 
Uie  gentleman  who  has  given  me  most,  and 
ask  him  six  or  seven  times  <to  give  men 
copper,'  declaring  he's  the  only  one  as  ban 
given  me  nothing,  and  that  muces  the  otharf 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


803 


also  ask  the  landkud  to  give  a  half- 
sr  to  grease  my  feet,  and  that  makes 
'.  I  generally  gets  good  nobbings 
ooUection,  you  know).  They  likes 
ig  better  than  music ;  but  it's  doing 
Uia'  that  takes.  I  ax  them  if  they  11 
tompipe  or  the  Irish  jig,  and  if  they 
g  I  do  it  with  my  toes  turned  in,  like 
\  bandy ;  and  that's  very  popular.  I 
to  as  many  as  forty  pubhc-housos 
ing,  and  dance  inside;  or  if  they 
ne  come  in.  they'll  say,  *  Dance  out- 
ich  as  you  like,'  and  that's  very  near 
r  me.  If  I  gets  inside,  I'll  mop  up 
;ood  c<xnpany,  or  perhaps  M.  or  4d.^ 
s  plenty  to  dinnk — more  than  I  can 
*m  generally  drunk  before  I  can  get 
hey  never  gives  ma  nothing  to  eat, 
t  matter,  for  Fm  seldom  hungry ;  but 
rop  of  good  beer,'  as  the  song  says, 
leen  engaged  at  concert-rooms  to 
have  pumps  put  on,  and  light 
ind  a  Guernsey,  dressed  up  as  a 
hat  was  in  the  country,  at  Oanter- 
I  had  7t.  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink, 
if^eared  at  a  London  concert-room, 
'6  been  axed  to  come  in  and  amuse 
oy ;  but  I  wasn't  tidy  enough,  and 

I  dance  in  a  public-house  I  take 
off  and  say,  *  Now,  gentlemen,  watch 
.'  For  the  hornpipe  I  begin  with 
oond,  or  *  twisting'  as  the  term  is  ; 
nds  up,  and  does  a  donble-shuiiie — 
tndght  fives' as  we  calls  it;  then  I 
nd  again  before  doing  the  back- 
mother  kind  of  double-shuffle.  Then 
c  rocks  of  Scilly,  that's  when  you 
ir  feet  and  bends  sideways;  next 
I  double  steps  and  rattles,  that  is, 
heels  makes  a  rattle  coming  down ; 
(hes  with  the  s(mare  step.  My  next 
walk  round  ana  collect  the  money, 
like  to  see  me  do  the  jig  better  than 
ipe.    Them  two  ore  the  only  dances 

ce  regulftr  2».  ft-week.  Yesterday  I 
*]<f.,  and  it  was  rainy,  so  I  couldn't 
U  late.  At  Brighton  Reqatta  I  and 
made  5/.  lOs.  between  us,  and  at 
gatta  we  made  ft/,  between  us.  We 
d  2/.  10s.  at  the  lodging-house  in 

betting  and  tosBing,  and  playing  at 
e  always  follows  up    the  regatta. 

only  il,  lOf.  at  Hastings  Regatta. 
re  pick  up  on  a  Saturday  night  our 
o,  and  on  other  days  perhaps  5s.  or 
ling  to  the  day. 

I  to  go  about  with  a  mate  who  had  a 
g.  He  was  a  beautiful  dancer,  for 
'em  all  laugh.    He's  a  little  chap, 

does  the  hornpipe,  and  he's  un- 
tctive,  and  knocks  his  leg  against  the 
ad  makes  the  people  grin.  He  was 
issfbl  at  Brighton,  because  he  was 


''I've  also  been  about  with  a  school  of 
tumblers.  I  used  to  do  the  danoing  between 
the  posturing  and  likes  of  that.  Tve  learnt 
tumbling,  and  I  wan  cricked  for  the  purpose, 
to  teach  me.  I  couldn't  walk  for  three  days. 
They  put  my  legs  round  my  neck,  and  then 
couldn't  get  'em  back  again.  I  was  in  that 
state,  regular  doubled  up,  for  two  hours,  and 
thought  I  was  done  for.  Some  of  my  mates 
said,  *Tliere,  you've  been  and  spoiled  that 
chap.'  It's  dreadful  painful  learning  tumbling. 
When  I  was  out  with  the  posturers  I  used  to 
play  the  drum  and  mouth-pipes ;  I  had  a  old 
hat  and  coat  on.  Then  when  my  torn  come, 
I'd  appear  in  my  professional  costume,  and  a 
young  chap  who  was  a  fluter — not  a  whistler, 
like  me, — would  give  a  tune,  and  I'd  go  on  the 
carpet  and  give  Uie  Irish  jig  or  the  hornpipe, 

**  There  was  four  of  us  in  the  school,  and 
we'd  share  a  xx)nnd  a-week  each^  We  were 
down  at  Do^'er  there,  and  put  up  at  the  Jolly 
Sailors.  I  left  them  there,  and  went  alone  on 
to  the  camp  where  the  German  Legion  was — 
at  ShomcUife,  that's  the  place.  I  stopped 
there  for  three  weeks,  and  did  veiy  wbll, 
taking  my  7s.  or  8s.  a-day. 

"After  that  I  got  tured  of  dancing,  and 
thought  I'd  like  a  change,  so  I  went  out  on  a 
fishing-boat  They  didn't  give  me  nothing  »• 
week,  only  4s.  when  we  come  home  after  two 
months,  and  your  clothes,  and  victpala  %• 
board.  We  first  went  fishing  for  plaice,  and 
soles,  and  turbots,  and  we'd  land  them  at 
Yarmouth,  and  they'd  send  them  on  to  Low- 
estoft,  and  fh>m  there  on  to  London.  Then 
we  went  codding  off  the  coast  of  Holland,  for 
cod  and  haddock.  It  was  just  drawing  on 
winter,  and  very  cold.  They  set  me  with  a 
line  and  I  had  to  keep  sawing  it  backwards 
and  forwards  till  I  felt  a  fish  bite,  then  to 
hawl  it  up.  One  night  I  was  a  near  firoce, 
and  suddenly  I  had  two  cods  bite  at  onee,  and 
they  nearly  pulled  me  over,  for  they  dart 
about  like  mad,  and  tug  awfol ;  so  I  said  to 
the  master,  *  I  don't  like  this  work.'  But  he 
answers,  *  You  must  like  it  the  time  you 
stops  here.*  So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  bolt 
the  first  time  I  got  to  shore.  I  only  did  it  as 
a  change,  to  see  if  I  liked  it  You're  right 
there,  there  ain't  no  drinking  on  board. 

"When  you  hawl  up  a  cod  tiwy  bound 
about  the  deck,  and  they're  as  strong  as  a 
Scotch  terrier  dog.  When  we  hold 'em  down^ 
we  prick  them  under  the  fin,  to  let  the  wind 
out  of  them.  It  would  choke  them  if  we 
didn't  let  it  out,  for  it  hisses  as  it  comes  off. 
It's  firom  dragging  them  up  so  quick  out  of 
fifteen-fathom  water  that  gives  'em  the  wind. 
When  they  were  pricked,  we  chucked  them 
into  the  well  in  the  hold,  and  let  Uiem  swim 
about  We  killed  them  when  we  got  to 
Gravesend  by  hitting  them  on  the  head  with 
tom-boys  —  the  sticks  we  hauls  the  line 
through.  After  three  or  four  blows  they'ro 
stunned,  and  the  blood  comes,  and  th^^ 
kiUcd. 


MM 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


**  When  I  goes  into  the  pablic-houses,  part 
of  my  perfonnance  is  to  play  the  whistle  up 
my  nose.  I  don*t  do  it  in  the  streets,  because 
if  I  did  there'd  be  thousands  looking  at  me, 
and  then  the  polioe  would  make  a  row.  Last 
night  I  did  it.  I  only  pitched  at  one  place,  and 
did  my  night's  woik  nght  ofL  I  took  4«.  d|<i. 
and  lots  of  beer  in  an  hour,  from  the  cabbies 
and  the  people  and  alL  At  last  the  police  told 
me  to  move  on.  When  I  plays  the  whistle  up 
my  nose,  I  puts  the  end  of  it  in  my  nostril,  and 
blows  down  it  I  can  do  that  just  as  easy  as 
with  my  mouth,  only  not  as  loud.  I  do  it  as  a 
variety,  first  in  m^  mouth,  then  in  my  nose,  and 
then  back  again  m  my  mouth.  It  makes  the 
people  laugh.  I've  got  a  cold  now,  so  I  can't  do 
It  so  well  as  at  times,  but  I'll  let  you  see  what 
it  is  like." 

He  then  inserted  the  wooden  tongue  of  the 
whistle  into  his  nostril,  and  blowing  down  it, 
began  a  hornpipe,  which,  although  not  so  shrill 
as  when  he  played  it  with  the  mouth,  was  still 
load  enough  to  be  heard  all  over  the  house. 


IV.— STREET  ARTISTS. 

I  xow  oome  to  the  Street  Artists.  These  in- 
clude the  artists  in  coloured  chalks  on  the 
pavements,  the  black  profile  -  cutters,  and 
others. 

Stbbxt  Photoobafht. 

WiTHiH  the  last  few  years  photographic 
portraits  have  gradually  been  diminishing  in 
price,  until  at  the  present  time  they  have 
become  a  regular  article  of  street  commerce. 
Those  living  at  the  west-end  of  London  have 
but  little  idea  of  the  number  of  persons  who 
gain  a  livelihood  by  street  photography. 

There  may  be  one  or  two  **  galleries  "  in 
the  New-road,  or  in  Tottenham-oourt-road, 
but  these  supply  mostly  shilling  portraits. 
In  the  eastern  and  southern  districts  of 
London,  however,  such  as  in  Bermondsey, 
the  New-cut,  and  the  Whitechapel-road,  one 
cannot  walk  fifty  yards  without  passing  some 
photographic  establishment,  where  for  six- 
pence persons  can  have  their  portrait  token, 
and  framed  and  glazed  as  well. 

It  was  in  Bermondsey  that  I  met  with  the 
first  instance  of  what  may  be  called  pure 

street  photography.    Here  a  Mr.  F 1  was 

taking  sixpenny  portraits  in  a  booth  built  up 
out  of  old  canvas,  and  erected  on  a  piece  of 
spare  ground  in  a  furniture-broker's  yard. 

Mr.  F ^1  had  been  a  travelling  showman, 

but  finding  that  photography  was  attracting 
more  attention  than  giants  and  dwarfs,  he 
relinquished  the  wonders  of  Nature  for  those 
of  Science. 

Into  this  yard  he  had  driven  his  yellow 
caravan,  where  it  stood  like  an  enormous 
Noah's  ark,  and  in  front  of  the  caravan 
(by  means  of  clothes-horses  and  posts,  over 


which  were  spread  out  the  largi 
paintings  (show-cloths),  which  we 
fairs  to  decorate  the  fh>nts  of  bootl) 
erected  his  operating-room,  which  : 
long  and  as  broad  as  a  knife-hous< 
just  tall  enough  to  allow  a  not  j 
tall  customer  to  stand  up  with  lu 
whilst  by  means  of  two  window 
glazed  roof  had  been  arranged  for  1< 
into  this  little  tent 

On  the  day  of  my  visit  Mr.  F 
despite  the  doudy  state  of  the  al 
doing  a  large  business.  A  crowd  i 
his  tent  was  admiring  the  photogi 
cimens,  which,  of  all  sizes  and  in  i 
frames,  were  stuck  up  against  the  ci 
as  irregulariy  as  if  a  bill-sticker  1 
them  there.  Others  were  gazing 
chalky.looking  paintings  over  the 
and  on  which  a  lady  was  represen 
graphing  an  officer,  in  the  full  cost 
11th  Hussars. 

Inside  the  operating-room  we 
crowd  of  women  and  children  was 
all  of  them  waiting  Uieir  turn  to 

Mr.  F ^1  remariced,  as  I  enterei 

was  wonderful  the  sight  of  childre 
been  took ; '  and  he  added,  *  whe 
comes  for  her  portrait,  there's  a  di 
along  with  her  to  see  it  took.' 

The  portraits  I  discovered  wen 

Mrs.  F ^1,  who,  with  the  slee^ 

dress  tucked  up  to  the  elbows,  was 
the  moment  of  my  visit  in  poi 
camera  at  a  lady  and  her  little  boy, 
his  wild  nervous  expression,  seemc 
an  idea  that  the  operatress  was  takii 
previous  to  shooting  him.  Mr.  I 
plained  to  me  the  reason  why  his 
ated.  **You  see,"  said  he,  "peo] 
more  to  be  took  by  a  woman  than 
Many's  a  time  a  lady  tells  us  to  sent 
away,  and  let  the  missis  come, 
natural,"  he  continued ;  *'  for  a  lady 
taking  her  bonnet  off  and  tucking  u 
or  sticking  a  pin  in  here  and  there 
of  her  own  sect,  which  before  a  n 
objectionable." 

After  the  portrait  had  been  take 
that  the  little  square  piece  of  glas; 
it  was  impressed  was  scarcely  lar| 
visiting  card,  and  this  being  ha 
to  a  youth,  was  carried  into  th 
at  the  back,  where  the  process  was 
I  was  in\ited  to  follow  the  lad  to  th 
on  wheels. 

The  outside  of  the  caravan  we 
markable,  and  of  that  peculiar  das 
tecture  which  is  a  mixture  of  coac 
building.  In  the  centre  of  the  f 
show  were  little  folding-doors  with 
brass  knockers,  and  glass  let  into 
panels.  On  each  side  of  the  door 
windows,  almost  big  enough  for  a  \ 
whilst  the  white  curtains,  festoonc 
sides,  gave  them  a  pleasant  appears 


STREET  ACROBATS  PERFOKMma 


]LaKi>ON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FQOB. 


•05 


entire  ereotion  wis  ooloimd  yeDow,  aad  the 
DmDeroos  little  wooden  joists  and  tie-beams, 
which  frBmed  end  stzengthened  the  Tehicle, 
coniJerred  upon  ii  a  singnler  f  kid-like  ap- 
peftmiice. 

I  mounted  tlie  hroed  step-ladder  aad  en- 
tered. The  room  remiaded  me  of  a  ship's 
cabin,  for  it  was  panelled  and  had  orose- 
beuDS  to  the  arched  roof,  whilst  the  bolts  and 
fasteningtk  were  of  bright  brass.  If  the  win- 
dowB  had  not  been  so  large,  or  the  roof  so 
high,  it  would  have  reBemhled  the  fore-cabin 
of  a  GraTesend  steamer.  There  were  tables 
iod  chairs,  as  in  an  ordinary  cottage  room. 
At  one  end  was  the  family  bed,  concealed 
during  th^  day  by  chintz  curtains,  which  hong 
iown  like  a  drop-scene  before  a  miniature 
theatre;  and  between  the  openings  of  these 
curtains  I  eoold  catch  sight  of  some  gaudily 
attired  wax  figures  stowed  away  there  for 
want  of  room,  but  standing  there  like  a  group 
of  actors  behind  the  soeoes. 

Along  one  of  the  beams  ^  blunderbuss  and 
a  pistcd  rtsted  on  hooks,  and  the  showman's 
ifialiiHC;  trumpet  (as  laige  as  the  fimnel  to  a 
groeer^a  ooffee-mili)  hung  against  the  wall, 
whilst  in  one  oomer  was  a  kind  of  cabin  stove 
of  polished  brass,  before  which  a  boy  was 
dkymg  some  of  the  portraits  that  had  been 
recently  taken. 

**  So  you've  took  him  at  last,"  said  the  pro- 
prietor, who  aceompanied  us  as  he  snatched 
the  poflndt  from  the  boy's  hand.  **  Well, 
the  ^yes  ain't  no  great  things,  but  as  it's  the 
third  attempt  it  must  do." 

On  inspecting  the  portrait  I  found  it  to  be 
one  of  those  drab-looking  portraits  with  a 
light  back-ground,  where  the  ilgiffe  rises 
from  the  bottom  of  the  plate  as  straif^t  as  a 
post,  and  is  in  the  cmnped,  nervoos  attitude 
of  a  patient  in  a  dentist's  chair. 

After  a  time  I  left  Mr.  F ^I's,  and  went 

to  another  establishment  close  by,  which  had 
originally  formed  part  of  a  shop  in  the  penny- 
iee-and- bull's-eye  line — for  the  name-board 
0T»  **  Photographio  Depdt"  was  Rtill  the  pro- 
perty of  the  confectioner— so  that  the  portraits 
displayed  in  the  window  were  surmounted  by 
an  announcement  of  **  Ginger  beer  Id,  and2<i." 

A  touter  at  the  door  was  crying  out  ^  Hi  ! 
hi  i— walk  inside!  walk  inside!  and  have  your 
c'rect  likeness  took,  frame  and  glass  complete, 
and  only  6i2.!—  time  of  sitting  only  four 
seconds !" 

A  rough-looking,  red-faced  tanner,  who  had 
been  staring  at  some  coloured  French  litho- 
graphs which  decorated  the  upper  panes,  and 
who,  no  doubt,  imagined  that  they  had  been 
taken  by  the  photognqphio  process,  entered, 
^ying,  *'  Let  me  have  my  likeness  took." 

The  tnuter  instantly  called  out,  '*  Here,  a 
shilling  likeness  for  this  here  gent." 

The  tanner  observed  that  he  wanted  only  a 
Bixpenny. 

**  Ah,  very  good,  sir ! "  and  raising  his  voioe, 
tha  tooter  shootad  louder  than  beion— ««▲ 


sixpenny  one  first,  and  a  shilling  one  after- 
wards." 

*'  I  teU  yer  I  don't  want  only  sizpennorth," 
angrily  returned  the  customer,  as  he  entered. 

At  this  estaUishmeni  the  portraits  were 
taken  in  a  little  alley  adjoining  the  premises, 
where  the  light  was  so  insuffident,  that  even 
the  blanket  hung  up  at  the  end  of  it  looked 
black  from  the  deep  ahadows  oast  by  the  walls. 

When  the  tanner's  portrait  was  completed 
it  was  nearly  black;  and,  indeed,  the  only 
thing  visible  was  a  dight  light  on  one  side  of 
the  face,  and  which,  doubtlessly,  accounted 
for  the  short  speech  which  the  operator 
thought  fit  to  make  as  he  presented  the  lOce- 
neas  to  his  customer, 

'*  There,"  he  said,  "thera  is  your  likeness, 
if  you  lilDB !  look  at  it  yosnaif ;  and  only 
ei^^^tenee"— **  Only  sizpenoa,"  observed  the 
man/— "Ah!  oontinned  Uie  pW)prieU3r,  ^but 
youSre  got  a  patent  Amoriean  preserver,  and 
that's  twopenoe  more*" 

Then  fbUowed  a  diaensaoii,  in  which  the 
artist  insisted  that  he  lost  by  eveiy  sixpenny 
portrait  he  took,  and  tiM.  tanner  as  stxengly 
protesting  that  he  oouldn%  beKeve  thai,  for 
they  must  get  foiac  profit  any  how.  **  You 
don't  tumble  to  the  rig,"  said  the  artist ;  "if s 
the  half-guinea  ones,  you  see,  that  pi^  us." 

The  touter,  fiediiig  that  this  disenssion  was 
libdy  to  eontimie,  entered  aad  Joined  the 
argiunent.  "  Why,  if  a  ohei^  m  dirt,"  he  ex- 
claimed incUgnantly;  '*the  fhet  k,  our  go- 
vemoi^s  a  friend  of  die  people,  aad  dont  mfaid 
losing  a  little  money.  He's  determined  that 
aver^mdy  shall  have  a  portrait,  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest.  Ihcbed,  next  Sunday, 
he  do  talk  of  taking  them  ftr  threepeooe- 
ha'peaay,  and  if  that  aint  philsndery,  what 
isf- 

After  the  touter's  oration  the  taaner  seemed 
somewhat  contented,  and  payiB{^  his  eight- 
pence  left  the  shop,  looking  at  his  pwtura  in 
all  lights,  and  repeatedly  polishing  it  up  with 
the  cuff  of  his  coat-sleeve,  as  if  he  were  tiying 
to  brighten  it  into  something  Uke  distinetness. 

Whilst  I  was  in  this  establishment  a  cus- 
tomer was  induced  to  pay  twopence  for  having 
the  theory  of  photography  eiqplained  to  him. 
The  lecture  was  to  the  efiEiset,  that  the  brass 
tohe  of  the  **  camerer"  was  filled  with  clock- 
work,  which  carried  the  image  from  the  lens 
to  the  ground  glass  at  the  back.  To  give 
what  the  lecturer  called  **  hockeylar  proof" 
of  this,  the  camera  was  carried  to  the  shop- 
door,  and  a  boy  who  was  passing  by  ordered 
to  stand  still  for  a  minute. 

**  Now,  then,"  continued  the  lecturer  to  the 
knowledge-aeeker,  **  look  behind  here ;  there's 
the  himage,  you  see ; "  and  then  addressing 
the  boy,  he  added,  «Just  c^en  your  mouth, 
youngster;"  and  when  the  lad  did  so,  the 
student  was  asked,  «« Are  you  looking  down 
the  young  un's  throat?"  and  on  his  nodding 
aaaeot,  he  was  informed,  **  Wall,  thaffe  the 
way  portraits  ii  took.* 


200 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Statement  of  ▲  Photoobaphzo  Max. 

ui»YE  been  on  and  off  at  photographic- 
portrait  taking  since  its  commencement — 
that  is  to  saj,  since  they  were  taken  cheap -» 
two  years  this  summer.  I  lodged  in  a  room  in 
Lambeth,  and  I  used  to  take  them  in  the 
back-yard — a  kind  of  garden;  I  used  to  take 
a  blanket  off  the  bed,  and  used  to  tack  it  on  a 
clothes-horse,  and  my  mate  used  to  hold  it,  if 
the  wind  was  high,  whilst  I  took  the  por. 
trait 

**  The  reason  why  I  took  to  photographing 
was,  that  I  thought  I  should  like  it  better 
than  what  I  was  at  I  was  out  busking  and 
drag-pitching  with  a  banjo  then.  Buskmg  is 
going  into  public-houses  and  playing,  and 
singing,  and  dancing;  and  drag-pitcMng  is 
going  out  in  the  day  down  the  little  courts — 
tidy  places,  little  teiraces,  no  thoroughfistres, 
we  cfdl  drags.  I'm  a  very  determined  chap, 
and  when  I  take  a  hideainto  my  head  I  always 
do  it  somehow  or  other.  I  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  photographs  then,  not  a  mite,  but 
I  saTed  up  my  money;  sometimes  a  !«.;  if  I 
had  a  good  day,  1j.  6if. ;  and  my  wife  she 
went  to  work  at  day  boot-binding,  and  at 
night  dandng  at  a  exhibition,  or  such -like 
(she's  a  tolerable  good  dancer — a  penny  ex- 
hibition or  a  parade  dancer  at  fairs ;  that  is, 
outside  a  show) ;  sometimes  she  is  Mademoi- 
selle, or  Madame,  or  what  it  may  be.  I  got  a 
loan  of  d/.  (and  had  to  pay  4/.  U«.  for  it),  and 
with  what  I'd  saved,  I  managed  to  get  together 
5/.  Of.,  and  I  went  to  OilberC  Flemming's,  in 
Oxford-street,  and  bought  a  complete  appa- 
ratus for  taking  pictures ;  6|  by  4f ,  for  Oi.  6«. 
Then  I  took  it  home,  and  opened  the  next 
day  to  take  portraits  for  what  we  could  get — 
If.  and  over.  I  never  knew  anything  about 
taking  portraits  then,  though  they  showed  me 
when  I  bought  the  apparatus  (but  that  was 
as  good  as  nothing,  for  it  takes  months  to 
learn).  But  I  hod  cards  ready  printed  to  put 
in  the  window  before  I  bought  the  apparatus. 
The  very  next  day  I  had  the  camera,  I  had 
a  customer  before  I  had  even  tried  it,  so  I 
tried  it  on  him,  and  I  gave  him  a  black 
picture  (fori  didn't  know  how  to  make  the 
portrait,  and  it  was  all  black  when  I  took  the 
glass  out),  and  told  him  that  it  would  come 
out  bright  as  it  dried,  and  he  went  away  quite 
delighted.  I  took  the  first  Sunday  after  we 
had  opened  1/.  0*.  Ocf.,  and  evGiybody  was 
quite  pleased  with  their  spotted  and  blisick 
pictures,  for  we  still  told  6iem  they  would 
come  out  as  they  dried.  But  the  next  week 
they  brought  them  back  to  be  changed,  and 
I  could  do  them  better,  and  they  had  middling 
pictures — for  I  picked  it  up  very  quick. 

"  I  had  one  fellow  for  a  half-guinea  portrait, 
and  he  was  from.  Woolwich,  and  I  made  him 
come  three  times,  like  a  lamb,  and  he  stood 
pipes  and  'bacca,  and  it  was  a  thundering  bad 
one  after  alL     He  was  delighted,  and  he 


swears  now  it's  the  best  he  ever  had  took,  for 
it  don't  fade,  but  will  stop  black  to  the  end  of 
the  world;  though  he  remarks  that  I  deceived 
him  in  one  thing,  for  it  dont  come  out  bright 

*'  You  see,  when  first  photography  come  up 
I  had  my  eye  on  it,  for  I  could  see  it  would 
turn  me  in  something  some  time.  I  went  and 
worked  as  a  regular  labourer,  canying  paib 
and  so  on,  so  as  to  try  and  learn  something 
about  chemistry ;  for  I  always  had  a  hankling 
after  science.  Me  and  Jim  was  out  at  Strat- 
ford, pitching  with  the  bai^o,  and  I  saw  some 
men  coming  out  of  a  chemical  works,  and  wb 
went  to  *  nob '  them  (that's  get  some  half^noe 
out  of  them).  Jim  was  tambo  beating,  and 
we  was  both  black,  and  they  calbd  us  lasgr 
beffgars,  and  said  we  ought  to  work  as  they 
diX  So  we  told  them  we  couldn't  get  work, 
we  had  no  characters.  As  we  went  home  I 
and  Jim  got  talking,  and  he  says,  *  What  a 
fine  thing  if  we  could  get  into  the  berth,  for 
you'd  soon  learn  about  them  portraits  if  you 
get  among  the  chemicals ; '  so  I  agreed  to  go 
and  try  for  the  situation,  and  told  him  that  if 
I  got  the  berth  Pd  *nanti  panka  his  nabs 
snide ;'  that  means,  I  wouldn't  turn  him  up,  or 
act  nasty  to  him,  but  would  share  money  the 
same  as  if  we  were  pitching  again.  Thai 
slang  is  mummers'  slang,  used  by  strolling 
professionals. 

"  I  stopped  there  for  near  twelve  months,  on 
and  off.  I  had  lOt .  at  first,  but  I  got  up  to  l(tt.; 
and  if  I'd  stopped  I've  no  doubt  I  should  have 
been  foreman  of  one  of  the  departments,  for 
I  got  at  last  to  almost  the  management  of 
the  oxalic  acid.  They  used  to  make  sulphate 
of  iron — ^ferri  snip  is  the  word  for  it — and  car- 
bonate of  iron,  too,  and  I  used  to  be  like  the 
red  man  of  Agar  then,  all  over  red,  and 
a'most  thought  of  cutting  that  to  go  for  a 
soldier,  for  I  shouldn't  have  wanted  a  uniform. 
Then  I  got  to  charging  tlie  retorts  to  make 
carbonate  of  ammonia,  and  from  that  I  went  to 
oxalic  acid. 

**  At  night  mo  and  Jim  used  to  go  out  with 
the  bai\jo  and  tamborinc,  and  we  could 
manage  to  make  up  our  shares  to  fV'om  ISt.  to 
a  guinea  a- week  each ;  that  is,  sharing  my 
wages  and  all;  for  when  we  chum  together 
we  always  panka  each  other  bona  (that  is, 
share).  We  always  made  our  ponta  (that  is, 
a  pound)  a- week,  for  we  could  average  our 
duey  bionk  pcroon  a  darkey,'  or  two  shillings 
each,  iu  the  niglit. 

*' That's  how  I  got  an  idea  of  chemicals, 
and  when  I  wont  to  photography  many  of  the 
very  things  I  used  to  manufacture  ^-as  the  * 
very  same  as  we  used  to  take  i>ortraits,  such 
as  the  hyposulphate  of  soda,  and  the  nitrate 
of  silver,  and  the  sulphate  of  iron. 

"One  of  the  reasons  why  I  couldnt  take 
portraits  was,  that  when  I  bought  my  camera 
at  Flemming's  he  took  a  portrait  of  me  with 
it  to  show  me  how  to  use  it,  and  as  it  was  a 
dull  afternoon  he  took  90  seconds  to  produce 
the  picture.    So,  you  see,  when  I  went  to  work 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


207 


I  thonght  I  ought  to  let  my  pictures  go  the 
agme  time;  and  hang  me  if  I  didn't,  whether 
the  sun  was  shining  or  not  I  let  my  plate 
stop  90  seconds,  and  of  course  they  i^eid  to 
come  out  overdone  and  quite  white,  and  as  the 
erening  grew  darker  they  came  better.  IVhen 
1  got  a  good  one  I  was  surprised,  and  that 
picture  went  miles  to  be  shown  about.  Then 
I  formed  an  idea  that  I  had  made  a  miscal- 
caktion  as  to  my  time,  and  by  referring  to  the 
sixpenny  book  of  instructions  I  saw  my  mis- 
take, and  by  the  Sunday — that  was  five  days 
after —  I  was  very  much  improved,  and  by  a 
month  I  could  take  a  very  tidy  picture. 

''I  was  getting  on  so  well  I  got  some  of  my 
portraits,  when  they  was  good  ones,  put  in  a 
dumdler^s  shop ;  and  to  be  sure  I  got  first- 
nte  specimens.  I  used  to  go  to  the  different 
shining  portrait  galleries  and  have  a  likeness 
of  mysefr  or  friends  done,  to  exhibit  in  my 
own  window.  That's  the  way  I  got  my 
samples  to  begin  with,  and  I  believe  it's  done 
ill  over  London. 

**I  kept  at  this  all  the  winter,  and  all  the 
time  I  suppose  I  earned  30«.  a-week.  When 
sommer  come  again  I  took  a  place  with  a 
garden  in  the  Old  Kent-road,  and  there  I 
done  middling,  but  I  lost  the  majority  of  my 
business  by  not  opening  on  a  Sunday,  for  it 
wa9  a  religious  neighbourhood,  and  I  could 
have  earned  my  bl.  a-week  comfortable,  for  as 
it  was  I  cleared  my  2/.  regular.  Then  I  had 
a  regular  tent  built  up  out  of  clothes-horses. 
I  stopped  there  till  I  had  an  offer  of  a  good 
situatioo,  and  I  accepted  of  it,  at  2/.  a-week. 

•'  My  new  place  was  in  Whitechapel,  and  we 
lowered  the  price  from  a  shilling  to  sixpence. 
We  did  well  there,  that  is  the  governor  did,  you 
know,  for  I've  taken  on  the  average  from  60  to 
100  a-day,  varying  in  price  frxDm  sixpence  to  half- 
a-guinea,  and  the  megority  was  shilling  ones. 
The  greatest  quantity  I  over  took  was  140  in 
one  day,  and  124  was  taken  away  as  they  was 
done.  The  governor  used  to  take  20/.  a-week, 
and  of  that  8/.  clear  profit,  after  paying  me  2/. 
the  men  at  the  door  24«.,  a  man  and  woman 
29«.,  and  rent  21.  My  governor  had,  to  my 
knowledge,  11  other  shops,  and  I  don't  know 
an  of  his  establishments ;  I  managed  my  con- 
cern for  him,  and  he  never  come  near  us  some- 
times for  a  month. 

**  I  left  on  my  own  accord  after  four  months, 
and  I  joined  two  others  on  equal  shares,  and 
opened  a  place  of  my  own  in  South wark. 
Unfortunately,  I  begun  too  late  in  the  season, 
or  I  should  have  done  well  there ;  but  at  first 
we  realised  about  2/.  a-week  each,  and  up  to 
last  week  we  have  shared  our  2f^,  a-head. 

*  Sunday  is  the  best  day  for  shilling  portraits ; 
in  fact,  the  majority  is  shilling  ones,  because 
then,  you  see,  people  have  got  their  wages,  and 
don't  mind  spending.  Nobody  knows  about 
men's  ways  better  Uian  we  do.  Sunday  and 
Monday  is  the  Derby-day  like,  and  then  after 
that  they  are  about  cracked  up  and  done. 
The  lirgest  amoant  I've  taken  at  Southwark 


on  a  Sunday  is  80 — over  4/.  worth,  but  then 
in  the  week-days  it's  different ;  Sunday's  15«. 
we  think  that  very  tidy,  some  days  only  3*.  or  4*. 

"  You  see  we  are  obliged  to  resort  to  aU  sort 
of  dodges  to  make  sixpenny  portraits  pay.  It's  a 
very  neat  little  picture  our  sixpenny  ones  is ; 
with  a  little  brass  rim  round  them,  and  a  neat 
metal  inside,  and  a  front  glass ;  so  how  can  that 
pay  if  you  do  the  legitimate  business  ?  The  glass 
will  cost  you  2^.  a-dozen — this  smaU  size — 
and  you  give  two  with  every  picture ;  then  the 
chemicals  will  cost  quite  a  halfpenny,  and 
varnish,  and  frame,  and  fittings,  about  2d, 
We  reckon  ^d,  out  of  each  portrait  And  then 
you  see  there's  house-rent  and  a  man  at  the 
door,  and  boy  at  the  table,  and  the  operator, 
all  to  pay  their  wages  out  of  this  ^d. ;  so  you 
may  p^uess  where  the  profit  is. 

*•  One  of  our  dodges  is  what  we  term  *  An 
American  Air-Preserver;'  which  is  nothing 
more  than  a  card, — old  benefit  tickets,  or,  if 
we  are  hard  up,  even  brown  paper,  or  any- 
think, — soap  wrappings,  just  varnished  on 
one  side.  Between  our  private  residence  and 
our  shop,  no  piece  of  card  or  old  paper  es- 
capes us.     Supposing  a  party  come  in,  and  says 

*  I  should  like  a  portrait ;'  then  I  inquire  which 
they'll  have,  a  shilling  or  a  sixpenny  one.  If 
they  prefer  a  sixpenny  one,  I  then  make  them 
one  up,  and  I  show  them  one  of  the  air-preser- 
vers,— which  we  keep  ready  made  up, — and  I  teU 
them  that  they  are  all  chemicalized,  and  come 
from  America,  and  that  without  them  their 
picture  will  fade.  I  also  tell  them  that  I  make 
nothing  out  of  them,  for  that  they  are  only 
2^.  and  cost  all  the  money ;  and  dlat  makes 
'em  buy  one  directly.  They  always  bite  at 
them  ;  and  we've  actuaUy  had  people  come  to 
us  to  have  our  preservers  put  upon  other  per- 
sons' portraits,  saying  they've  been  everywhere 
for  them  and  can't  get  them.  I  charge  3rf.  if 
it's  not  one  of  our  pictures.  I'm  the  original  in- 
ventor of  the  *  Patent  American  Air-Preserver.' 
We  first  ctdled  them  the  'London  Air-Pre- 
servers;'  but  they  didn't  go  so  well  as  since 
they've  been  the  Americans. 

**  Another  dodge  is,  I  always  take  the  portrait 
on  a  shilling  size ;  and  after  they  are  done,  I 
show  them  what  they  can  have  for  a  shilling, — 
the  fUU  size,  with  the  knees ;  and  table  and 
a  vase  on  it, — and  let  them  understand  that 
for  sixpence  they  have  aU  the  back-ground  and 
legs  cut  off;  so  as  many  take  the  shilling 
portraits  as  sixpenny  ones. 

**  Talking  of  them  preservers,  it  is  aston- 
ishing how  they  go.  We've  actuaUy  had  pho- 
tographers themselves  come  to  us  to  buy  our 

*  American  Air- Preservers.'  We  tells  them 
it's  a  secret,  and  we  manufacture  them  our- 
selves. People  won't  use  their  eyes.  Why, 
I've  actuaUy  cut  up  an  old  band-box  afore 
the  people's  eyes,  and  varnished  it  and  dried 
it  on  the  hob  before  their  eyes,  and  yet  they 
still  fancy  they  come  from  America !  Why,  we 
picks  up  the  old  paper  firom  the  shop-sweep- 
mg,  and  they  make  flFst-rate '  Patent  American 


808 


LONDON  LABOUR  JNJD  TBS  LONDON  POOR. 


Air-Preserran.'  AetmUj,  when  ve'va  been 
short,  I'Te  torn  off  a  bit  of  old  logar-paper, 
aud  sUiok  it  on  without  any  Ysnuih  at  tU,  and 
the  party  haa  gone  awaj  quite  hapfiy  and  oon- 
tented.  But  yon  mmt  remember  it  ia  really 
a  Qseftil  thmg,  for  it  doea  do  good  and  do 
preaerve  the  pietnre. 

"  Another  of  our  dodgea,— anditiaaiplen. 
did  dodge,  though  it  wanta  a  nerve  to  do  it,— 
is  the  brightening  aolntian,  whieh  ia  nothing 
more  than  aqna  diatUled,  or  pore  water. 
"When  we  take  a  portrait,  Jim,  my  mate, 
who  Btope  in  the  room,  hoUowa  to  me,  '  la  it 
bona? '  That  ia« — ^Is  it  good ?  If  it  is,  I  aay, 
*8ay.'  That  ia,— Yea.  If  not,  I  aay  •  Nanti/ 
If  it  ia  a  good  one  he  takea  care  to  poblicly 
expose  that  one,  that  all  mi^  see  it,  aa  a  re> 
commendation  to  othera.  If  I  aay  *Nanti,' 
then  Jim  takes  it  and  finishes  it  up,  drying  it 
and  patting  it  np  in  its  frame.  Then  he 
wraps  it  up  in  a  largB  piece  of  paper,  so  that 
it  will  take  aometime  to  unroll  it,  at  the  same 
time  erying  out  *  Take  sixpence  from  this 
lady,  if  you  please.'  Sometimes  she  says,  '  0 
let  me  see  it  first;'  but  he  always  answers, 
<  Money  first,  if  you  please  ma'am ;  nay  for  it 
first,  and  then  you  can  do  what  you  like  with 
it  Here,  take  sixpence  from  this  lady.' 
When  she  sees  it,  if  it  is  a  black  one,  she'll 
say,  *  Why  this  ain't  like  me ;  there's  no  pic- 
ture at  all.'  Then  Jim  says,  *  It  will  become 
better  as  it  dries,  and  come  to  your  natural 
complexion.'  If  she  still  grumbles,  he  tells 
her  that  if  ahe  likes  to  have  it  pa.ssed  through 
the  brightening  solution,  it  will  come  out 
lighter  in  an  hour  or  two.  They  in  general 
have  it  brightened ;  and  then,  boforo  their 
face,  we  dip  it  into  some  water.  We  then  dry 
it  off  and  replace  it  in  the  frwne,  wrap  it  up 
carefully,  and  tell  them  not  to  expose  it  to 
the  air,  but  put  it  in  their  bosom,  and  in  an  hour 
or  two  it  will  be  all  right.  This  is  only  done 
when  the  portrait  come  out  black,  as  it  doesnt 
pay  to  take  two  for  sixpence.  Sometimes  they 
brings  them  back  the  next  day,  and  sa^-s,  *  It's 
not  dried  out  as  you  told  us ; '  and  then  we 
take  another  poitrait,  and  charge  them  3d. 
more. 

*'  We  also  do  what  we  call  the  *  bathing,* — 
another  dodge.  Now  to-day  a  party  came  in 
during  a  shower  of  rain,  when  it  was  so  dark 
it  wfis  impossible  to  take  a  portrait;  or 
they  will  come  iif;  sometimes,  just  as  we 
are  shutting  up,  and  when  tlie  gas  is  lighted, 
to  have  their  portraits  taken;  then  we  do 
this.  We  never  turn  business  away,  and  yet 
it's  impossible  to  take  a  portrait ;  so  we  ask 
them  to  ait  down,  and  then  we  go  through 
the  whole  process  of  taking  a  portrait,  only 
we  don't  put  any  plate  in  the  camera.  We 
alwaya  make  'em  sit  a  long  time,  to  make  'em 
think  it's  all  rigfat,-»I've  had  them  for  two. 
ond^a-half  minutes,  till  tlieir  eyea  run  down 
with  water.  We  then  tell  them  that  we've 
taken  the  portrait,  but  that  we  shall  have 
to  keep  ii  all  night  in  the  ehemical  bath 


to  bring  it  out,  beoanae  the  weathcHi  9^ 
bad.  We  always  take  the  money  aa  a  daposit, 
and  give  them  a  written  paper  aa  an  orto  for 
the  pistnre.  If  in  the  morning  th^  come 
thonaelvea  we  get  them  to  ait  again,  and  then 
we  do  really  take  a  portrait  of  them ;  but  iT 
they  send  anybody,  we  either  say  thflt  tba 
bath  was  too  strong  and  eat  the  picture  oot^ 
or  that  it  waa  too  weak  and  didn't  biingiioiit; 
or  elae  I  blow  up  Jim,  and  pretend  he  ham^ 
npaet  the  bath  and  broke  the  pietnre.  W» 
have  had  aa  many  aa  ten  pictnrea  to  bathe  ii^ 
one  afternoon. 

^*  If  the  eyes  in  a  portrait  are  not  seen,  and 
they  complain,  we  take  a  pin  and  dot  them  ; 
and  that  brings  the  eye  out^  and  they  like  iu 
If  the  hair,  too,  is  not  viaible  we  takea  the 
pin  again,  and  soon  puts  in  a  beantifbl  head 
of  hair.  It  requires  a  deal  of  nerve  to  do  it; 
but  if  they  still  grumble  I  say,  *  It's  a  beauti- 
M  picture,  and  worth  half-a-crown,  at  the 
least;'  and  in  the  end  they  generally  go  off 
contented  and  happy. 

**'  When  we  are  not  busy,  we  always  fill  up 
the  time  taking  specimens  for  the  window. 
Anybody  who'£  sit  we  take  him ;  or  we  do  one 
another,  and  the  yoimg  woman  in  the  shop 
who  colours.  Specimens  are  very  useM 
tilings  to  us,  for  this  reason, — if  anybody 
comes  in  a  hnrrr,  and  won't  give  us  tintc  to 
do  the  picture,  then,  as  we  can't  atfbnl  to  let 
her  go,  we  sit  her  and  goes  through  all  the 
business,  and  I  says  to  Jim, '  Get  one  from  the 
window,'  and  then  he  takes  the  first  specimea 
that  comes  to  hand.  Then  we  fold  it  up  in 
paper,  and  dont  allow  her  to  see  it  until  she 
pays  for  it,  and  toll  her  not  to  expose  it  to 
the  air  for  throe  days,  and  that  if  then  fthe 
doesn't  approve  of  it  and  will  call  again  we 
will  take  her  another.  Of  course  they  in 
general  comes  back.  Wo  have  made  some 
queer  mistakes  doing  this.  One  day  a  young 
lady  come  in,  and  wouldn't  wait,  so  Jim  takes 
a  specimen  from  the  window,  and,  as  Indc 
would  have  it,  it  was  the  portrait  of  a  widow 
in  her  cap.  She  insisted  upon  oponing.  and 
then  she  said,  '  This  isn't  me ;  it's  got  a 
widow's  cap,  and  I  was  never  married  in  all 
my  life  I '  Jim  answers,  *  Oh,  miss !  why  it's  a 
beautiful  picture,  and  a  correct  likent^s,'— 
and  so  it  wus,  and  no  lies,  but  it  wasn't  of 
her. — Jim  talked  to  her,  and  says  ho,  *  Why 
this  ain't  a  cap,  it's  the  shadow  of  the  hair, — 
for  she  had  ringlets, — and  she  positively 
took  it  away  believing  that  such  was  the  case; 
and  even  promised  to  send  us  customers,  which 
she  did. 

^*  There  was  another  lady  that  came  in  a 
hurry,  and  would  stop  if  we  were  not  more  than 
a  minute ;  so  Jim  ups  with  a  specimen,  with> 
out  looking  at  it,  and  it  was  the  picture  of  a 
woman  and  her  child.  We  went  through  the 
business  of  focussing  the  camera,  and  then 
gave  her  the  portrait  and  took  the  fid.  When 
she  saw  it  she  cries  out,  *  Blees  me !  thero's  a 
ohild:  Ihafentne'erachildr    ^mlookedil 


\ 


LOyjMJf  ZABOUM  AND  THS  LONDON  POOB. 


then  8t  the  piotare,  as  if  comp«ring, 
he, '  It  is  certeinly  a  wonderfal  like- 
Sp  tnd  one  of  the  beet  we  ever  took. 
1^  you  eat ;  aod  what  has  oocasioned 
hild  passing  throngh  the  yard.'  She 
mpposed  it  most  be  so,  aod  took  the 
way  highly  delighted. 
A  sailor  came  in,  and  as  he  was  in 
hoYed  on  to  him  the  picture  of  a  ear- 
rho  was  to  call  in  the  afternoon  for 
ait.  The  jacket  was  dork,  but  there 
Lte  waistcoat;  still  I  persuaded  him 
IS  his  blue  Guernsey  which  had  come 
ight,  and  he  was  so  pleased  that  he 
dL  instead  of  ^d.  The  fact  is,  x>eople 
w  ^eir  own  faces.  Half  of  'em  have 
ked  in  a  gloss  half  a  dozen  times  in 
and  directly  they  see  a  pair  of  eyes 
le,  th^  fancy  they  are  their  own. 
on^  time  we  were  done  was  with  an 
in.  We  had  only  one  specimen  left, 
was  a  sailor  man,  veiy  dark — one  of 
.  pictures.  But  she  put  on  hor  spec- 
d  she  looked  at  it  np  and  down,  and 
I  ? '  I  said, '  Did  yuu  speak,  ma'am  ?' 
tries,  *  TN'hy,  this  is  a  man  I  here's  the 
'  I  left-,  and  Jim  tried  to  humbug  her, 
bursting  with  laughing.  Jim  said, 
ma'am ;  and  avery  excellent  likeness, 
rou.'  But  she  kept  on  saying,  *  Non- 
lint  a  man,'  and  wouldn't  have  it. 
ad  her  to  leave  a  deposit,  and  come 
bat  she  never  called.    It  was  a  little 

e  was  an  old  woman  come  in  once  and 
I  be  taken  with  a  favourite  hen  in  her 
ras  a  very  bad  picture,  and  so  black 
i  nothing  but  the  outline  of  her  face 
ite  speck  for  the  beak  of  the  bird, 
e  saw  it,  she  asked  where  the  bird 
I  Jim  took  a  pin  and  scratched  in  on 
said,  *  There  it  is,  ma'am — that's  her 
oming  out,'  and  then  he  made  a  line 
mb  on  the  head,  and  she  kept  saying, 
ful ! '  and  was  quite  delighted, 
only  bad  money  we  have  taken  was 
ethodist  clergyman,  who  came  in  for 
portrait    lie  gave  us  a  bad  six- 

lolouring  we  charge  d(f.  more.  If  tlie 
are  bad  or  dark  wo  tell  them,  that  if 
\  them  coloured  tlie  likeness  will  be 
We  flei^h  tlie  face,  scratch  the  eye  in, 
the  coat  and  colour  the  tablecloth. 
es  the  girl  who  does  it  puts  in  such 
lesh  paint,  that  you  can  scarcely  dis> 
a  foature  of  the  person.  If  they 
we  tell  them  it  will  be  all  right  when 
re's  dry.  If  it's  a  good  picture,  the 
sks  veiy  nice,  but  in  the  black  ones 
diged  to  stick  it  on  at  a  tremendous 
lake  it  show. 

Uands  at  the  door,  and  he  keeps  on 
A.  ooirect  portrait,  fkiunod  and  glazed, 
•noe,  beautifully  enamelled.'  Then, 
ly  are  listeniDgi  h«  shows  the  qpaciiua 


in  his  hands,  and  adds^'If  not  approved  ol^ao 
charge  made.' 

««  One  morning,  when  we  had  been  doing 
*quisby,'  that  is,  stopping  idle,  we  hit  upon 
anoth^  dodge.  Some  fhends  dropped  in  to 
see  me,  and  as  I  left  to  aoeompany  them  to  a 
tavern  close  by,  I  cried  to  Jim,  '  Take  that 
public-house  opposite.'  He  brought  the 
camera  and  stand  to  the  door,  and  a  mob  soon 
oolleoted.  He  kept  saying, '  Stand  back,  gen- 
tlemen, stand  back!  I  am  about  to  take  the 
public-house  in  firont  by  this  wonderfdl  pro- 
cess.' Then  he  went  over  to  the  house,  and 
asked  the  landlord,  and  asked  some  gentlemen 
drinking  there  to  step  into  the  road  whilst  he 
took  the  house  with  them  facing  it.  Then 
he  went  to  a  policeman  and  asked  him  to  stm> 
the  carts  from  i>asaing,  and  he  actually  did. 
By  this  way  he  got  up  a  tremendous  mob. 
He  then  put  in  the  slide,  pulled  off  the  cap  of 
tlie  camera,  and  focussed  the  house,  and  nre- 
tended  to  take  the  picture,  though  he  had 
no  prepared  glass,  nor  nothing.  When  he 
had  done,  he  called  out,  *  Portraits  taken  in 
one  minute.  We  are  now  taking  portraits  for 
(id.  only.  Time  of  sitting,  two  seconds  only. 
Step  inside  and  have  your'n  taken  imme- 
diately.' There  was  a  reprular  rush,  and  I  had 
to  be  fetched,  and  we  took  i\t,  worth  right  off. 

*'  People  seem  to  think  the  camera  will  do 
anything.  We  actually  persuade  them  that  it 
wiU  mesmerise  them.  After  their  portrait  is 
taken,  we  ask  them  if  they  would  like  to  be 
mesmerised  by  the  camera,  and  the  charge  is 
only  'id.  We  tlien  focus  the  camera,  and  tell 
them  to  look  firm  at  the  tube ;  and  they  stop 
there  for  two  or  three  minutes  staring,  till  their 
eyes  begin  to  water,  and  then  they  complain  of  a 
dizziness  in  tlie  head,  and  give  it  up,  saying  they 
*  can't  stand  it.'  I  always  tell  them  the  operation 
was  beginning,  and  Uiey  were  just  going  off^ 
only  they  didn't  stay  long  enough.  They  always 
remark,  *Well,  it  certainly  is  a  wonderfiil 
machine,  and  a  most  curious  invention.'  Onoe 
a  ooalheaver  came  in  to  be  mesmerised,  but  he 
got  into  a  rage  after  five  or  six  minutes,  and 
said,  *  Strike  me  dead,  ain't  you  keeping  me 
a  while  I '  He  wouldn't  stop  still,  so  Jim  told 
him  his  sensitive  nerves  was  too  powerftil,  and 
sent  him  off  cursing  and  swearing  because  he 
couldn't  be  mesmerised.  We  don't  have  many 
of  these  mesmerism  customers,  not  more  than 
four  in  these  five  months ;  but  it's  a  curioua 
circumstance,  proving  what  fools  people  is. 
Jim  si^  he  only  introduces  those  games  when 
business  is  dull,  to  keep  my  spirits  up— and 
they  certainly  are  most  laughable. 

'*  I  also  profess  to  remove  warts,  which  I  do 
by  touching  them  with  nitric  acid.  My  price 
is  a  penny  a  wart,  or  a  shilling  for  the  job ;  for 
some  of  the  hands  is  pretty  well  smothered 
with  them.  You  see,  we  never  turn  money 
away,  for  it's  hard  work  to  make  a  living  at 
sixpenny  portraits.  My  wart  patients  seldom 
coma  twice,  for  theysereama  out  ten  thousand 
whea  the  adyi  hitM  th«u 


310 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


**  Another  of  my  callings  is  to  dye  the  hair. 
You  see  I  have  a  good  many  refuse  baths, 
which  is  mostly  nitrate  of  silver,  the  same  as 
idl  hair-dyes  is  composed  ot  I  dyes  the 
whiskers  and  moustache  for  U,  The  worst  of 
it  is,  that  nitrate  of  silver  also  blacks  the  skin 
wherever  it  touches.  One  fellow  with  carroty 
hair  came  in  one  day  to  have  his  whiskers 
died,  and  I  went  clumsily  to  woric  and  let  the 
stuff  trickle  down  his  chin  and  on  his  cheeks, 
as  well  as  making  the  flesh  at  the  roots  as 
black  as  a  hat.  He  came  the  next  day  to  have 
it  taken  off,  and  I  made  him  pay  9d,  more,  and 
then  removed  it  with  cyanide,  which  certainly 
-did  dean  him,  but  made  him  smart  awfully. 

"  I  have  been  told  that  there  are  near  upon 
-250  houses  in  London  now  getting  a  livelihood 
taking  sixpenny  portraits.  There's  ninety  of  'em 
I'm  personally  acquainted  with,  and  one  man 
I  know  has  ten  different  shops  of  his  own. 
There's  eight  in  the  Whitechapel-rcad  alone, 
from  Butcher-row  to  the  Mile-end  turnpike. 
Bless  you,  yes !  they  all  make  a  good  living  at  it. 
Why,  I  could  go  to-morrow,  and  they  would  be 
glad  to  employ  me  at  21,  a-week — indeed 
they  have  told  me  so. 

**  If  we  had  begun  earlier  this  summer,  we 
could,  only  with  our  little  affair,  have  made 
from  8/.  to  10/.  a-week,  and  about  one-third  of 
that  is  expenses.  You  see,  I  operate  myself, 
and  that  cuts  out  2/.  a-week.** 

The  Pehnt  Pbofile-Cutteiu 

Thb  young  man  from  whom  the  annexed 
statement  was  gathered,  is  one  of  a  class  of 
street-artists  now  fast  disappearing  from  view, 
but  which  some  six  or  seven  years  ago  occu- 
pied a  very  prominent  position. 

At  the  period  to  which  I  allude,  the  steam- 
boat excursionist,  or  visitor  to  the  pit  of  a 
London  theatre,  whom  Nature  had  favoured 
with  very  prominent  features,  oftentimes 
found  displayed  to  publio  view,  most  unex- 
pectedly,  a  tolerably  correct  profile  of  himself 
in  black  paper,  mounted  upon  a  white  card. 
As  soon  as  attention  was  attracted,  the  ex- 
hibitor generally  stepped  forward,  offering,  in 
■a  respectltd  manner,  to  "  cut  out  any  lady*s 
or  gentleman's  likeness  for  the  small  sum  of 
one  penny ;"  an  offer  which,  judging  from  the 
account  below  given  as  to  the  artist's  takings, 
fieems  to  have  been  rather  favourably  re- 
sponded to. 

The  appearance  presented  by  the  profile- 
cutter  from  whom  I  derived  my  information 
bordered  on  the  "  respectable."  He  was  a  tall 
thin  man,  with  a  nanrow  face  and  long  fea- 
tures. His  eyes  were  large  and  animated. 
He  was  dressed  in  black,  and  the  absence  of 
shirt  collar  round  his  bare  neck  gave  Um  a 
dingy  appearance.    He  spoke  as  follows : — 

"  I'm  a  penny  profile-cutter,  or,  as  we  in  the 
profession  call  ourselves,  a  profiUst.  I  com. 
menced  cutting  profiles  when  I  was  14  years 
of  age,  always  acquiring  a  taste  for  cutting  out 


ornaments,  &c  My  father's  avers 
able  man,  and  been  in  one  situation 
I  left  school  against  his  wish  when 
years  old,  for  I  didn't  like  school  mud 
mind  you,  I'm  a  good  scholar.  I  e 
much,  but  I  can  read  anything.  Aft 
school,  I  went  arrand-boy  to  a  pri 
was  there  nine  months.  I  had  4s.  6d. 
Then  I  went  to  a  lithographic  printer^ 
a  double-action  press,  but  the  work 
hard  fbr  a  boy,  and  so  I  left  it  I  s' 
about  nine  weeks,  and  then  I  was  on 
some  time,  and  was  living  on  my  pi 
next  went  to  work  at  a  under-priced 
termed  a  '  knobstick's,'  but  I  was 
with  the  pric«  paid  fbr  labour.  I  wa 
maker.  I  learned  my  first  task  in  fo 
and  could  do  it  as  well  as  those  who' 
it  for  months.  I  eam'd  good  mon 
didn't  like  it,  for  it  was  boys  keeping 
of  employment  who'd  served  their  se 
to  the  trade.  I  left  the  hatter's  after 
there  two  seasons,  and  then  I  was  ou 
for  some  months.  One  day  I  went  t 
the  Tenter-ground,  Whitechapel.  Wl 
walking  about  the  fiiir,  I  see  a  jom 
knew  standing  as  'doorsman'  at  i 
cutter's,  and  he  told  me  that  anothe 
cutter  in  the  fair  wanted  an  assise 
thought  I  should  do  for  it  He  kno 
handy  at  drawing,  because  he  wi 
hatter's  along  with  me,  and  I  used  to  i 
men's  likenesses  on  the  shop  door.  S 
to  this  man  and  engaged.  I  had  U 
the  door,  or  *  tout,*  as  we  call  it,  an 
mount  the  likenesses  on  cards.  I  w 
backward  at  touting  at  first,  but  I 
that  in  the  course  of  the  day,  ax 
patter  like  anything  before  the 'day  • 
I  had  to  shout  out,  '  Step  inside,  la 
gentlemen,  and  have  a  correct  liken* 
for  one  penny.'  We  did  a  very  good 
the  two  dajs  of  the  fair  that  I  attend 
was  not  there  till  the  second  day. 
about  4/.,  but  not  all  for  penny  likenc 
cause,  if  we  put  the  likeness  on 
charged  2(^,  and  if  they  was  btoi 
charged  6<2.,  and  if  they  were  fna 
plete,  Is,  My  pay  was  4».  per  day,  a 
found  in  my  keep. 

"  When  the  Tenter-ground  fair  n 
the  profilist  asked  me  if  I'd  travel  i 
and  I  agreed  upon  stated  terms.  ] 
have  4a.  for  working  days,  and  Is.  ai 
and  lodgings  &c.  for  off-days.  So  w 
next  day  for  Luton  *  Statties/  or  Sti 
it  should  be  called.  Luton  is  32  mi 
London,  and  this  we  walked,  carrying 
the  booth  and  every  requisite  for  busi 
whole  of  the  distance.  I  had  not 
father's  leave ;  I  didn't  ask  for  it,  b 
knew  he'd  object  We  started  for  I 
12  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  got  thex 
o'clock  at  night,  and  our  load  was  nc 
light  un,  fbr  I'm  sure  the  pair  of  us 
have  had  less  than  3  cwt  to  carry.  Iwa 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


ail 


thAt  I  dropt  down  about  a  mile  before  we  got 
to  the  town,  bat  a  stranger  came  ap  and  offered 
to  cany  my  load  for  me  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
I  went  to  sleep  on  the  bank,  though  it  was  so 
lata  aft  night.  While  I  was  sleeping  the  horse- 
patrol  came  along  and  woke  me  up.  He  told 
me  I'd  better  get  on,  as  I'd  only  a  nule  to  go.  I 
99t  op  and  proceeded  on,  and  turning  the  corner 
of  the  road,  I  distinctly  saw  the  lights  of  Luton, 
which  enlivened  me  very  much.  I  reached  the 
town  about  a  half.an-hour  after  my  mate.  We 
had  a  very  good  fair.  Fossett  was  there  with 
his  performing  birds  and  mice,  and  a  nice  con- 
cern it  was ;  but  since  then  he's  got  a  fust-rate 
areas.  He  travels  the  country  still,  and  his 
(tmoem  is  worthy  a  visit  from  any  body. 
There  was  Frederick's  theatrical  booth  there, 
isd  a  good  many  others  of  the  same  sort 

"We  did  veiy  well,  having  no  opposition, 
for  we  cut  out  a  great  many  likenesses,  and 
most  of  them  twopenny  ones.  It's  a  great 
place  for  the  straw-plaiters,  but  there's  about 
stfeo  women  to  one  man.  There  was  plenty 
of  agricultural  men  and  women  there  as  well, 
•nd  most  of  the  John  and  Molls  had  their  pro- 
files cut.  If  a  ploughman  had  his  cut,  he 
mostly  gave  it  to  bis  sweetheart,  and  if  his  girl 
had  hers  cut  out,  she  returned  the  compli- 
ment 

**  From  Luton  we  went  to  Stourbitch  fair, 
Cambridge,  and  there  we  had  very  bad  luck,  for 
we  had  to  build  out  of  the  fair,  alongside  of 
mother  likeness-booth,  and  it  was  raining  all 
the  while.  We  cut  out  very  few  likenesses,  for 
we  didn't  take  above  a  half  a  sovereign  the 
whole  three  days. 

^  Aiter  leading  Stourbitch,  we  took  the  road 
far  Peterborough-bridge  fair.  Being  a  cross- 
comitry  road,  there  was  no  conveyance,  and 
not  liking  tlie  job  of  carrying  our  traps,  we  got 
a  man  who  had  a  donkey  and  barrow  to  put 
our  things  aside  of  his  own,  and  we  agreed  to 
pay  him  4f .  for  the  job.  After  we'd  got  about 
ten  miles  on  the  road,  the  donkey  stopt  shoi-t, 
snd  wouldn't  move  a  peg.  We  didn't  know 
what  to  do  for  the  best.  At  last  one  of  our 
party  pulled  off  his  hat  and  rattled  a  stick  in 
it.  The  donkey  pricked  up  his  ears  wiUi  fright, 
and  darted  off  like  one  o'clock.  After  a  bit  he 
stopt  again,  and  then  we  had  to  repeat  the 
dose,  and  so  we  managed  at  last  to  get  to 
Peterborough.  We  had  out-and-out  luck  at 
this  fair,  for  we  cut  out  a  great  many  like- 
nesses, and  a  rare  lot  of  'em  were  bronzed. 
We  took  in  the  three  days  about  6/.  This  is 
■apposed  to  be  a  great  fair,  and  it's  supported 
principally  by  respectable  people.  Some  of 
the  people  that  came  for  profiles  were  quite 
gentlefolks,  and  they  brought  their  fanulies 
with  them ;  they're  the  people  we  like,  because 
they  believe  we  can  cut  a  likeness,  and  stand 
BtUl  while  we're  doing  it.  But  the  lower 
Qtdem  are  no  good  to  anybody,  for  when  they 
eater  the  booth  they  get  larking,  and  make 
deriaons,  and  won't  atand  still;  and  when 
thatfi  the  case,  we  don't  take  any  trouble,  but 


cut  out  anything,  and  say  it's  like  'em,  and 
then  they  often  say,  *  Ah,  it's  as  much  like 
me  as  it's  like  him.'  But  we  always  manage 
to  get  the  money.  There  was  a  good  many 
dashing  young  shop  chaps  came  and  had  their 
portraits  taken.  They  dress  very  fine,  because 
thejr've  got  no  other  way  to  spend  their  money, 
for  there's  no  theatre  or  concert-rooms  in  the 
place. 

"  We  went,  after  leaving  Peterborough,  to  two 
or  three  other  fairs.  At  lost  we  got  to  a  fair  in 
Huntingdonshire,  and  there  I  quarrelled  with 
my  mate,  because  he  caught  me  practising 
with  his  scissors ;  so  I  went  into  a  stall  next 
to  where  we  stood  and  bought  a  penny  pair ; 
but  the  pair  I  picked  out  was  a  sixpenny  pair 
by  rights,  for  they  had  fell  off  a  sixpenny  card 
by  accident.  I  practised  with  tliem,  whenever 
I  got  a  chance.  We  got  on  pretty  well,  too,  at 
this  f^.  We  took  about  3/.  in  the  three  days. 
When  we  got  to  our  lodgings — the  first  night 
was  at  a  public  house — I  got  practising  again, 
and  my  mate  snatched  my  scissors  out  of  my 
hand,  and  never  gave  them  to  me  any  more 
till  we  got  on  to  the  road  for  another  fair. 
When  he  gave  them  to  me  I  asked  what  he 
took  'em  away  for,  and  he  said  I'd  no  business 
to  practise  in  a  pubhc-house  ;  and  I  told  him 
I  should  do  as  I  liked,  and  that  I  could  cut 
as  good  a  likeness  as  him,  and  I  said,  *  Give 
me  my  money  and  I'll  go,' — for  he'd  only  paid 
me  a  few  shillings  all  the  time  I'd  been  with 
him  —  but  he  wouldn't  pay  me,  and  so  we 
worked  two  or  three  more  fairs  together.  One 
day,  going  along  the  road,  we  stopped  at  a 
public-house  to  get  some  dinner.  There  was 
a  little  boy  playing  with  a  ship.  *  Now,'  says  I, 
^  I'll  show  you  I  can  cut  a  better  likeness  than 
you,  or,  at  all  events,  a  more  saleable  one.'  I 
took  my  scissors  up  for  the  first  time  in  public, 
and  cut  out  the  httle  boy  full  length,  with  the 
ship  in  his  hand  and  a  little  toy  horse  by  his 
side,  but  could  not  bronze  it,  because  I'd  not 
practised  the  brush.  I  pencilled  the  little 
landscape  scene  behind,  and  when  I  showed 
it  to  my  mate  he  was  surprised,  but  he  found 
many  faults  which  he  himself  could  not  im- 
prove upon.  I  sold  the  likeness  to  the  boy's 
mother  for  a  shilling,  before  his  face,  and  of 
course  he  was  nettled.  After  dinner  we 
started  off  again,  making  for  Bedford  fair; 
we'd  sent  our  things  on  by  the  rail,  and  we 
soon  begim  talking  about  my  cutting  out  He 
wondered  how  I'd  acquired  it,  and  when  I 
told  him  I'd  practised  hours  imbeknown  to 
him,  he  agreed  that  I  should  be  a  regular 
partner — pay  half  the  expenses,  and  have 
half  of  the  profits,  and  begin  the  next  fair. 
When  we  got  there  the  fair  was  very  dull,  and 
business  very  bad ;  we  only  took  11#. ;  he  cut 
out  all  the  busts,  and  I  did  all  the  fUl-lengths. 
He  was  very  bad  at  fulllcngths,  because  he'd 
got  no  idea  of  proportion,  but  I  could  always 
get  my  proportions  right.  I  could  always 
draw  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  cut  out  figures 
for  night-shades.    Many  a  time,  when  I  was 


313 


LONDOy  LABOUR  AXD  THE  LONDOS  POOR, 


only  eip;ht  yean  nld«  I'vo  smiM^  a  whole  room 
fall  of  people  with  '  Cobbler  Jobson '  and '  The 
Bridge  is  broken.' 

**  As  thinffs  worr»  so  bad  at  Bedford,  we  agreed 
to  come  up  to  London,  and  not  stop  the  other 
two  days  of  the  fair.  "Whfn  I  came  down 
Btnirs  in  the  inominj?  at  \)  o'cbx'k,  I  found  my 
mnie  hod  litdted  hy  ih«»  flve-o'clock  train .  and 
li.tt  ine  ill  tin-  hircii.  HoM  jmid  tho  rt-cktinln?, 
but  lie  liatln't  VW  nu*  a  shilling  of  th«^  niom-y 
thiit  hi-  owed  me.  I  had  vi'iT  litilc  money  in  my 
IMwket,  bwmisn  heM  b*?cn  rn>]! -taker,  and  *^o  I 
had  to  tramp  the  whole  fifty  mib'H  to  I^mdon. 
"Wlien  I  n'fu.'h«'d  London,  1  found  out  whore  he 
IIvinU  and  suort^ulcd  in  j;i?ttinR  my  inonry 
i^ithin  a  few  shillin^js.  The  next  thhig  I  <Ud 
was  to  join  another  man  in  opening  a  shop  in 
Tendon,  in  the  profile  lino— lio  f.iuml  capital 
and  I  found  talent,  and  \vy\  woll  v.e  diiL 
Mo8t  of  our  customers  weiv  workin,'  p«M»ple, 
and  often  they'd  come  and  have  two  or  three 
likenesses,  to  R«'nd  to  th(»ir  friends  who'd  emi- 
pmte<l,  because  they'd  go  easy  in  a  letter. 
There  was  on«»  old  gentleman  tliat  1  had  come 
tome  regularly  rverj'  momiiu:.  for  ni:irly  three 
monthH,  anil  hud  thni^  penny  liken«'*;r«Hs  cut 
out,  for  which  h"  would  always  jKiy  sixpi'm-e. 
He  had  an  excellent  profile,  an. I  was  ca^^y  to  cut 
ont ;  he  was  one  of  those  club-no$ed  oM  nun, 
with  a  def>p  brow  and  doublo  <'hin.  Ono 
morning  he  bmught  all  of  them  back  thnt  I 
had  taken,  and  a«ked  us  what  we'd  givi»  for 
the  lot.  I  tfdd  him  they  wore  no  use  to  me. 
for  if  1  had  thmi  for  specimens  people  would 
aay  that  I  could  cut  only  tme  sort  of  face, 
because  they  were  all  alike.  Af^er  chafUng  for 
aboat  half  an  hour,  he  said  he  had  brought 
them  all  back  to  have  shirt  collars  cut,  and 
to  have  them  put  on  cards.  AVe  put  them 
all  on  cards  and  he  paid  us  a  penny  for  each 
one,  and  when  ho  took  'em  away  he  said  he 
was  going  to  distribute  them  among  his 
friends.  One  day  a  gentleman  roile  up  and 
asked  us  how  much  woM  charge  to  cut 
him  out,  horse  and  all.  I  told  him  we 
hadn't  any  papi»r  larpre  enough  just  then,  but 
il'  he'd  call  another  day  we'd  do  it  fw  »U,  (W. 
I!eat;n^ed  to  give  it,  and  call  the  foUoi^-ing 
i:.>ti'ninf^.  1  knew  I  couldn't  cut  out  a  horse 
i,.>try,-t,  so  T  bought  a  piottire  of  a  race-horse 
fi»r  Orf.,  and  cut  it  out  in  black  profile  paper, 
and  when  he  came  tlio  next  day  as  he  sat  on  his 
lior«o  ontsido,  so  I  cut  his  likeness,  and  when 
I'd  finished  it  I  called  him  in,  and  he  declared 
tliat  it  was  the  best  likeness,  both  of  him  and 
his  horse,  too.  tlnit  he'd  ever  seen ;  and  it 
appears  he  had  his  horse  painted  in  oil. 
When  he  pai<l  us,  instead  of  giWng  us  .1«.  6rf. 
as  he'd  agreed,  he  gave  us  5«.  Af^r  being  at 
this  shop  for  five  months,  traile  got  so  bad  we 
had  to  leave.  The  first  month  we  took  on  the 
average  10«.  a-day,  but  it  gradually  decreased 
till  at  last  we  didn't  tAke  more  than  about  3a. 
a-day.  It  was  winter,  to  be  stu^.  Before  we  left 
this  shop  we  got  another  to  go  into,  a  mile  or 
two  ofiT;  bat  this  turned  out  quite  a  failure, 


and  we  only  kept  on  a  month,  for  ws  B«rar 
got  higher  Uian  three  or  four  shillings  a^daT, 
and  the  rent  alone  was  Ms.  per  week  The 
next  shop  we  took  was  in  a  low  neighbonr- 
hood,  and  we  got  a  comfortable  living  fai  it. 
I  idways  did  the  cutting  out,  and  my  partner 
the  timting.  We  stopped  in  this  place  nine 
w«?eks,  and  then  things  begun  to  get  slank 
bore,  so  we  thought  we'd  try  the  suburbs,  saoh 
a^t  Hi;?hgato,  (^lapham.  atid  Kensingtoa, 
plaros  ilireo  or  four  mil«ys  out.  We  usied  to 
hang  specimens  outside  the  publichonses 
wiioi-o  wo  took  our  lodgings,  and  engage  a 
ro(im  to  cut  in.  In  this  way  we  managed  to 
gel  the  winter  over  very  comfortable,  but  mj 
juirtiior  was  taken  ill  just  as  we'd  k*nocked  o^ 
and  had  to  go  in  the  hospital,  and  so  I  now 
thought  I'd  tnr  what  is  termed  *  busking ; '  that 
is,  going  into  public-houst'S  and  cutting  lika- 
ncsses  of  the  company.  I  often  met  nith 
rough  customers;  thoy  used  to  despise  the  iiIf 
genuity  of  the  art,  and  say,  •  Why  don't  joa 
go  to  work?  I've  got  a  chap  that  ain't  so  hSgap  - 
yon,  and  he  goes  to  work ; '  and  things  of  mtk 
kind.  On  Satunlay  nights  I'd  take  such  A 
thing  as  fli.  or  8j.,  principally  in  penee,  bil 
on  other  nights  not  more  than  2i.  or  2f.  9dL : 
these  were  mostly  tap -room  customers,  bat 
when  tliey'd  let  me  go  in  a  parlour  I  could  do 
a  good  night's  work  in  a  little  time,  and  the 
company  would  treat  me  better.  I  soon  left 
otr  busking,  l>ecause  I  didn't  like  the  people  I  ^ 
had  to  do  with,  and  it  was  such  a  troable  to 
get  the  money  when  they  were  half  tipflj. 
1  never  worked  in  theatres,  biX'aase  I  didn't 
lik(>  tlic  pushing  about ;  but  I've  known  a  man 
to  get  a  good  living  at  the  theatres  andatean- 
boiits  alone.  I  took  to  steam- boata  myidf 
when  I  left  off  public-houses,  working  mostly 
in  the  Gravesend  boats  on  the  Sunday,  and  the 
lia'penuy  boats  on  the  week-days.  I've  taken 
iM^'ore  now  l-ka.  of  a  Sunday,  and  I  used  to 
van-  in  the  ha'penny  boats  from  2j.  to  4«.  a-d^. 

"  I  .'dways  attend  Greenwich-park  regnlariy 
at  holiday  times,  but  never  have  a  booth  at 
tht>  fair,  because  I  can  do  better  moving 
about.  I  have  a  frame  of  specimens  tied 
round  a  tree,  and  get  a  boy  to  hold  the  paper 
and  canls.  At  this  I've  taken  as  much  as  SOi. 
in  one  day,  and  though  there  was  lota  of  cheq» 
photographio  booths  down  there  last  Easter 
Monday,  in  spite  of 'em  all  I  took  above  8*.  WL 
in  the  afternoon.  Battersea- fields  and  Chalk- 
farm  used  to  be  out-and-out  spots  on  a  Sundiff, 
at  one  time.  I've  often  taken  such  a  tiling  is 
•')05.  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  and  evening  in  thl 
summer.  After  I  left  the  steam-boats  I  buill 
myself  a  small  booth,  and  travelled  the  country 
to  fairs, '  statties,'  and  feasts,  and  got  a  veiy 
comfortable  living;  but  now  the  cheap  photo- 
graphs have  completely  done  up  profiles,  so 
I'm  compelled  to  tmm  to  that.  But  I  think  I 
shall  learn  a  trade,  for  that'll  be  better  than  j 
either  of  them. 

"  The  best  work  Tve  had  of  late  yean  h» 
been  at  the   teetotal    festivals.    I    was  it 


LONIMN  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOR. 


214 


AjlMJmiy  with  tfafim,  at  St.  AUmn's,  Luton, 
•od  Gore  House.  At  Gore  House  last  August, 
wlwn  the  'Bands  ol  Hope '  were  there,  I  took 

abontajiiTi" 

Buio>  Pbotzlb-Cutteb. 

JL  CHBKBruL  blmd  man,  well  known  to  all 
cwsning  Waterloo  or  Hungerford-bridges, 
gave  me  the  following  account  of  liis  figure- 
«atdng>-~ 

**  I  had  the  measles  when  I  was  seven,  and 
became  blind ;  but  my  sight  was  restored  by 
Dr.  Jeffrey,  at  old  St.  George's  Hospital.  After 
that  I  had  several  relapses  into  total  blindness 
in  eoQsequence  of  colds,  and  since  1B40  I  have 
bees  quite  blind,  excepting  that  I  can  partially 
distinguish  the  sun  and  the  gas-lights,  and 
Moh-like,  with  the  left  eye  only.  I  am  now 
Q,  and  was  brought  up  to  house-painting. 
When  I  was  last  attacked  with  blindness  I  was 
to  go  into  St  Martin's  workhouse, 
» I  underwent  thirteen  operations  in  two 
jMors.  When  I  came  out  of  the  workhouse  I 
itejed  the  German  flute  in  the  street,  but  it 
via  only  a  noise,  not  music,  sir.  Then  I 
sold  boot-laces  and  tapes  in  the  stxeet,  and 
anraged  5«.  a-week  by  it — certainly  not 
more.  Next  I  made  little  wooden  tobacco- 
stoppcn  in  the  street,  in  the  shape  of 
kgi— they^  called  *legs.'  The  first  day 
I  started  in  that  line — it  was  in  Totten- 
ham-court-road— >I  was  quite  elated,  for  I 
nuuia  half-a-crown.  I  next  tried  it  by  St. 
Clemenrs-chnrch,  but  I  found  that  I  cut  my 
hands  so  with  the  knives  and  files,  that  I  had 
to  pre  ii  up,  and  I  then  took  up  with  the  trade 
of  eotting  out  profiles  of  animals  and  birds, 
and  ^tesque  human  figures,  in  card.  I 
titabhshed  myself  soon  after  I  began  this 
tade  by  the  Victoria-gate,  Bayswater;  that 
wasfts  beat  pitch  I  ever  had— one  day  I  took 
Ui.*  and  I  avsraged  SOs.  a-week  for  six  weeks, 
▲t  last  the  inspector  of  police  ordered  me  off. 
AJler  that  I  was  shoved  about  by  the  pohce, 
sooh  crowds  gathered  round  me,  until  I  at 
length  go4  leave  to  cany  on  my  business  by 
Waterloo-bridge ;  that's  seven  years  ago.  I 
lemained  theve  till  the  opening  of  Hungerford- 
bridge,  in  May  1B45.  I  sit  there  cold  or  fine, 
winter  or  summer,  every  day  but  Sunday,  or 
if  I'm  iU.  I  often  hear  odd  remarks  from 
people  crossing  the  bridge.  In  winter  time, 
ih^  Fve  been  cold  and  hungry,  and  so  poor 
that  I  couldn't  get  my  clothes  properly  mended, 
om  has  said,  *  Look  at  that  poor  blind  man 
there;'  and  another  (and  oft  enough,  too)  has 
answered,  'Poor  bhod  man! — he  has  better 
doihes  and  more  money  than  you  or  me; 
it's  all  done  to  excite  pity!'  I  can  gene- 
rally tell  a  gentleman's  or  lady's  voice,  if 
they^  the  real  thing.  I  can  tell  a  purse- 
proud  man's  voice,  too.  He  says,  in  a 
dumincering,  hectoring  way,  as  an  ancient 
Boman  might  speak  to  liis  idave, '  All,  ha !  my 
good  fellow !  how  do  you  sell  these  things  1 ' 


Since  January  last,  I  may  hsfte  arranged  8s. 
a-week — that's  the  outside.  The  working 
and  the  middling  classes  are  my  best  friaads* 
I  know  of  no  other  man  in  my  particular  liaa^ 
and  I've  often  inquired  onneeming  ai^." 

WbITKB  WXTBOtJT  HaXDS. 

The  next  in  order  are  the  Writers  without 
Hands  and  the  Chalkers  on  ilag-stones. 

A  man  of  61,  bom  in  the  crippled  state  he 
described,  toll,  and  with  an  intelhgentlook  and 
good  manners,  gave  me  this  account  :— 

"  I  was  bom  without  hands— -merely  the 
elbow  of  the  right  arm  and  the  joint  of  the 
wrist  of  t})e  lefL  I  have  rounded  stumps.  I 
was  bom  mthout  feet  also,  merely  the  ankle 
and  heel,  just  as  if  my  feet  were  out  off  close 
within  the  instep.  My  father  was  a  farmer  in 
Cavan  county,  Ireland,  and  gave  me  a  fair  edu- 
cation. He  had  me  taught  to  write.  I'll  show 
you  how,  sir.'  ( Here  he  put  on  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles, using  his  stumps,  and  then  holding  the 
pen  on  one  stump,  by  means  of  the  other  he 
moved  the  two  together,  and  so  wrote  his 
name  in  an  old-fashioned  hand.)  'I  was 
taught  by  an  ordinary  schoolmaster.  I  served 
an  ^prenticeship  of  seven  years  to  a  turner, 
near  Cavan,  and  could  work  well  at  the  turning, 
but  couldn't  chop  the  wood  veiy  well.  I 
handled  my  tools  as  I've  shown  you  I  do  my 
pen.  I  came  to  London  in  1814,  having  a 
prospect  of  getting  a  situation  in  the  India- 
house;  but  I  didn't  get  it,  and  waited  for 
eighteen  months,  until  my  Amds  and  my 
father's  help  were  exhausted,  and  I  then  took 
to  making  fancy  screens,  flower-vases,  and 
hand-raclu  in  the  streets.  I  did  very  well  at 
them,  making  15<.  to  20«.  a-week  in  Uie  sum* 
mer,  and  not  half  that,  perhaps  not  much 
more  than  a  third,  in  the  winter.  I  continue 
this  work  still,  when  my  health  permits,  and  I 
now  make  handsome  ornaments,  flower- vases, 
<S^.  for  the  quality,  and  have  to  work  before 
them  frequently,  to  satisfy  them.  I  could  do 
very  well  but  for  ill-health.  I  chaise  from  0«. 
to  8s.  for  hand-screens,  and  from  Is,  6d.  to  I6s. 
for  flower- vases.  Some  of  the  quality  pay  me 
handsomely — some  are  very  near.  I  have 
done  little  work  in  the  streets  this  way,  except 
in  very  fine  weather.  Sometimes  I  write 
tickets  in  the  street  at  a  halfpenny  each.  The 
police  never  interfere  unless  the  thoroughfare 
is  obstructed  badly.  My  most  frequent  writing 
is, '  Naked  come  I  into  the  world,  and  naked 
shall  I  retmrn.'  'The  Lord  giveth,  and  the 
Lord  iakeih  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.'  To  that  I  add  my  name,  the  date 
sometimes,  and  a  memorandum  that  it  was  the 
writing  of  a  man  bom  without  hands  or  feet. 
When  I'm  not  disturbed,  I  do  pretty  well, 
getting  1».  6d,  a-day ;  but  that's  an  extra  day. 
The  boys  are  a  great  worry  to  me.  Working 
people  are  my  only  friends  at  the  writing, 
and  women  the  best  My  best  pitches  are 
Tottenham-court-road  and  the  West-end  tho- 


No.  LXVIL 


214 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


roughfares.  There's  three  men  I  know  who 
write  without  hands.  They're  in  the  coimtry 
chiefly,  traveUing.  One  man  writes  with  his 
toes,  but  chiefly  in  the  public-houses,  or  with 
showmun.  I  consider  that  I  am  the  only  man 
in  the  world  who  is  a  handicraftsman  without 
hands  or  feet.  I  am  married,  and  have  a 
grown-up  fkmily.  Two  of  my  sons  are  in 
America,  one  in  Australia,  one  a  sailor,  the 
others  are  emigrants  on  the  coast  of  Africa, 
and  one  a  cabinet-maker  in  London — all  fine 
fellows,  well  made.  I  had  fifteen  in  alL  My 
father  and  mother,  too,  were  a  handsome,  well- 
made  couple." 

ChALKEB  on  FULO-STOHXS. 

A  8P1BB,  sad-looking  man,  very  poorly  dressed, 
gave  me  the  followins  statement.  He  is  well- 
Imown  by  his  colonred  drawings  upon  the  flag- 
stones :«- 

**  I  was  usher  in  a  school  for  three  years, 
and  had  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  lost  me  my 
employment,  and  was  soon  the  cause  of  great 
poverty.  I  was  fond  of  drawing,  and  colour- 
mg  drawings,  when  a  child,  using  sixpenny 
boxes  of  colours,  or  the  best  my  parents  could 
procure  me,  but  I  never  had  leesons.  I  am  a 
self-taught  man.  When  I  was  reduced  to 
distress,  and  indeed  to  starvation,  I  thought 
of  tiying  some  mode  of  living,  and  remem- 
bering  having  seen  a  man  draw  mackerel  on 
the  flags  in  the  streets  of  Bristol  20  years  ago, 
I  thought  I  would  tiy  what  I  could  do  that 
way.  I  first  tried  my  hand  in  the  New  Kent- 
road,  attempting  a  likeness  of  Napoleon,  and 
it  was  passable,  though  I  can  do  much  better 
now ;  I  made  half-a-crown  the  first  day.  I 
saw  a  statement  in  one  of  your  letters  that  I 
was  making  1/.  a-day,  and  was  giving  14<f. 
for  a  shilling.  I  never  did :  on  the  contraiy, 
Tve  had  a  pint  of  beer  given  to  me  by  pub- 
lioans  for  supplying  them  with  copper.  It 
doesn't  hurt  me,  so  that  you  need  not  con- 
tradict  it  unless  you  like.  The  Morning 
Chronicle  letters  about  us  are  frequently 
talked  over  in  the  lodging-houses.  It's  14 
or  10  years  since  I  started  in  the  New  Eent- 
xoad,  and  I've  followed  up  *  screeving,'  as  it's 
sometimes  called,  or  drawing  in  coloured 
chalks  on  the  fla^- stones,  until  now.  I  im- 
proved with  practice.  It  paid  me  well;  but 
m  wet  weather  I  have  made  nothing,  and 
have  had  to  run  into  debt  A  good  day's 
work  I  reckon  8«.  or  lOf.  A  very  good  day's 
work?  I  should  be  glad  to  get  it  now.  I 
have  made  15«.  in  a  day  on  an  extraordinary 
occasion,  but  never  more,  except  at  Green- 
wich fair,  where  I've  practised  ^ese  14  years. 
I  don't  suppose  1  ever  cleared  1/.  a^week  all 
the  year  round  at  screeving.  For  I/,  a- week 
I  would  honestly  work  my  hardest.  I  have 
a  wife  and  two  children.  I  would  draw  trucks 
or  be  a  copying  clerk,  or  do  anything  for  1/. 
a-week  to  get  out  of  the  streets.  Or  I  would 
like   regular   employment   as    a  painter  in 


crayons.  Of  all  my  paintings  the  Cliritftfk 
heads  paid  the  best,  but  ven-  little  better  than 
the  Napoleon's  heads.  The  Waterloo-bridge- 
road  was  a  favourite  spot  of  mine  fbr  a  pitch* 
Euston- square  is  another.  These  two  were 
my  best.  I  never  chalked  '  starving '  on  the 
flags,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  'There  an 
two  imitators  of  me,  but  they  do  bad^.  ) 
don't  do  as  well  as  I  did  10  years  ago,  but 
rm  making  Ids.  a-week  all  the  year  through.** 


v.— EXHIBITORS  OF  TRAINED 
ANIMALS. 

The  Hafft  Family  Ezhibitoiu 


"  Happy  Families,"  or  assemblages  of  a 
of  diverse  habits  and  propensities  living  ta^ 
cably,  or  at  least  quietly,  in  one  cage,  are  so 
well  known  as  to  need  no  further  descriptioB 
here.  Concerning  them  I  received  the  Al- 
lowing account : — 

*'I  have  been  three  years  connected  wttb 
happy  families,  living  by  such  connexioo. 
These  exhibitions  were  first  started  at  Co- 
ventiy,  sixteen  years  ago,  by  a  man  who  wjlv 
my  teacher.  He  was  a  stocking-weaver,  and 
a  fancier  of  animals  and  birds,  having  a  good 
many  in  his  place — hawks,  owls,  pigeon^ 
starlings,  cats,  dogs,  rats,  mice,  guinea-pig% 
jackdaws,  fowls,  ravens,  and  monkeys.  He 
used  to  keep  them  separate  and  for  his  omt 
amusement,  or  would  train  them  for  salfl^ 
teaching  the  dogs  tricks,  and  such-like.  He 
found  his  animals  agree  so  well  together,  ftti 
he  had  a  notion — and  a  snake-charmer,  an 
old  Indian,  used  to  advise  him  on  the  subject 
— that  he  could  show  in  public  animals  and 
birds,  supposed  to  be  one  another's  enemies 
and  victims,  living  in  quiet  together.  ISm  £d 
show  them  in  public,  beginning  with  eats» 
rats,  and  pigeons  in  one  cage ;  and  then  kept 
adding  by  degrees  all  the  other  creatures  I 
have  mentioned.  He  did  veiy  well  at  Co- 
ventry, but  I  don't  know  what  he  took.  Wb 
way  of  training  the  animals  is  a  secret,  which 
he  has  taught  to  me.  It's  principally  doofl^ 
however,  I  may  tell  you,  by  continued  kindwwi 
and  petting,  and  studying  the  nature  of  the 
creatures.  Hundreds  have  tried  their  handi 
at  happy  fiEunilies,  and  have  failed.  The  cit 
has  killed  the  mice,  the  hawks  have  killed  the 
birds,  the  dogs  the  rats,  and  even  Uie  ata^ 
the  rats,  the  birds,  and  even  one  another; 
indeed,  it  was  anything  but  a  happy  family. 
By  our  system  we  never  have  a  mishap ;  and 
have  had  animals  eight  or  nine  years  in  the 
cage — until  they*ve  died  of  age,  indeed.  In 
our  present  cage  we  have  54  birds  and  ani- 
mals, and  of  17  diflTerent  kinds ;  8  cats,  2  dogs 
(a  terrier  and  a  spaniel),  2  monkeys,  2  mag- 
pies, 2  jackdaws,  2  jays,  10  starlings  (some  of 
them  talk),  6  pigeons,  2  hawks,  2  bam  fo^ 
1  screech  owl,  5  common-sewer  rats,  6  white 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB, 


215 


nte  \2k  novelty),  8  guinea-pigs,  2  rabbits  (1 
wild  and  1  tame),  1  hedgehog,  and  1  tortoise. 
Of  all  these,  the  rat  is  the  most  difficult  to 
make  a  member  of  a  happy  family ;  among 
birds,  the  hawk.  The  easiest  trained  animal 
is  a  monkey,  and  the  easiest  trained  bird  a 
pigeon.  They  live  together  in  their  cages  all 
night,  and  sleep  in  a  stable,  imattended  by 
«&y  one.  They  were  once  thirty.six  hours,  as 
a  tiial,  without  food — that  was  in  Cambridge ; 
and  no  creature  was  ii^ured;  but  they  were 
very  peckish,  especially  the  birds  of  prey.  I 
wouldn't  allow  it  to  be  tried  (it  was  for  a 
sdentifio  gentleman)  uny  longer,  and  I  fed 
them  well  to  begin  upon.  There  are  now  in 
London  five  happy  families,  all  belonging  to 
two  families  of  men.  Mine,  that  is  the  one  I 
have  the  care  of,  is  the  strongest — fifty-four 
.features :  the  others  will  average  forty  each, 
iqr  214  birds  and  beasts  in  happy  families. 
Our  only  regular  places  now  are  Waterloo- 
iffidge  and  the  National  Gallery.  The  expense 
(tf  keeping  my  fifty-four  is  12«.  a-week ;  and  in 
a  good  week — indeed,  the  best  week — we  take 
fl(^;  and  in  %  bad  week  sometimes  not  8«. 
If  8  only  a  poor  trade,  though  there  are  more 
good  weeks  than  bad :  but  the  weather  has  so 
.much  to  do  with  it  The  middle  class  of 
•odety  are  our  best  supporters.  When  the 
happy  family— only  one — was  first  in  Lon- 
don, fourteen  years  ago,  the  proprietor  took 
It  a-day  on  Waterloo-bridge ;  and  only  showed 
'in  the  summer.  The  second  happy  family 
was  started  eight  years  ago,  and  did  as  well 
^  a  short  time  as  the  first.  Now  there  are 
iloo  many  happy  families.  There  are  none  in 
4bi  countiy.'' 

The  OxuaiNAL  XIappy  Fasiilt. 

"The  first  who  ever  took  out  a  happy  family  to 
exhibit  in  the  streets  was  a  man  of  the  name 
of  John  Austin,  who  lived  in  Nottingham. 
It  was  entirely  his  own  idea,  and  he  never 
eopied  it  from  any  one.  He  was  a  very  in- 
genious man  indeed,  and  fond  of  all  kinds  of 
■Miimftlo,  and  a  fancier  of  all  kinds  of  smdl 
birds.  From  what  I  have  heard  him  say,  he 
iiad  a  lot  of  cats  he  was  very  fond  of,  and  also 
some  white-mice,  and  the  notion  struck  him 
that  it  would  be  very  extraordinaiy  if  he  could 
Jnake  his  pets  live  together,  and  teach  crea- 
tures of  opposite  natures  to  dwell  in  the  same 
eage.  In  the  commencement  of  his  experiments 
he  took  the  young,  and  learnt  them  to  live 
h^pUy  together.  He  found  it  succeed  very 
wdl  indeed;  and  when  he  gets  this  to  his 
liking  he  goes  from  Nottingham  to  Manchester, 
aud  exhibits  them,  for  he  was  told  that  people 
would  like  to  see  the  curious  sight.  He  then 
had  cats,  mice,  and  all  sorts  of  little  birds. 
He  was  a  weaver  by  trade,  was  Austin — a 
stocking- weaver.  He  didn't  exhibit  for  money 
in  Manchester.  It  was  his  hobby  and  amuse- 
ment, and  he  only  showed  it  for  a  curiosity 
to  his  friends.    Then  he  was  persuaded  to 


come  to  London  to  exhibit  When  he  first 
came  to  London  he  turned  to  carpentering 
and  cabinet-making  work,  for  which  he  had  a 
natural  gift,  and  he  laid  the  happy  family 
aside.  He  didn't  know  London,  and  couldn't 
make  his  mind  up  to  exhibiting  in  a  strange 
place.  At  last  he  began  to  miss  bis  pets; 
and  then  he  gathered  them  together  again, 
one  here  and  one  there,  as  he  could  get 
them  into  training.  When  he  had  a  little 
stock  round  him  he  was  adrised  by  people  to 
build  a  cage,  and  take  them  out  to  exhibit 
them. 

"  There  was  no  bridge  to  the  Waterloo- 
road  in  those  days,  but  he  took  up  his  pitch 
in  Waterloo-road,  close  to  the  Feathers  publio 
house,  where  the  foot  of  Waterloo-bridge .  ia 
now.  He  had  a  tremendous  success.  Every- 
body who  passed  gave  him  money.  Noblemen 
and  gentlepeople  came  far  and  near  to  see  the 
sight.  When  first  he  went  there  he  could  go 
out  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  on  any  fine 
day  as  he  thought  proper  to  leave  his  work 
to  go  out,  and  he  could  take  from  his  lAa,  to 
1/.  He  stopped  on  this  same  spot,  opposite 
the  Feathers  public  -  house,  from  his  first 
coming  to  the  day  he  left  it,  a  short  space 
before  he  died,  for  36  years  all  but  5  months. 
He's  been  dead  for  four  years  the  17th  of  last 
February,  1856,  and  then  he  wasn't  getting 
2«.  6c/.  a-day.  Many  had  imitated  him,  and 
there  was  four  happy  family  cages  in  London. 
'When  the  old  man  saw  people  could  do  as 
much  OS  he  did  himself,  and  rather  got  before 
him  in  their  collections,  it  caused  him  to 
fret  He  was  too  old  to  return  to  caxpenteringi 
and  he  had  never  been  a  prudent  man,  so  ho 
never  saved  anything.  He  was  too  generous 
to  his  friends  when  they  were  distressed,  and 
a  better  man  to  his  fellow-men  never  walked 
in  two  shoes.  If  he  made  5/.  in  a  week,  there 
was  money  and  food  for  them  who  wanted* 
He  foimd  that  people  were  not  so  generous 
to  him  as  he  was  to  them ;  that  he  proved  to 
his  sorrow.    Ho  was  a  good  man. 

"  In  the  year  1833  he  had  the  honour  of 
exhibiting  before  Her  M^esty  the  Queen. 
She  sent  for  him  expressly,  and  he  went  to 
Buckingham  Palace.  He  never  would  tell 
anybody  what  she  gave  him;  but  everybody 
considered  that  he  had  been  handsomely  re- 
warded. A  few  days  after  Uiis  there  was  a 
gentleman  came  to  him  at  Waterloo-bridge 
(he  was  there  all  the  time  the  bridge  was 
building),  and  this  party  engaged  Mm  and 
his  happy  family,  and  took  him  down  to  ex- 
hibit at  the  Mechanics'  Institution,  down  at 
HulL  I  don't  know  what  he  got  for  the 
journey.  After  that  he  was  engaged  to  go  to 
the  Mechanics'  Institution  in  Liverpool.  He 
travelled  in  this  way  all  about  the  country,  en« 
gaged  at  the  difibrent  Institutions. 

**I  was  with  him  as  assistant  for  eight 
years  before  he  died,  and  a  better  master 
there  could  not  be  living  in  the  world.  I  had 
been   travelling   witf^   him    through    Kent, 


210 


LOKDOS  LABOUR  JNV  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


sliowng  the  happy  family,  and  business  nni 
bad  and  did  not  meet  his  approbation,  so  he 
nt  Inst,  said  lie  would  return  to  his  station  on 
Watcrhw-bridtjo.  Then  I  wns  left  in  the 
countr}-,  so  I  started  a  collection  of  animals 
for  my'strlf.  It  was  a  small  collection  of  two 
monkeys,  white  rats  and  piebald  ones,  cats, 
dogs,  hawks,  owls,  moj^pies, ferrets,  and  a  cota- 
mundi,  a  long-nosed  animal  Irom  the  Brosils. 
^I  came  to  London  after  working  in  the 
conntr}'.  He  was  perfectly  agreeable  to  my 
exhibiting  in  the  streets.  He  was  a  good  old 
man,  and  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  be  as  good, 
for  I  can't  know  how  to  be  as  good.  I  took 
the  West-end,  and  he  kept  to  the  bridge. 
Por  a  time  I  did  pretty  well.  I'd  take  about 
0«.  a>day,  but  then  it  cost  me  It.  a-day  for 
feeding  the  collection:  and  then  I  had  a 
quanti^  of  things  given  to  me,  such  as  bite  of 
meat  at  tlie  butchers',  and  so  on.  In  1851  my 
stand  was  in  Re|j:ent-street,  by  the  comer  of 
Castle-street.  1  did  there  \-er>*  well  when  the 
Exhibition  was  open,  and  as  soon  as  it  was 
d(mc  I  fell  from  taking  about  8».  a-doj'  down 
to  1*.,  and  that's  sp(;aking  the  truth.  Then  I 
shifted  my  post,  and  went  and  pitched  upon 
Tower-hill.  I  done  pretty  well  for  tlie  first 
18  montlis  as  I  ^-as  there.  The  sailors  was 
the  most,  generous  people  to  me,  and  those  I 
had  most  to  depend  upon  whilst  I  was  on 
Towor-liill.  I've  taken  8».  in  one  day  on 
Tower-hill,  and  I've  also  been  there,  and  stood 
there  eif^ht  hours  on  Tower-hill  and  only  taken 
1}^.  It  was  all  casual  as  could  be.  I  can 
Bay  I  took  on  the  average  JJt.  a-daj'  then,  and 
then  I  had  to  feed  the  collection.  I  staved  at 
Tower-hiU  till  I  found  that  there  wasn't 
jKJsitively  a  living  to  be  made  any  longer 
tliere,  and  then  I  shifted  from  place  to  place, 
pitching  at  the  comers  of  streets,  and  doing 
worse  and  worse,  until  I  actually  hadnt 
hardly  strength  to  drag  my  cage  about — for 
it's  a  tidy  load.  Then  I  returns  to  the  old 
man's  original  spot,  on  Waterloo -bridge,  to 
try  that ;  for  the  old  man  was  dead.  The  first 
five  or  six  weeks  as  1  was  there,  during  the  sum- 
mer, I  got  a  tolerable  good  living,  and  I  con- 
tinned  there  till  I  wasn't  able  to  get  a  crust 
for  myself.  I  was  obliged  to  leave  it  ofl',  and 
•I  got  a  situation  to  go  to  work  for  a  firework- 
maker  in  the  Westminster-road.  Now  I  only 
take  to  the  streets  when  I  have  no  other  em- 
ployment. It  isn't  barely  a  living.  I  keep 
my  collection  always  by  me,  as  a  resoiut^ 
when  no  other  work  is  in  hand,  but  if  I  coald 
get  constant  employment  I'd  never  go  out  in 
die  streets  no  more. 

*'  The  animal  that  takes  the  longest  to  tnun 
IB  the  ferret.  I  was  the  first  that  ever  intro- 
dnced  one  into  a  cage,  aitd  that  was  at  Qreen- 
i»ich.  It's  a  yery  savage  little  animal,  mad  will 
Bttadc  almost  anytliing.  People  have  a  notion 
that  we  use  drugs  to  train  a  happy  family; 
they  have  said  to  me,  *  It's  done  with  opium ;' 
but,  sir,  believe  me,  there  is  no  drugs  used  at 
all:   it's  only  patience,  and  IdmhaiaM,   and 


pettinpT  tliem  that  is  used,  and  nothing  ebie  of 
any  surt.  The  first  ferret  as  I  had,  it  kiUad. 
me  about  2/.  worth  of  things  before  I  eonldget 
him  in  any  way  to  ^et  into  the  happy 
family.  He  destjroyed  birds,  and  rabbitt,  and 
guinea-pigs ;  and  he'd  seize  them  at  an^  tjme^ 
wliether  he  was  hangiy  or  not.  I  watched 
that  ferret  till  I  eould  see  that  then  was  a 
better  method  to  be  used  with  a  feiret,  umL 
then  I  sold  my  one  to  a  rat-oaioher,  and  th«a 
I  bought  two  others.  I  tried  my  new  mUaif. 
and  it  succeeded.  It's  a  secret  whioh  I  wM, 
so  I  can't  mention  it,  but  it's  the  aimpleet 
thing  in  the  world.  It's  not  dnwing  their 
teeth  out,  or  operating  on  them ;  it* a  only  kmd- 
ness  and  such. like,  and  patience.  I  put  ay 
new  ferrets  into  the  cage,  and  there  they  hsve 
been  ever  since,  as  may  ha^  been  aeen  on 
'i*ower-hill  and  such  places  as  Vre  pitched  on. 
My  ferrets  would  play  with  the  rats  and  oleip 
at  night  i^ith  them,  while  I've  put  them  in  the 
rat-box  along  with  the  rats,  to  cany  them 
home  together  at  night.  My  ferrets  would 
come  and  eat  out  of  my  month  and  play  inth 
children,  or  anything.  Now,  Til  tell  yon  thia 
anecdote  as  a  proof  of  their  docility.  They 
caught  a  rat  one  night  at  the  Coopers'  Anna 
publiC'house,  Tower-hill,  and  they  gave  it  to 
me,  and  I  put  it  into  the  cage.  The  landhod 
and  gentlemen  in  the  parlour  came  out  to  aee 
it,  and  they  saw  my  ferrets  hunt  oat  the  new- 
comer and  kill  him.  They  tossed  <yver  tha 
white  and  brown  and  black  rats  that  belonged 
to  me,  and  seized  the  public-house  rat  and 
killed  him.  I  always  took  the  dead  bodies 
away  when  they  were  killed,  and  didnt  let  the 
ferrets  suck  their  blood,  or  anything  of  that. 
I've  trained  my  animals  to  that  state,  that  if 
I  wasn't  to  feed  Uiem  they'd  sit  down  and 
starve  by  each  otiicr's  side  without  eating  one 
another. 

**  The  monkey  is  almost  as  bad  as  a  fenet 
for  training  for  a  hoppy  family,  for  this  rea- 
son— when  they  are  playing  they  vrne  theor 
teeth.  They  are  Uie  best  pU^-felJows  in  the 
world,  and  never  fall  out  or  cij  when  they  bite. 
They  ore  the  life  and  amusement  of  the  eai»- 
pany. 

**  Now,  this  is  a  curious  thing  with  the 
ferret's  nature.  If  he's  ever  so  well  trained 
for  a  happy  family,  he  wUl  always  he  avenged 
if  he's  crossed.  For  instance,  if  the  fenet  haa 
a  bit  of  meat,  and  the  hawk  oomee  near  him 
and  claws  him,  he'll,  if  it's  months  aftawards^ 
kill  that  hawk.  He'll  wait  a  long  time,  bnt  ha% 
sure  to  kill  the  hawk,  he's  that  ^tefhL  So  thai 
when  he's  crossed  he  never  forgives.  When 
the  monkey  and  the  ferret  play,  they  always  nee 
their  teeth,  not  to  bite,  bat  it's  their  aatnre  in 
their  play.  Mr.  Monkey,  when  he  haa  ph^yed 
with  Mr.  Ferret  till  he  has  nade  him  in  a  rage, 
will  mount  the  perches  and  take  Mr.  Fen«t  by 
the  tail  and  swing  him  backwards  and  ierwarda. 
The  ferret  geu  into  an  awftil  nge*  ud  hell 
try  all  he  knows  to  get  hold  of  Mr.  Mookcy, 
bat  Mr.  Monkey  will  pat  him  on  the  head,  and 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


217 


knoek  him  back  as  lie  tries  to  turn  round  and 
bite  him .  The  ferret  is  the  kindest  of  animals 
vhen  at  plaj.  He  don't  bear  no  rancour  to 
Ur.  Monkey  for  this.  He  never  cares  for  a  bit 
of  ftm,  bat  if  it's  an  insult  as  is  offered  him, 
anch  aa  taking  hia  fix)d,  he  wont  rest  till  he's 


le  danger  with  a  znonkey  is  this.  Now 
IVe  got  a  puppy  as  was  give  me  by  a  friend  of 
■dne,  and  I  both  respects  the  gentleman  as 
give  it  me  and  the  mother  of  the  httle  dog, 
aod  I've  taken  all  the  pains  in  the  world  to 
tain  thia  pop  to  the  happy  family,  but 
hera  a  yelping  noiung  arumal.  Now,  my 
mookqr  is  the  most  pleasant  and  best- 
tempened  one  in  the  world,  and  the  amuse- 
ment and  delight  of  all  who  see  him,  as 
Biany  on  Waterloo-bridge  can  testify.  When- 
erer  thia  monkey  goes  near  tlie  dog«  it 
howls  at  him.  So  the  monkey  plays  with  him, 
polling  his  tail  and  nibbling  his  ears  and  hair, 
•nd  biting  his  toe,  and  so  on.  Anything  that'll 
play  with  the  monkey,  it's  all  right,  and  they 
■re  the  best  friends  in  the  world ;  but  if  they 
show  any  fear,  then  it's  war,  for  the  monkey 
won't  be  put  upon.  Now,  there's  another  pup 
m  the  same  cage  which  Uie  monkey  is  just  as 
fond  of.  They  play  open-mouthed  together, 
and  1%'c  seen  Mr.  Monkey  put  his  arms  rotmd 
the  pup's  neck  and  pull  it  down,  and  thon  they 
go  to  sleep  together.  I've  actually  seen  when 
a  lady  has  given  the  monkey  a  bit  of  biscuit, 
or  what  not,  he's  gone  and  crumbled  some  bits 
before  the  pup  to  give  it  its  share.  This  is 
truth.    Hy  monkey  is  a  lady  monkey. 

^  The  monkeys  ore  vexy  fond  of  cuddling  {he 
xits  in  their  arms,  hke  children.  They  also 
pull  their  tails  and  swing  them.  The  rats  are 
aftaid,  and  then  Mr.  Monkey  keeps  on  teasing 
them.  If  ever  Mr.  Bat  do  turn  round  and  bite 
Mr.  Monkey,  he's  sure  to  feel  it  by  and  by,  for 
hell  get  a  swing  by  his  tail,  and  he'll  catch  the 
tail  whilst  he's  trying  to  run  away,  and  bite 
the  tip,  and  worry  him  near  out  of  his  life.  A 
Monkey  is  the  peace- maker  and  peace-breaker 
of  a  collection.  He  breaks  peace  first  and  then 
bell  go  and  caress  afterwards,  as  much  as  to 
say, '  Never  mind,  it's  only  a  lark.'  He's  very 
fond  of  the  cat — for  warmth,  I  think.  He'U 
go  and  cuddle  her  for  an  hour  at  a  time ;  but 
n  Miss  Puss  won't  lay  still  to  suit  his  comfort, 
he  takes  her  i-ound  the  neck,  and  tries  to  pull  her 
down,  and  if  then  she  turn's  rusty,  he's  good 
to  go  behind  her,  for  he's  afraid  to  face  her, 
and  then  hell  lay  hold  of  the  tip  of  her  tall  and 
give  her  a  nip  with  his  teeth.  The  cat  and 
monkey  are  the  best  of  friends,  so  long  as 
Hiss  Puas  will  lie  still  to  be  cuddled  and  suit 
his  convenience,  for  he  will  be  Mr.  Master, 
and  have  evezything  to  suit  his  ways.  For 
that  reason  I  never  would  allow  either  of  my 
eata  to  kitten  in  the  cage,  because  Mr.  Monkey 
would  be  sure  to  want  to  know  all  about  it,  and 
then  it  would  be  all  war;  for  if  he  went  to 
tooeh  Miss  Puss  or  her  babies,  there  would  be 
a  flghL    Now  a  monkey  ia  always  fond  of  any- 


thing young,  such  as  a  kitten,  and  puss  and 
he'd  want  to  nurse  the  children.  A  monkey 
is  kind  to  everything  so  long  as  it  ain't  afraid 
of  him,  but  if  so  be  as  it  is,  then  the  bullying 
and  teasing  begins.  My  monkey  always  likes 
to  get  hold  of  a  kitten,  and  hold  it  up  in  his 
arms,  just  the  same  as  a  babv^ 

*'  There's  ofteu  very  good  amusement  be- 
tween the  owl  and  the  monkey  in  this  way. 
The  monkey  will  go  and  stare  Mr.  Owl  in  the 
face,  and  directly  he  does  so  Mr.  Owl  will  begiu 
swaying  from  side  to  side;  and  then  Mr. 
Monkey  will  pat  him  in  the  face  or  the  nose. 
After  he's  bullied  the  owl  till  it's  in  a  awful 
rage,  the  owl  will  take  and  dive  at  Mr.  Monkey 
with  his  open  claws,  and  perhaps  get  on  bw 
back.  Then  Mr.Monkey  will  go  climbing  all  over 
the  cage,  cliattering  at  the  uwl,  and  frighten- 
ing him,  and  making  him  flutter  all  about. 
My  owls  can  see  well  enough  in  the  day-time, 
for  they  are  used  to  be  in  tlie  open  air,  and 
they  get  used  to  it. 

**  I  compare  my  monkey  to  the  clown  of  the 
cage,  for  lie's  mischievous,  and  clever,  and 
good-natured.  He'll  never  bully  any  of  them 
very  long  after  he  sees  they  are  in  a  regular 
passion,  but  leave  them  and  go  to  some  other 
bird  or  beast.  One  of  my  pups  is  my  monkey's 
best  friend,  for  neither  of  them  are  ever  tired 
of  pla}'ing. 

"Tlie  cats  and  tJie  birds  are  very  good 
friends  indeed ;  they'll  perch  on  her  bock,  and 
I've  even  seen  them  come  on  her  head  and  pick 
up  the  bits  of  dirt  ns  you'll  generally  find  in  a 
cat's  head.  I've  tried  a  very  curious  experi- 
ment ^ith  cats  and  birds.  I've  introduced  a 
strange  cat  into  my  ca;j^e,  and  instantly  she 
gets  into  the  cage  she  gets  frightened,  and 
looks  round  for  a  moment,  and  then  she'll 
make  a  dart  upon  almost  the  flrst  thing  that 
is  facing  her.  If  it's  the  owl,  monkey,  small 
birds,  or  any  thing,  she'll  fly  at  it.  It's  in 
general  then  tliat  the  monkey  is  the  greatest 
enemy  to  the  strange  cat  of  anything  in  the  cage. 
He'll  go  and  bite  her  tail,  but  he  won't  face 
her.  Then  the  other  cats  will  be  all  with  their 
hairs  up  and  their  tails  swelled  up  to  fly  at 
the  stranger,  but  then  I  generally  takes  her 
out,  or  else  there  would  be  a  fight.  All  the 
rats  will  be  on  the  look-out  and  run  away  front 
the  strange  cat,  and  the  httie  birds  fly  to  the 
top  of  the  cage,  fluttering  and  chirriping  with 
fear. 

*'  The  hawk  I  had  a  good  deal  of  difficulty 
with  to  make  him  live  happily  with  the  smaU 
birds.  When  training  a  hawk,  I  always  put 
him  in  with  the  large  things  first,  and  after 
he's  accustomed  to  them,  then  I  introduce 
smaller  birds.  He's  always  excited  when  he 
first  comes  amongst  tlie  smaller  buiis.  I  find 
Mr.  Monkey  is  always  the  guard,  as  he  doesnt 
hurt  them.  When  he  sees  the  hawk  flut- 
tering and  driving  about  after  tlie  small  birds, 
Mr.  Monkey  will  go  aod  pat  him,  as  mudi  as 
to  say,  '  You  mustn't  hurt  them,'  and  also  to 
take  hia  attention  off    After  Mr.  Hawk  has 


2iy 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOfi. 


been  in  the  cage  four,  five,  or  six  different 
times  in  tmining,  the  starlings  gets  accus- 
tomed to  him,  and  will  perch  alongside  of 
him ;  and  it's  as  common  as  possible  to  see 
the  starlings,  when  the  hawk  was  feeding,  go 
and  eat  off  the  some  raw  meat,  and  actually 
perch  on  his  back  and  pick  the  bits  off  his  bill 
as  he  is  eating  them. 

**  A  magpie  in  a  cage  has  as  much  as  he 
can  do  to  look  after  himself  to  keep  his  tail 
all  right.  It's  a  bird  that  is  very  scared,  and 
here  and  there  and  everywhere,  always  fljing 
about  the  cage.  His  time  is  taken  up  keeping 
out  of  Mr.  Monkey's  way.  It's  very  rarely 
you  see  Mr.  Monkey  interfere  with  him.  A 
magpie  will  pitch  upon  something  smaller 
than  himself,  such  as  pigeons,  which  is  in- 
offensive, or  starhngs,  as  is  weaker;  but  he 
ne^-er  attempts  to  tackle  anything  as  is  likely 
to  be  stronger  than  himself.  He  fights  shy 
of  the  big  animals. 

**  A  good  jackdaw,  well  trained  to  a  happy 
family,  is  the  Ufe  of  the  cage  next  to  the 
monkey.  He's  at  all  the  roguishness  and 
mischief  that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be  at. 
If  he  sees  a  cat  or  a  dog,  or  anytliing  asleep 
and  quiet,  he'll  perch  on  its  head,  and  peck 
away  to  rouse  it.  He's  very  fond  of  pitching 
on  the  top  of  the  cat  and  turning  the  fur 
over,  or  pecking  at  the  ears,  till  the  cat  turns 
round,  and  then  he's  off.  If  there's  a  rat  in 
his  way,  he'll  peck  at  its  nose  till  it  turns 
round,  and  then  peck  at  its  tail.  If  Mr.  XUt 
gets  spiteful  he'll  fly  to  the  perches  for  it,  and 
then  follow  out  Jack  Daw,  as  much  as  to  say, 
*  I  had  the  best  of  you.'  The  people  are 
very  fond  of  tlie  jackdaw,  too,  and  they  like 
putting  their  fingers  to  the  wires,  and  Jack'll 
peck  them.  He's  very  fond  of  stealing  things 
and  hiding  them.  He'll  take  the  halfpence 
and  conceal  them.  He  looks  round,  as  if 
seeing  whether  he  was  watched,  and  go  off 
to  some  sly  comer  where  there  is  nothing 
near  him.  if  lie  can  get  hold  of  any  of  the 
others'  food,  that  pleases  him  better  than  any- 
thing. My  monkey  and  the  jackdaw  ain't 
very  good  company.  When  Mr.  Jack  begins 
his  fun,  it  is  pcnerally  when  Mr.  Monkey  is  lying 
still,  cuddling  his  best  friend,  and  that's  one 
pf  the  httle  dogs.  If  Mr.  Monkey  is  lying 
down  with  his  tail  out,  he'll  go  and  peck  him 
hard  on  it,  and  he'll  hollow  out  *  Jackdaw,' 
and  off  he  is  to  the  perches.  But  Mr.  Monkey 
will  be  after  him,  climbing  after  liim,  and  he's 
sure  to  catch  hold  of  him  at  last,  and  then  Mr. 
Jack  is  as  good  as  his  master,  for  he'll  hollow 
out  to  attract  me,  and  I  have  to  rattle  my  cane 
along  the  wires,  to  tell  them  to  give  over. 
Then,  as  sure  as  ever  the  monkey  was  gone, 
the  jack  would  begin  to  crow. 

**  I  had  a  heron  once,  and  it  died ;  I  had  it 
about  fourteen  months.  The  way  as  he  met 
with  his  death  was — ^he  was  all  well  in  the 
cage,  and  standing  about,  when  he  took  a 
false  step,  and  fell,  and  lamed  himself.  I 
was  obliged  to  leave  him  at  home,  and  then  he 


pined  and  died.  He  was  the  only  bird  I  ever 
had,  or  tlic  only  creature  that  ever  was  in  a 
happy-family  cage,  that  could  keep  Mr.  Monkey 
at  bay.  Mr.  Monkey  was  afii^d  of  him,  for  he 
would  give  such  nips  Tvith  his  long  bill  that 
would  snip  a  piece  out  of  Mr.  Monkey,  and  he 
soon  finds  out  when  he  would  get  the  worst  of  it. 
I  fed  my  heron  on  flesh,  though  he  liked  fish 
best.  It's  the  most  daintiest  bird  that  is  in 
its  eating. 

**  The  cotamundi  was  an  animal  as  was  civil 
and  quiet  with  everything  in  the  cage.  But 
his  propensity  and  habits  for  anytlung  that 
was  in  a ,  cage  was  a  cat.  It  was  always  his 
bed-fellow;  he'd  fight  for  a  cat;  he'd  l)ully 
the  monkey  for  a  cat  He  and  the  cat  were 
the  best  of  friends,  and  they  made  common 
cause  against  Mr.  Monkey.  He  was  very  fond 
of  routing  about  the  cage.  He  had  very  good 
teeth  and  rare  claws,  and  a  monkey  will  never 
stand  against  any  thing  as  punishes  him. 
Anything  as  is  afVaid  of  lum  he'll  bully. 

**  I  had  an  old  crow  once,  who  was  a  great 
favourite  of  mine,  and  when  he  died  I  coukl 
almost  have  cried.  To  tell  you  what  he  could 
do  is  a'most  too  much  for  me  to  say,  for  it  waa 
everything  he  was  capable  of.  He  would 
never  stand  to  fight;  always  run  away  and 
hollow.  He  and  the  jackdaw  was  two  birds 
as  always  kept  apart  firom  each  other:  they 
was  both  of  a  trade,  and  couldn't  agree.  He 
was  very  fond  of  getting  on  a  perch  next  to 
any  other  bird — an  owl,  for  instance — and  then 
he'd  pretend  to  be  looking  at  nothing,  and 
then  suddenly  peck  at  the  leet  of  his  neigh, 
hour  on  the  sly,  and  then  tiy  and  look  inno- 
cent  After  a  time  the  other  bird  would  turn 
round  on  him,  and  thou  he  was  off,  screaming 

*  Caw '  at  the  top  of  his  beak,  as  I  may  say. 
He  was  a  general  favourite  with  everybody. 
It's  a  curious  thing,  but  I  never  know  a  crow, 
or  a  jackdaw  either,  to  be  hungry,  but  what 
they'd  come  and  ask  for  food  by  hollowing 
out  the  same  as  in  their  wild  state.  Mine 
was  a  carrion  crow,  and  eat  flesh.  At  feeding* 
time  he'd  always  pick  out  the  biggest  pieces 
he  could,  or  three  or  four  of  them,  if  he  could 
lay  hold  of  them  in  liis  beak,  and  then  he'd 
be  off  to  a  comer  and  eat  what  he  could  and 
then  hide  the  remainder,  and  go  and  fetch 
it  out  as  he  felt  hungry  again.  He  knew  me 
perfectly  well,  and  would  come  and  perch  on 
my  shoulder,  and  peck  me  over  the  finger, 
and  look  at  me  and  make  his  noise.  As  soon 
as  he  see  me  going  to  fetch  the  food  he  would* 
if  he  was  loose  in  the  court  where  I  lived  in, 
run  to  me  directly,  but  not  at  other  times. 
He  was  a  knowing  fellow.  I  had  him  about 
one  year  and  nine  months.  I  used  to  call 
him  the  pantaloon  to  Mr.  Monkey's  clown, 
and  they  was  always  at  their  pantomime  tricks. 
Once  an  old  woman  came  down  our  court 
when  he  was  loose,  and  he  cut  after  her  and 
I>ecked  at  her  naked  feet,  and  she  was  to 
frightened  she  fell  down.    Then  off  he  went, 

*  caw,  caw,'  as  pleased  as  he  conhl  be.    Ht 


I 


LONDOK  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


ai9 


Ahrijf  followed  the  children,  picking  at  their 
heels.  Nothing  delighted  him  so  much  as 
■II  the  loguishness  and  mischief  as  he  could 
get  into. 

••  For  finding  a  happy  family  in  good  order, 
with  2  monkeys,  3    cats,    2    dogs,  16  rats, 

0  staiiings,  2  hawks,  jackdaw,  3  owls,  magpie, 
2  guinea-pigs,  one  rabbit,  will  take  about 
1j.  4i.  a- day.  I  buy  leg  of  beef  for  the  birds, 
about  lilb.,  and  the  dogs  have  two  pen'orth 
of  proper  dogs*  meat;  and  there  are  apples 
and  nuts  for  ihe  monkey,  about  one  pen'orth, 
and  then  there's  com  of  different  kinds,  and 
seeds  and  sopped  bread  for  the  rats,  and  hay 
and  sand-dust  for  the  birds.  It  all  tells  up, 
and  comes  to  about  la.  ^.  a-day. 

••  There  are  two  happy  families  in  London 
town,  including  my  own.  I  don't  know  where 
the  other  man  stands,  for  he  moves  about. 
Now  I  like  going  to  one  place,  where  I  gets 
known.    It  isn't  a  li\'ing  for  any  man  now. 

1  wouldn't  stick  to  it  if  I  could  get 
any  work  to  do ;  and  yet  it's  an  ingenious 
exhibition  and  ought  to  be  patronized.  People 
ivill  come  and  stand  roimd  for  hours,  and 
never  givw  a  penny.  Even  very  respectable 
people  will  come  up,  and  as  soon  as  ever  I 
OiDd  the  cup  to  them,  they'll  be  off  about 
their  business.  There  are  some  gentlemen 
wbo  give  me  regularly  a  penny  or  twopence 
a-veek.  I  could  mention  several  professional 
•etflTS  who  do  that  to  me.  I  make  the  most 
money  when  the  monkey  is  at  his  tricks,  for 
then  they  want  to  stop  and  see  him  at  his 
ftis,  and  I  keep  asking  them  for  money,  and 
do  it  BO  often,  that  at  last  they  are  obliged  to 
give  something. 

••  My  cage  has  wire-work  all  round,  and 
Uinda  to  pull  down  when  I  change  my  pitch. 
There  are  springs  under  the  cage  to  save  the 
jolting  over  the  stones. 

"  I  forgot  to  UiU  you  that  I've  had  cats, 
whose  kittens  have  been  taken  from  them, 
suckle  rats  which  have  been  put  in  their 
places  when  they  are  still  blind,  and  only 
eight  days  old.  She'll  take  to  the  rats  instead 
of  her  kittens.  I've  not  put  them  in  the  cage 
at  this  small  age,  but  waited  imtil  they  were 
old  enough  to  run  about.  They'll  keep  on 
sackling  at  the  cat  till  they  get  to  a  tidy  size, 
till  she  pots  annoyed  with  them  and  beats 
tiicm  off;  but  she'll  caress  them  at  other 
times,  and  allow  them  to  come  and  lay  under 
her  belly,  luitl  iirotect  them  from  Mr.  Monkey. 
Many  u  time  Las  a  cat  been  seen  suckling 
rats  in  my  cjis^u,  but  then  they've  been  pretty 
old  rats  —  of  about  eight  or  ten  weeks  old; 
aad  a  rat  will  suckle  then,  and  they'll  follow 
her  about  and  go  and  he  under  her  belly,  just 
the  same  as  chickens  under  a  hen — just  the 
same. 

**  At  night  I  don't  let  my  collection  sleep  to- 
gether in  the  cage.  It's  four  years  since  I  first 
took  to  separating  of  them,  for  this  reason :  I 
had  the  cleverest  monkey  in  London ;  there 
never  was  a  better.    I  used  to  wheel  the  cage 


into  the  back-yard,  and  there  let  them  sleep. 
One  night  somebody  was  so  kind  as  to  come 
and  steal  my  monkey  away.  I  found  out  my 
loss  the  same  night.  I  had  only  gone  into  the 
house  to  fetch  food,  and  when  I  came  back 
Mr.  Monkey  was  gone.  He  didn't  run  away, 
for  he  was  too  fond  of  the  cage,  and  wouldn't 
leave  it.  I've  often  put  him  outside,  and  let 
him  loose  upon  Tower-hill,  and  to  run  about 
gardens,  and  he'd  come  back  again  when  I 
called  him.  I  had  only  to  turn  his  favourite 
dog  out,  and  as  soon  as  he  see'd  the  dog  he'd 
be  on  to  his  back  and  have  a  nice  ride  back  to 
the  cage  and  inside  in  a  moment.  Since  that 
loss  Pve  always  carried  the  collection  into  the 
house,  and  let  them  sleep  in  the  same  room 
where  I've  slept  in.  They  all  know  their 
beds  now,  and  will  go  to  them  of  their  own 
accord,  both  the  cats,  the  dogs,  and  the 
monkeys.  I've  a  rat- box,  too,  and  at  night 
when  I'm  going  home  I  just  open  the  door  of 
the  cage  and  that  of  the  rat-box,  and  the  rats 
run  into  their  sleeping-place  as  quick  as  pos- 
sible, and  come  out  again  in  the  morning  of 
their  own  accord. 

"  My  family  are  fed  on  the  best :  they  have 
as  good  as  any  nobleman's  favourite  dog. 
They've  often  had  a  deal  more,  and  better, 
than  their  master. 

•*  I  don't  know  why  happy  families  don't 
pay,  for  they  all  look  at  the  cage,  and  seem  as 
pleased  as  ever ;  but  there's  poverty  or  some- 
thing in  the  way,  for  they  don't  seem  to  have 
any  money.  When  I  left  off  last — only  a 
month  ago — I  wasn't  taking  Qd.  a-day.  It 
didn't  pay  for  feeding  my  little  stock.  I  went 
to  firework-making.  They  are  always  busy 
with  firework-making,  ready  for  the  5th  of 
November.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  other 
affair,  and  would  do  anything  to  get  from  it; 
but  people  are  afraid  to  employ  mo,  for  they 
seem  to  fancy  that  after  being  in  the  streets 
we  are  no  use  for  anything. 

I'm  fond  of  my  little  stock,  and  always 
was  from  a  child  of  dumb  animals.  I'd  a  deal 
sooner  that  anybody  hurt  me  than  any  of  my 
favourites.'* 

Exhibitor  of  Bihds  and  Mice. 

A  STOiTT,  acute-looking  man,  whom  I  found 
in  a  decently-furnished  room  with  his  wife, 
gave  me  an  account  of  this  kind  of  street-cxlii- 
bition : — 

"  I  perform,"  said  he,  "  with  birds  and  mice, 
in  the  open  air,  if  needful.  I  was  brought  up 
to  juggling  by  my  family  and  friends,  but  colds 
and  heats  brought  on  rheumatism,  and  I  left 
jugghng  for  another  branch  of  the  profession  ; 
but  I  juggle  a  httle  still.  My  birds  are  nearly 
all  canaries— a  score  of  them  sometimes, 
sometimes  less.  I  have  names  for  them  all. 
I  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Caudle,  dressed  quite  in 
character:  they  quarrel  at  times,  and  that's 
self  taught  with  them.  Mrs.  Caudle  is  not 
noisy,  and  is  quite  amusing.    They  ride  out  in 


220 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


a  chariot  drawn  by  another  bird,  a  goldfinch 
mole.  I  give  him  any  name  that  comes  into 
my  head.  The  goldfinch  harnesses  himself 
to  a  little  wire  harness.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Caudle 
and  the  mnle  is  vexy  much  admired  by  people 
of  taste.  Then  I  have  Marshal  Ney  in  full 
nniform,  and  he  fires  a  cannon,  to  keep  np  tiDe 
character.  I  can*t  say  that  he's  bolder  than 
others.  I  have  a  little  canary  called  the 
Trumpeter,  who  jimips  on  to  a  trumpet  when 
1  sound  it,  and  remains  there  until  I've  done 
souncUng.  Another  canary  goes  up  a  poll,  as 
if  climbing  for  a  leg  of  mutton,  or  any  prize  at 
the  top,  as  they  do  at  fairs,  and  wlien  he  gets 
to  the  top  he  answers  me.  He  climbs  fair, 
toe  and  heel— no  props  to  help  him  along. 
These  are  the  principal  birds,  and  they  all  play 
by  the  word  of  command,  and  with  the  greatest 
satisfaction  and  ease  to  themselves.  I  use  two 
things  to  train  them— •kindness  and  patience, 
and  neither  of  these  two  things  must  be  stinted. 
The  grand  difficulty  is  to  get  them  to  perform 
in  the  open  air  without  filing  away,  when 
they^re  no  tie  upon  tliem,  as  one  may  say. 
I  lost  one  by  its  taking  flight  at  Ramsgate,  and 
another  at  Margate.  They  don*t  and  cant  do 
anything  to  teach  one  another;  not  in  the 
least;  every  bird  is  on  its  own  account:  seeing 
another  bird  do  a  trick  is  no  good  whatever. 
I  teach  them  all  myself,  beginning  with 
them  from  the  nest  I  breed  most  of  them 
myself.  To  teach  them  to  sing  at  the 
word  of  command  is  veiy  difficult.  I  whistle 
to  the  bird  to  make  it  sing,  and  then  when 
it  sings  I  feed,  and  pet,  and  fondle  it, 
until  it  gets  to  sing  without  my  whistling-— 
understandingmy  motions.  Harshness  wouldn't 
educate  any  bird  whatsoever.  I  pursue  the 
same  system  all  through.  The  bird  used  to 
jump  to  be  fed  on  the  trumpet,  and  got  used 
to  the  sound.  To  train  Marshal  Ney  to  fire  his 
cannon,  I  put  the  cannon  first  like  a  perch  for 
the  bird  to  fly  to  for  his  food ;  it's  fired  by  stuff 


attached  to  the  touchhole  that  explodes  when 
touched.  The  bird's  generaUy  friightened  be- 
fore he  gets  used  to  gunpowder,  and  flutters 
into  the  body  of  the  cage,  but  after  a  few  times 
he  don't  mind  it.  I  train  mice,  too,  and  my 
mice  fetch  and  carry,  like  dogs ;  and  three  A 
the  little  things  dance  the  ti^t-rope  on  their 
hind  legs,  with  balance-poles  in  their  mouths. 
They  are  hard  to  train,  but  I  have  a  secrat 
way,  found  out  by  myseli^  to  educate  them 
properly.  They  require  great  care,  and  aso, 
if  anytlung,  tenderer  than  the  birds.  I  have 
no  particular  names  for  the  mice.  They  an 
all  fancy  mice,  white  or  coloured.  I've  known 
four  or  five  in  my  way  in  London.  Ifft  aQ  • 
lottery  what  I  got..  For  the  open-air  per- 
formonoe,  the  West^end  may  be  the  best,  but 
there's  little  difference.  I  have  been  ill  seven 
months,  and  am  just  stttcting  again.  Then  I 
can't  work  in  the  air  in  bad  wieather.  I  call 
21s.  a  very  good  week's  work;  and  to  get  that^ 
every  day  must  be  fine — lOi.  6<f.  is  neater  tfie 
mark  as  an  average  for  the  year.  An  order  to 
pla^  at  a  private  house  may  be  extra;  iSkef 
give  me  wiiat  they  please.  My  birds  *  oome 
with  a  whistle,  and  come  witii  a  call,  and  come 
with  a  good  win,  or  they  wont  do  at  aH'— fbr 
me.  The  police  don't  meddle  with  me-«-oe 
nothing  to  notice.  A  good  many  of  my  birds 
and  mice  die  before  they  reach  any  perfSeetion— 
anotJher  expense  and  loss  of  time  in  my  bttn- 
ness.-  Town  or  country  is  pretty  madk  the 
some  to  me,  take  it  altogether.  The  waterim^. 
places  aro  the  best  in  the  connttry,  neriiaps,  f& 
itrs  there  people  go  for  pleasure.  I  dont  ksoir 
any  »«ir  place ;  if  I  did  Td  stick  to  iC  ImSm 
and  children  are  my  best  friends  generaflj." 

The  performance  of  the  birds  and  ndetf 
above  described  is  very  clever.  "  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Caudle"  are  dressed  in  red  and  Mas 
cloaks,  trimmed  with  silver  laee  and  span^es; 
while  Mr.  Caudle,  with  an  utter  disr^od  of 
propriety,  is  adorned  with  a  cocked  hat. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


2'2l 


SKILLED  AND  UNSKILLED  LABOUR. 


Ths  Gabinfit-xnakerB,  socially  as  \rcll  as  com- 
menklly  consideied,  consiati  like  all  other 
oyeintiy68|  of  two  distinct  clasBea,  that  is  to 
sitj,  of  aodfity  azid  non-Eociety  men,  or,  in  the 
laagooga  oC  polidcaL  economy,  of  thobo  whose 
wi^a*  9Bb  regnlated  by  ciutom  ami  those 
vhoaa  aannngs  ace  deteonined  by  competition. 
ThafoDneroUBSZUiinbers  between  000  and  700 
of  the  tBMU,  and  the  latter  between  4000  and 
9000.    Am.  a  generaL  role  I  may  remark,  that  I 
fiad  the  Boaie^men  of  every  trade  oomprise 
about  oiie4en&  of  the  wlide.    Hence  it  folr 
hniBr  that  if  the  non-aociety  men  are  neither 
10  skilldl  nor  so  well-eondacted  oa  tho  others, 
at  least  they  are  qoita  as  important  a  body, 
fmoL  tha  fiwt.  that  they  constitute  the  main 
poKtioniaf  thaitrado.    The  transition  flrom  the 
oae  daaa  to  tha  other  iu,  however,  in  most 
OBSS..  oC  a  T9Ki  disheartening  character.    The 
diffimwia  bciiiveen  the  tailor  at  the  west  end, 
vorkiiig  im  batter  shops  at  the  better  prices, 
nd  the  poor  wretch  starving  at  stan-ation 
Vigaa  ikir  the  aweatars  and  slop-shops  at  the 
<Mt  anti^haa  already  been  pointed  out.    The 
Mme  auriud  contrast  was  also  shown  to  exist 
between  the  society  and  non-society  boot  and 
shoemakers.    The  carpenters  and  joiners  told 
the  same  story.   There  were  found  society  men 
renting  hooses  of  their  own — some  paj-ing  as 
much  as  701.  a-yeor- — and  the  non-society  men 
fvCTWorited  and  underpaid,  so  that  a  few  weeks' 
■ckness  reduced  them  to  absolute  pauperism, 
yor.  I  regret  to  say,  can  any  other  tale  be  told 
of  the  eidnnet-makors ;  except  it  be,  that  the 
oompetidTe  man  in  this  trade  are  even  in  a 
WQxse  position  than  any  other.    I  have  already 
portrayed  to  the  reader  the  difference  be- 
tween the  homes  of  the  two  classes — the  com- 
f(jn  and  welLfumished  abodes  of  the  one,  and 
the  squalor  and  bare  walls  of  the  other;    But 
those  who  wish  to  be  impressed  with  the 
social  advantages  of  a  faijd>'-paid  class  of  me- 
ifaanics  shoold  attend  a  meetints^  of  the  Wood- 
carvers'  Society.    On.  the  first  iloor  of  a  small 
private  hoose  in  Tottenham -street,  Tottenhanu 
eourt-road^  ja»  so  to  speaks  the  museiun  of  the 
working-men  belonging  to  this  branch  of  the 
cabinetanakera*    The  waUs  of  the  back-room 
•re  hong  sound  with  pbistcr  casts  of  some  of 
the  choicest  specimens  of  the  arts,  and  in  the 
front  room  the  table  is  strewn  with  volumes  of 
valuable  panta  and  drawings  in  connexion 
with  the  craft.    Round  this  table  are  ranged 
the  membeza  of  the  society — some  forty  or 
fifty  were  there  on  the  night  of  my  attendance 


—discussing  the  afiairs  of  the  trade*  Among 
the  collection  of  books  may  be  found,  "  The 
^Vrchitectural  Ornaments  and  Decorations  of 
Cottinghom,"  "  The  Gothic  Ornaments "  of 
Puii^D,  Tatham's  "Greek  Belies,"  Hophael'B 
••Pilaster  Ornaments  of  the  Vatican,"  Le 
Pautre's  **  Designs,"  and  Baptiste's"  Collection 
of  Flowers,"  large  size ;  while  among  the  oastB 
are  articles  of  the  same  choice  description. 
The  objects  of  this  society  are,  in  the  words  of 
the  preface  to  the  printed  catalogue, "  to  enable 
wood>carvers  to  co-operate  fortlie  advanoemeofe 
of  their  art,  and  by  forming  a  collection  ol 
books,  prints,  and  drawings,  to  afford  theiife 
facilities  for  self-improvement;  also.bythedifr 
f^on  of  information  among  its  members,  to 
assist  them  in  the  exercise  of  their  art,  as  well 
as  to  enable  tliem  to  obtain  employment."  The. 
society  doL*s  not  interfere  in  the  regulation  of 
wages  in  any  other  way  than,  by  the  diffusion 
of  information  among  its  members,  to  assistr 
them  in  the  exercise  of  their  art,  as  well  as  ta 
enable  them  to  obtain  emplo>'ment;  so  thai 
both  employers  and  employed  may,  by  be- 
coming members,  promote  their  own  and  each 
other's  interests.  The  collection  is  now  much 
enlarged,  and  with  the  additions  that  have 
been  made  to  it,  offers  aid  to  the  membera 
which  in  many  cases  is  invaluable.  A3  a 
means  of  facilitating  the  use  of  this  collection* 
the  opportunities  of  borrowing  &om  it  have 
been  made  as  general  as  possible.  The  meet- 
ings of  the  sooielgr  are  held  at.  a  place  where 
attendance  is  unacoompaniedby  expanse ;  and 
they  are,  therefore,  says  the  poeface,  ^  it9%  tmsa 
all  objection  on  account  of  indueements  to  ex- 
ceed the  time  required  for  business."  All 
this  appears  to  be  in  the  best  possible  taste, 
and  the  attention  of  the  society  being  still  di- 
rected to  its  improvement,  assuredly  gives  the 
members,  as  they  sey,  **•  good  reason  to  hope 
thai:  it  will  become  one  of  which  the  wood* 
carver  may  be  proudt  as  affording  valuable  as- 
abtanee,  both  m  the  design  and  execution  of 
any  style  of  woodrcarving."  In  the  whole 
course  of  my  investigations  I  have  never  ex- 
perienced more  gratification  thaa  I  did  on  the 
evoiing  of  my  visit  to  this  society.  The 
membera  all  gave  evidence,  both  in  manner 
and  appearance,  of  the  refining  chasacter  of 
their  crafl :  and  it  was  indeed  a  hearty  relief 
from  the  scenes  of  squalor,  misery,  dirt,  vice, 
ignorance,  and  discontent,  with  wldch  these 
inquiries  too  frequently  bring  one  into  con- 
nexion, to  find  one's  self  surrounded  with  an 
atmosidiere  of  beauty,  refinement,  comfort,  in- 
telligenoe,  and  ease. 


922 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


The  public,  generally,  are  deplorably  mis- 
informed as  to  the  character  and  purpose  of 
trade  societies.  The  common  impression  is 
that  they  are  combinadons  of  working-men, 
instituted  and  maintained  solely  with  the  view 
of  exacting  an  exorbitant  rate  of  wages  from 
their  employers,  and  that  they  are  necessarily 
eonnected  with  strikes,  and  with  sundiy  other 
savage  and  silly  means  of  attaining  this  object 
It  is  my  duty,  however,  to  make  known  that 
'the  rate  of  wages  which  such  societies  are  in- 
stituted to  uphold  has,  with  but  few  exceptions, 
been  agreed  upon  at  a  conference  of  both 
atasters  and  men,  and  that  in  almost  every 
case  I  find  the  members  as  strongly  opposed 
to  stzikee,  as  a  means  of  upholding  them,  as 
the  public  themselves.  But  at  all  events  the 
maintenance  of  the  standard  rate  of  wages  is 
not  the  sole  otgect  of  such  societies— the  ma- 
jority of  them  being  organised  as  much  for 
the  support  of  the  sick  and  aged  as  for  the 
regulation  of  the  price  of  labour ;  and  even  in 
those  societies  whose  efforts  are  confined  to 
the  latter  purpose  alone,  a  considerable  sum  is 
devoted  annually  for  the  subsistence  of  their 
members  when  out  of  work.  The  general 
eabinet-makers,  I  have  already  shown,  have 
contributed  towards  this  object  as  much  as 
1000/.  per  annum  for  many  years  past.  It  is 
not  generally  known  how  laraely  the  community 
is  indebted  to  the  trade  and  friendly  societies 
^  the  working  classes  dispersed  throughout 
the  kingdom,  or  how  much  expense  the  public 
is  saved  by  such  means  in  the  matter  of  poor- 
rates  alone. 

According  to  the  last  Government  returns 
there  are  at  present  in  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland,  upwards  of  83,000  such  societies, 
14,000  of  which  are  enrolled  and  8000  nn- 
enrolled — the  remaining  11,000  being  secret 
societies,  such  as  the  Odd  Fellows,  Foresters, 
Druids,  Old  Friends,  and  Bechabites.  The 
number  of  members  belonging  to  these  83,000 
societies  is  more  than  three  millions.  The 
^ross  annual  income  of  the  entiiss  associations 
18  4,980,000/.  and  their  accumulated  capital 
1 1,860,000/.  The  working  people  of  this  coun- 
try, and  I  believe  of  this  country  alone,  con- 
tribute therefore  to  the  support  of  their  own 
poor  nearly  five  millions  of  money  every  year, 
which  is  some  thousands  of  pounds  more  than 
rras  dispensed  in  parochial  relief  throughout 
England  and  Wales  in  1848.  Hence  it  may 
be  truly  said,  that  the  benefits  conferred  by 
the  trade  and  friendly  societies  of  the  working 
classes  are  not  limited  to  the  individuals  re- 
ceiving them,  but  are  participated  in  by  every 
ratepayer  in  the  kingdom,  for  were  there  no 
such  institutions  the  poor-rates  must  neces- 
sarily be  doubled. 

I  have  been  thus  explicit  on  the  subject  of 
trade  societies  in  general,  because  I  know 
there  exists  in  the  public  mind  a  strong  pre- 
judice against  such  institutions,  and  because 
it  is  the  fact  of  belonging  to  some  such  society 
which  invariably  distinguishes  the  better  class 


of  workmen  from  the  worse.  The  competitive 
men,  or  cheap  workers,  seldom  or  never  are 
members  of  any  association,  either  enrolled  or 
unenrolled.  The  consequence  is,  that  when 
out  of  work,  or  disabled  from  sickness  or  old 
age,  they  are  left  to  the  parish  to  support.  It 
is  the  slop-workers  of  the  difierent  trades— 
the  cheap  men  or  non-society  hands — who 
constitute  the  great  mass  of  paupers  in  this 
country-.  And  here  lies  the  main  social  dis- 
tinction between  the  workmen  who  belong  to 
societies  and  those  who  do  not — the  one 
maintain  their  own  poor,  the  others  are  left  to 
the  mercy  of  the  parish.  The  wages  of  the 
competitive  men  are  cut  down  to  a  bare  sub- 
sistence, so  that,  being  unable  to  save  anything 
from 'their  earnings,  a  few  days'  incapacity 
from  labour  drives  them  to  the  workhoase  for 
relief.  In  the  matter  of  machinery,  not  only 
is  the  cost  of  working  the  engine,  but  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  machine,  considered  as  a  neces- 
sary part  of  the  expense  of  production.  With 
the  human  machine,  however,  it  is  diffiarent, 
slop-wages  beinp^  sufficient  to  defray  only  the 
cost  of  keeping  it  at  work,  but  not  to  eompen* 
sate  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  it.  Under  the 
allowance  system  of  the  old  poor-law,  wages, 
it  is  well  known,  were  reduced  far  below  sub- 
sistence-point, and  the  workmen  were  left  to 
seek  pansh  relief  for  the  remainder ;  and  so  'm 
the  slop  part  of  every  trade,  the  iiiideq>aid 
workmen  when  sick  or  aged  are  handed  over 
to  the  state  to  support 

As  an  instance  of  the  truth  of  the  above  re- 
marks I  subjoin  the  following  statement,  which 
has  been  frirnished  to  me  by  the  GhainnakerB* 
Society  concerning  their  outgoings  >— 

**  Average  number  of  members  110* 
Paid  to  unemployed  members 

from  1841  to  18(K)      •        .  Jei256  10  a 

Do.  for  insurance  of  tools         .     211  10  ft 

Do.  do.  loss  of  time  by  fire        .       19  2  ^ 

Do.  do.  funerals  of  members      •     120  15  O 

Do.  do.  collections  for  sick        •       60  4  O 

'*  The  objects  which  the  London  Chairmakens 
have  in  view  by  associating  in  a  trade  society,'* 
says  the  written  statement  frx)m  which  th3 
above  account  is  extracted,  "is  to  insure,  as 
near  as  possible,  one  uniform  price  for  th9 
work  they  execute,  so  that  the  employer  shall 
have  a  guarantee  in  making  his  calculations 
that  he  will  not  be  charged  more  or  less  thazm 
his  neighbours,  who  employ  the  same  class  o^ 
men :  to  assist  their  members  in  obtaining  em-^ 
ployment,  and  a  just  remuneration  for  th^ 
work  they  perform :  to  insure  their  tools  agains  ^ 
fire:  to  provide  for  their  funerals  in  the  even.^ 
of  death :  and  to  relieve  their  members  when- 
unemployed  or  in  sickness — the  latter  beiot^ 
efiected  by  paying  persons  to  collect  voluntary 
subscriptions  for  invalid  members,  such  siiL»' 
smptions  producing  on  an  average  9/.  in  eaclx 
case.  The  members  have,  moreover,  othex" 
modes  of  assisting  each  other  when  in  diflS' 
culties.** 


STREET  CONJUEEE  PEEFOEMING. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


VZ'6 


I  may  as  w&ll  here  subjoin  the  statement  I 
haTe  reeeivied  from  this  society  concerning  the 
circnmstances  affecting  their  business. 

"  Our  trade,"  say  they,  in  a  written  commu- 
nieation  to  me,  "  has  suffered  very  materially 
from  a  change  which  took  place  about  30 
years  ago  in  the  system  of  work.  We  were  at 
that  time  chiefly  employed  by  what  we  term 
•  trade-working  masters/  who  supplied  the  up- 
holsterers with  the  frames  of  chairs  and  sofks ; 
bnt  since  then  we  have  obtained  our  work  di- 
rectly firom  the  sellers.  At  tirst  the  change 
was  rather  beneficial  than  otherwise.  The 
employer  and  his  salesman,  however,  have 
now,  in  the  greater  number  of  instances,  no 
knowledge  of  the  manufacturing  part  of  the 
business,  and  this  is  very  detrimental  to  our 
interest,  owing  to  their  being  unacquainted 
with  the  value  of  the  labour  part' of  the  articles 
we  midEe.  Moreover,  the  salesman  sends  all 
the  orders  he  can  out  of  doors  to  be  made  by 
the  middlemen,  though  the  customer  is  led  to 
believe  that  the  work  is  executed  on  the 
premises,  whereas  only  a  portion  of  it  is  made 
at  home,  and  that  chiefly  the  odd  and  out-of- 
the-way  work,  because  the  sending  of  such 
work  out  of  doors  would  not  answer  the  end  of 
cheapness.  The  middleman,  who  executes  tho 
work  away  from  the  premises,  subdivides  the 
labour  to  such  an  extent  that  he  is  enabled  to 
get  the  articles  made  much  cheaper,  as  well  as 
to  employ  both  unskilful  workmen  and  appren 
tices. 

**  Placed  in  the  position  where  the  employer 
gets  the  credit  of  paying  us  the  legitimate 
price  {qx  onr  labour,  it  would  appear  that  we 
hare  no  cause  of  complaint ;  but,  owing  to  the 
system  of  things  before  stated,  as  well  as  to 
the  number  of  linendrapers,  carpet-makers, 
and  others,  who  have  recently  entered  the 
trade  without  having  any  practical  knowledge 
of  the  business,  together  with  the  casualty  of 
our  enrployment,  our  social  position  has  become 
scarcefy  any  better,  or  so  good,  as  that  of  the 
unskilful  or  the  dissipated  workman,  while, 
from  the  many  demands  of  our  fellow-opera- 
tires  upon  us,  in  the  shape  of  pecuniary  assist- 
ance, we  have  a  severe  struggle  to  maintain 
anything  like  a  respectable  footing  in  the  com- 
munity. The  principal  source  of  regret  with 
OS  isr  that  the  public  have  no  knowledge  of  the 
quality  of  the  articles  tliey  buy.  Tho  sellers, 
too,  firom  their  want  of  practical  acquaintance 
vith  the  manufacturing  port  of  the  buMuess, 
have  likewise  an  injurious  effect  upon  our 
interests,  instead  of  seconding  our  efforts  to 
kaep  \xf  a  creditable  position  is  society. 

'*  The  subjoined  is  the  amount  of  the  capital 
of  our  society  at  the  present  time-: — 
"Property  in  thsEonda         .        .j^300 

Out  at  me   .....    175 

Other  anraikble  property,  in  the  >      ^qq 
shape  of  priee^books,  «tc    j    ^___ 

;e075." 
Suehy  then,  is  the  atate  of  the  lociety  men 


belonging  to  the  cabinet-makers' trade.  These, 
as  I  before  said^  constitute  that  portion  of  tho 
workmen  whose  wages  are  regulated  by  custom, 
and  it  now  only  remains  for  me  to  set  forth 
the  state  of  those  whose  earnings  are  deter- 
mined by  competition.  Here  we  shall  find 
that  the  wEiges  a  flew  years  since  were  fh)m 
three  to  four  himdred  per  cent  better  than 
they  are  at  present,  209.  having  formerly  been 
tho  price  paid  for  making  that  for  which  the 
operatives  now  receive  only  5*.,  and  this  not- 
>rithstanding  that  the  number  of  hands  in  the 
London  trade  from  1831  to  1841  declined  33 
per  cent  relatively  to  the  rest  of  the  popu- 
lation. Nor  can  it  be  said  that  this  extra- 
ordinary depreciation  in  the  value  of  the 
cabinet-makers'  labour  has  arisen  from  any 
proportionate  decrease  in  the  quantity  of  work 
to  bo  done.  The  number  of  houses  built  in 
the  metropolis  has  of  late  been  considerably 
on  the  increase.  Since  1830  there  have  been 
200  miles  of  new  streets  formed  in  London, 
no  less  than  6403  new  dwellings  having  beoi 
erected  annually  since  that  time :  and  as  it  is 
but  fair  to  assume  tliat  the  m^ority  of  theso 
new  houses  must  have  required  new  frumiture, 
it  is  clear  that  it  is  impossible  to  account  for 
the  decline  in  the  wages  of  the  trade  in 
question  upon  tho  assumption  of  an  equal 
decline  in  tlie  quantity  of  work.  How,  then, 
are  we  to  explain  the  fact  that,  while  tho  hands 
have  decreased  33  per  cent,  and  work  in- 
creased at  a.considerable  rate,  wages  a  few  years 
ago  were  300  per  cent  better  than  they  are  aC 
present  ?  The  solution  of  the  problem  will  be 
found  in  the  extraordinary  increase  that  has 
taken  place  within  tho  last  20  years  of  what 
are  called  **  garret-masters"  in  the  cabinet 
trade.  These  garret-masters  are  a  class  of 
small  ♦*  tnwle-working  masters,"  supplying  both 
capital  and  labour.  They  are  in  manufacture 
what  the  peasant-proprietors  are  in  agrictdture, 
their  own  employers  and  their  own  workmen. 
There  is,  however,  this  one  marked  distinctian 
between  the  two  classes^— the  garret-master 
cannot,  liko  tlie  peasant-proprietor,  eat  what 
he  produces:  the  consequence  is,  that  he  ia 
obliged  to  convert  each  article  into  food  imme- 
diately he  manufactures  it,  no  matter  what 
tho  state  of  the  market  nay  be.  The  capital 
of  the  garret-master  being  generally  sufficient 
to  find  him  in  the  materiala  for  the  manufac- 
ture of  oidy  one  article  at  a  time,  and  his 
savings  being  barely  enough  for  his  subsistence 
while  he  is  engaged  in  putting  those  materials 
together,  he  is  compelled  the  moment  the 
work  is  completed  to  part  with  it  for  whatever 
he  can  get.  He  cannot  afford  to  keep  it  even 
a  day,  for  to  do  so  is  generally  to  remain  a 
day  unfed.  Hence,  if  the  maricet  be  at  iJl 
slack,  he  ha»  to  fovee  a  sale  by  ofiBering  hia 
goods  at  the  lowest  possible  price.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  the  necessities  of  such  a 
dasa  of  indtvidnals  should  have  created  a  spe- 
cial race  of  employmrs,  known  by  the  significant 
name  of  *« alMgbter-house  men?"— or  that 


fUi 


LONDON  LABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


these,  being  aware  of  the  inability  of  the  garret- 
masters  to  hold  out  against  any  offer,  no 
matter  how  slight  a  remuneration  it  affords 
for  their  labour,  should  continually  lower  and 
lower  their  prices  until  the  entire  body  of  the 
competitive  portion  of  the  cabinet  trade  is 
sunk  in  utter  destitution  and  misery  ?  More- 
CTer,  it  is  well  known  how  strong  is  the  stimu- 
lus among  peasant-proprietors,  or  indeed  any 
class  working  for  themselves,  to  extra  produc* 
tion.  So  it  is,  indeed,  with  the  garret-masters ; 
their  industry  is  indeed  almost  incessant,  and 
hence  a  greater  quantity  of  work  is  turned 
out  by  them,  and  continually  forced  into  the 
market,  than  there  would  otherwise  be.  What 
though  there  be  a  brisk  and  a  slack  season  in 
the  cabinet-makers'  trade,  as  in  the  majority 
of  others?  Slack  or  brisk,  the  garret-master 
must  produce  the  same  excessiye  quantity  of 
ffoods.  In  the  hope  of  extricating  himself 
from  his  overwhelnung  poverty,  he  toils  on, 

groducing  more  and  more ;  and  yet  the  more 
e  produces  the  more  hopeless  does  his  posi- 
tion become,  for  the  greater  the  stock  that  he 
thrusts  into  the  market  the  lower  does  the 
price  of  his  labour  fall,  until  at  last  he  and  his^ 
own  family  work  for  less  than  he  himself 
eould  earn,  a  few  years  back,  by  his  own  un- 
aided labour. 

Another  cause  of  the  necessity  of 'the  garret- 
master  to  part  with  his  goods  as  soon  as  made 
is  the  large  size  of  the  articles  he  manu- 
&ctures,  and  the  consequent  cost  of  conveying 
them  from  slaughter-house  to  slaughter-house 
till  a  purchaser  be  found.  For  this  purpose  a 
van  is  frequently  hired ;  and  the  consequence 
is,  that  he  cannot  hold  out  against  the  slangh- 
terer's  offer,  even  for  an  hour,  without  in- 
creasing the  expense  of  carriage,  and  so  vir- 
tually decreasing  his  gains.  This  is  ao  well 
known  at  the  slaughter-houses,  that  it  a  man, 
after  seeking  in  vain  for  a  fiedr  remuneration 
for  his  work,  is  goaded  by  his  necessities  to 
call  at  a  shop  a  second  time  to  accept  a  price 
which  he  had  previously  refused,  he  seldom 
obtains  what  was  first  offered  him.  Some- 
times when  he  has  been  ground  down  to  the 
lowest  pr)ssible  sum,  he  is  paid  late  on  a  Satur- 
day night  with  a  cheque,  and  forced  to  give  the 
firm  a  liberal  discount  for  cashing  it 

For  a  more  detailed  account,  however,  of 
the  iniquities  practised  upon  this  class  of  ope- 
ratives, I  refer  the  reader  to  the  sUtemoits 
given  below.  It  will  be  there  seen  that  all  the 
modes  by  which  work  can  be  produced  cheap 
are  in  fhll  operation.  The  labour  of  appren- 
tices and  children  is  the  prevailing  means  of 
production.  I  heard  of  one  small  trade-work- 
ing master  who  had  as  many  as  eleven  appren- 
tices at  work  for  him ;  and  wherever  the  ope- 
rative is  blessed  with  a  family  they  aJl  work, 
even  from  6  years  old.  The  employment  of 
any  undue  number  of  apprentices  also  tends 
to  increase  the  very  excess  of  hands  from  which 
the  trade  is  suffering ;  and  thus  it  is,  that  the 
lower  wages  becMome,  the  lower  still  they  ara 


reduced.  There  are  very  few— some  told  me 
there  were  none,  but  there  are  a  few  who  work 
as  journeymen  for  little  masters;^  but  these 
men  become  little  masters  in  their  turn,  or 
they  must  starve  in  idleness,  for  their  em- 
ployment is  precarious.  These  men  have  no 
time  for  social  interoommunicalion :  the 
struggle  to  live  absorbs  all  their  energies,  and 
confines  all  their  aspirations  to  that  one  en- 
deavour. Their  labour  is  devoted,  with  the 
rarest  exceptions,  to  the  **  slaughter-houses, 
linendrapers,  'polsterers,  or  warehouses.**  By 
all  these  names  I  heard  the  shopkeepers  who 
deal  in  frimiture  of  all  kinds,  as  well  as  drapeiy 
goods,  designated. 

These  men  work  in  their  own  rooms,  in 
Spitalfields  and  Bethnal-green ;  and  some- 
times two  or  three  men  in  different  branches 
occupy  one  apartment,  and  work  together 
there.  They  are  a  sober  class  of  men,  but 
seem  so  perfectly  subdued  by  circomstanoes, 
that  they  cannot  or  do  not  struggle  against  the 
system  which  several  of  them  told  me  they 
Imew  was  undoing  them. 
^  The  subdivisions  of  this  trade  I  need  not 
give,  they  are  as  numerous  as  the  articles  of 
Uie  cabinet-maker's  calling. 

I  have  mentioned  that  the  black  houses,  or 
linendrapers  at  the  west  end  of  London,  were 
prindpaUy  supplied  from  the  east  end.  In 
the  neighbourhood  of  Tottenham-coart-road 
and  Oiford-street,  for  instance,  moat  of  my 
readers  will  have  had  their  attention  attracted 
by  the  dust-coloured  appearance  of  some  poor 
worker  in  wood  eanying  along  his  skeleton  of 
an  easy  chair,  or  a  sofa,  or  a  couch,  to  dispose 
of  in  some  shop.  Often,  too,  a  carter  has  to 
''be  employed  for  the  same  purpose,  at  the  rate 
of  Is.  6i.  an  hour ;  and  thus  two  hours  will 
exhaust  the  very  Aillest  value  of  a  long  day's 
labour,  f^rom  a  fiimiture-carter  of  thia  de- 
scription I  received  some  most  shocking  de- 
tails of  having  to  "busk**  it,  as  this  taking 
about  goods  for  sale  is  called  by  those  in  the 
trade. 

Fh)m  a  pale,  feeble-looking  man  whom  I 
met  on  a  Saturday  evening  at  the  west  end, 
carrying  a  mahogany  chiffonier,  I  had  the  fol- 
lowing statement: — 

**I  have  dragged  this  chifibnier  with  me,** 
he  said,  **from  Spitalfields,  and  have  been 
told  to  call  again  in  two  hours  (it  was  then 
half-past  7).  I  am  too  tired  to  drag  it  to 
another  linendraper's,  and  indeed  I  shouldn't 
have  so  good  a  chance  there ;  for  if  we  go  late, 
the  manager  considers  we've  been  at  other 
places,  and  hell  say,  <  Tou  needn't  bring  me 
what  others  have  refused.'    I  was  brought  up 

as  a  general  hand  at ,  but  was  never  in 

society,  which  is  a  great  disadvantage.  I  feel 
that  now.  I  used  to  make  my  25s.  or  2Ss. 
a-week  six  or  seven  years  back ;  but  then  I  fell 
out  of  employ,  and  worked  at  chair-making 
for  a  slaughter-house,  and  so  got  into  the 
system,  and  now  I  can't  get  out  of  it.  I  have 
no  time  to  look  about  me,  as,  if  I'm  idle,  I 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


225 


can^t  get  bread  for  my  family.  I  have  a  wife 
and  two  chUdren.  lliey're  too  young  to  do 
anvthing;  bnt  I  can*t  a&rd  to  send  t^bem  to 
school,  except  every  now  and  then  Id,  or  2d. 
a-week,  and  so  they  may  learn  to  read,  per- 
haps. The  anxiety  I  sofTer  is  not  to  be  told. 
Tre  nothing  left  to  pawn  now ;  and  if  I  don't 
sell  this  cMffonier  I  most  take  it  back,  and 
must  go  back  to  a  honse  bare  of  eveiything, 
except,  perhaps,  d«.  or  2s.  ^d,  my  wife  may 
have  earned  by  mining  her  health  for  a  tailor's 
sweater ;  and  Is.  6i.  of  that  most  go  for  rent 
I  ought  to  have  2^.  for  this  chiffonier,  for  it's 
superior  mahogany  to  the  nm  of  snch  things ; 
bat  I  ask  only  d5s.,  and  perhaps  may  be  bid 
^S«.,  and  get  dOs. ;  and  it  may  be  sold,  perhaps, 
It  the  linendraper  for  8/.  3s.  or  3/.  10s.  Of 
coarse  weYe  obtiged  to  work  in  the  slightest 
manner  possible ;  but,  good  or  bad,  there's  the 
same  fanlt  found  with  the  article.  I  have 
already  lost  8^  hoars;  and  there's  my  wife 
anxionsly  looUng  for  my  retam  to  boy  bread 
and  a  bit  of  beast's  head  for  to-morrow.  It's 
hard  to  go  without  a  bit  o'  meat  on  Sundays ; 
and,  indeed,  I  must  sell  at  whatever  price — it 
dun't  matter,  and  that  the  linendraper  depends 

I  now  subjoin  a  statement  of  a  garret-master 
—a  maker  of  loo  tables — ^who  was  endeavour- 
ing to  make  a  living  by  a  number  of  ap- 
prentices:— 

"I'm  now  41,"  he  said,  «*and  for  the  last 
ten  or  twelve  years  have  been  working  for  a 
linendraper   who   keeps    a   slaughter-house. 

Before  that  I  was  in  a  good  shop,  Mr.  D 's, 

and  was  a  general  hand,  as  we  were  in  the  fair 
trade.  I  have  often  made  my  50s.  a-week  on 
good  woric  of  any  kind :  now,  with  three  ap- 
prentices to  help  me,  I  make  only  25s.  Work 
grew  slack ;  and  rather  than  be  doing  nothing, 
as  I'd  saved  a  little  money,  I  made  loo  tables, 
and  sold  them  to  a  linendraper,  a  dozen..years 
back  or  so,  and  so  somehow  I  got  into  the 
trade.  For  tables  that,  eighteen  years  ago,  I 
had  in  a  good  shop  30s.  for  making,  now  5s.  is 
paid ;  but  that's  only  in  a  slaughterer's  own 
lactory,  when  he  has  one.  I've  been  told  often 
enough  by  a  linendraper,  '  Make  an  inferior 
article,  so  as  it's  cheap :  if  it  comes  to  pieces 
in  a  month,  what's  that  to  you  or  me?'  Now, 
a  4-foot  loo  is  an  average ;  and  if  for  profit 
and  labour — and  it's  near  two  days*  work — I 
pnt  on  7s.,  I'm  bid  5s.  less.  I've  been  bid  less 
than  the  stuff,  and  have  on  occasions  been 
forced  to  take  it  That  was  four  years  ago ; 
and  I  then  found  I  couldn't  possibly  live  by 
m}-  own  work,  and  I  had  a  wife  and  four  chil- 
dnen  to  keep ;  so  I  got  some  apprentices.  I 
have  now  three,  and  two  of  them  are  stiff 
fellows  of  18,  and  can  do  a  deal  of  work.  For 
a  4-foot  loo  table  I  have  only  I/.,  though 
the  materials  cost  finom  lis.  to  13s.,  and  it's 
about  two  days*  work.  There's  not  a  doubt  of 
it  that  the  linendrapers  have  brought  bad 
work  into  the  market,  and  have  swamped  the 
good.    For  work  that,  ten  or  twelve  years  ago, 


I  had  3/.  5s.  to  3/.  10s.  fi*om  them,  I  have  now 
30s.  Of  course,  it's  inferior  in  quality  in  pro- 
portion,  but  it  doesnt  pay  me  half  as  well.  I 
know  that  men  like  me  are  cutting  one  another's 
throats  by  competition.  Fourteen  years  ago 
we  ought  to  have  made  a  stand  against  this 
system ;  but,  then,  we  must  live." 

A  pale  young  man,  working  in  a  room  with 
two  others,  but  in  different  branches,  gave  me 
the  following  account: — 

**I  have  been  two  years  making  looking- 
glass  fhunes.  Before  that  I  was  in  the  general 
cabinet  line,  but  took  to  this  when  I  was  out 
of  work.  I  make  frames  only;  the  slaughter- 
houses put  in  the  glasses  themselves.  If  I 
had  other  work  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose  time 
going  from  one  to  another  that  I  wasn't  so 
quick  at.  I  make  all  sizes  of  frames,  from 
nine-sevens  to  twenty-four-eighteens  (nine 
inches  by  seven,  and  twenty-four  inches  by 
eighteen).  Nine-sevens  are  most  in  demand ; 
and  the  slaughter-houses  give  10s.  ^d.  a-dozen 
for  them.  Two  years  back  they  gave  15s. 
All  sizes  has  fallen  3s.  to  4s.  a-dozen.  I  find 
all  the  material.  It's  mahogany  veneered 
over  deal.  There's  only  five  or  six  slaughter- 
houses in  my  way ;  but  I  serve  the  Italians  or 
Jews,  and  they  serve  the  slaughter-houses. 
There's  no  foreigners  employed  as  I'm  em- 
ployed. It's  not  foreign  competition  as  harms 
us— it's  home.  I  almost  ask  more  than  I 
mean  to  take,  for  I'm  always  bid  less  than  a 
fair  price,  and  so  we  haggle  on  to  a  bargain. 
The  best  weeks  I  have  had  I  cleared  25s. ;  but 
in  slack  times,  when  I  can  hardly  sell  at  all, 
only  12s.  Carrying  the  goods  for  sale  is  such 
a  loss  of  time.  Tlungs  are  very  bad  now ;  but 
I  must  go  on  making,  and  get  a  customer  when 
trade  is  brisker  if  I  can.  Glass  has  rose  Is. 
a-foot,  and  that's  made  a  slack  in  the  trade, 
for  my  trade  depends  greatly  on  the  glass 
trade.  I  know  of  no  women  employed  in  my 
trade,  and  no  apprentices.  We  are  all  little 
masters." 

I  shall  now  proceed  to  the  other  branch  of 
the  trade.  The  remarks  I  have  made  con- 
cerning the  wretched  social  condition  and 
earnings  of  fancy  cabinet-makers  who  are  in 
society,  apply  even  more  strongly  to  the  non- 
society  men.  The  society  men  are  to  be 
found  chiefly  in  Clerkenwell ;  the  non-society 
men  in  Spitalfields  and  Bethnal  Green.  With 
these  unfortunate  workmen  there  is  yet  a 
lower  deep.  The  underpaid  men  of  Clerken- 
well work  generally  to  order,  if  the  payment 
be  never  so  inadequate.  But  the  still  more 
underpaid  men  of  Spitalfields  work  almost 
universally  on  speculation.  The  Spitalfields 
cabinet-maker  finds  his  own  material,  which 
he  usually  purchases  of  the  great  cabinet- 
makers or  the  pianoforte-makers,  being  the 
veneers  which  are  the  refuse  of  their  work. 
The  supply  of  the  east-end  warehousemen  is 
derived  fhmi  Uttle  masters— men  who  work  at 
their  own  abodes,  and  have  the  assistance  of 
their  wives  and  children.     It  is  very  rarely 


% 


226 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


that  thej,  or  their  equally  nnderpaid  fellovs 
in  the  geuend  cabinet  trade,  employ  an  active 
journeyman.  Almost  every  man  in  the  trade 
worka  on  his  own  account,  finds  his  own 
xnateiial,  and  goes  **on  the  busk  to  the 
slaughter-hooses'*  ibr  the  chance  of  a  ooa- 
tomer. 

I  found  the  Cuioj  Mfaiaet-makezs  eflttainlj 
an  uninformed  chiss,  but  patient,  temperate, 
and  reaigned.  Some  few  could  neither  vead 
nor  wzite,  and  their  fMniliee  were  growinff  np 
ea  uninformed  as  the  paranta.  The  hewlnng 
ibxn  door  to  door  of  workboxea  made  by  some 
of  the  men  themselTes,  their  wives  assisting 
them  with  hawking,  was  ikr  oommoner  than  it 
is  now;  but  it  is  atill  practised  to  a  amall 
extent 

I  called  on  an  old  couple  to  whom  I  was 
referred,  as  to  one  of  the  lew  parties  employed 
in  working  for  the  men  who  supplied  the 
warehouses.  The  man's  appearance  was  gaunt 
and  wretched.  He  had  been  long  unshorn ; 
and  his  light  blue  eyes  had  that  dull,  half- 
glased  look,  which  is  common  to  the  old  when 
apiiit-broken  and  half-fod.  His  rooim,  a  small 
garret  in  Spitalfields,  for  which  he  paid  1«.  M. 
a-week,  was  bare  of  furniture,  except  his  work- 
bench and  two  chairs,  which  were  occupied  by 
his  wife,  who  was  at  work  lining  the  boxes  her 
husband  was  making.  A  blanket  rolled  op 
was  the  poor  couple's  bed.  The  wifo  was  ten 
years  younger  than  her  husband.  She  was 
vexy  poorly  dad  in  an  old  rusty  black  gown, 
tattered  here  and  there;  hot  she  did  not  look 
Tery  feeble. 

«*  I  am  63,"  the  man  aaid,  and  he  looked  80, 
**  and  was  apprenticed  in  my  youth  to  the  fancy 
cabinet  trade.  I  could  maJce  U,  4a.  a-week  at 
it  by  working  long  hours  when  I  was  out  of  my 
time,  forty-two  years  back.  I  have  worked 
chiefly  on  workboxes.  I  didn't  save  money — 
1  was  foolish ;  but  it  was  a  hard-living  and  a 
hard-drinking  time.  I'm  sorry  for  it  now. 
Thirty  years  ago  things  weren't  quite  so  good, 
but  BtiU  vezy  good ;  and  so  they  were  twenty 
years  back.  But  since  the  slaughter-houses 
came  in,  men  like  ma  has  been  starving. 
"Why  here,  sir,  for  a  rosewood  workbox  like 
this,  which  I  shall  get  6d.  for  making,  I  used 
to  give  A  brother  oif  mine  (U.  6d.  for  making 
twenty  years  ago.  I've  been  paid  22<.  6d. 
years  ago  for  what  I  now  get  2<.  td.  for.  The 
man  who  employs  me  now  works  for  a  slaugh- 
ter-house ;  and  he  must  grind  me  down,  or  he 
cooldnt  serve  a  slaughter-house  che^  enough. 
He  finds  materials,  and  I  find  tods  and  0ue ; 
end  I  have  6<.  a-dozen  for  making  these  boxes, 
and  I  can  only  make  a  dozen  A-week,  and  the 
glue  and  other  odds  and  ends  for  them  costs 
me  6i^.  a-dozen.  That^  with  8^.  or  l(k{.  A-weok, 
or  !«.,  that  vay  wife  may  make,  as  she  helps 
me  in  lining,is  all  we  have  to  live  on.  We  live 
entirely  on  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  when  we 
can  get  butter;  never  any  change — tea,  And 
nothing  else  aU  day ;  never  a  bit  of  meat  on  a 
Sunday.    As  for  beer,  I  haven't  spent  it.  on  it 


these  last  fbur  years.  When  Tm  not  nt  work 
for  a  little  master,  I  get  stuff  of  one,  and  make 
a  few  boxes  on  my  own  account,  and  cany 
them  out  to  selL  I  have  often  to  go  three  or 
four  miles  with  them;  for  there's  a  house  near 
Tottenham-court-road  that  will  take  afov  ftuma. 
me,  generally  out  of  charity.  When  I'm  |Mt 
work,  or  oant  meet  with  any,  thece^  nnthmg 
but  the  workhouse  for  me." 

The  decUne  which  has  iaken  plaee  wiiU& 
the  last  twenty  years  in  the  wages  of  llu» 
operative  cahioet- makers  of  IioiidoQ  is  ao 
ennrmoua,  andL  moreover,  it  seems  90  iippaaed  ' 
to  the  principles  of  political  eoanoay,  that  it 
becomes  of  the  highest  importance  in  an  in- 
quiry like  the  present  to  trace  out  the  dniim- 
atances  to  which  this  special  depredation  is 
to  be  attributed.  It  has  been  before  ahown 
that  the  numbor  of  hands  bdonging  to  the 
London  cabinet  trade  decreased  between  1881 
and  liUl  38  per  cent  in  comparison  with  the 
rest  of  the  metropolitan  population ;  and  that, 
notwithstanding  this  falling  ot^  the  woik- 
man's  wages  in  1831  were  at  least  400  per 
oent  better  than  they  are  at  present;  20$, 
having  formerly  been  pdd  for  the  making 
of  articles  for  which  now  only  hi,  are  given. 
To  impress  this  fact,  however,  more  atrongly 
upon  the  reader's  mind,  I  will  dte  here  a 
few  of  many  instances  of  depreciation  that 
have  come  to  my  knowledge.  **  Twenty  years 
ago,"  said  a  workman  in  the  fancy  cabinet 
lino,  "I  had  Qd,  an  inch  for  the  making  of 
20-inch  desks  of  solid  mahogany ;  that*B  lOif. 
for  the  entire  articlo :  now  I  get  2s.  8A  for 
the  same  thing.  Smaller  desks  used  to  ave- 
rage us  6<.  each  for  wages :  now  they  4on*t 
bring  us  more  than  Is.  Ladies'  12-inch  woik- 
boxes  twenty  years  ago  were  8«.  fid.  and  is. 
a-piece  making;  now  they  are  5<<.  for  the 
commoner  sort  and  Id,  for  those  with  better 
work."  ^  I  don't  understand  per  cents,**  said 
another  workman,  **  but  this  I  do  know,  the 
prices  that  I  get  l^ve  within  this  twenty  years 
fallen  firom  4t.  to  fid.,  and  in  some  cases  to 

Here,  then,  we  find  that  wages  in  the  eom- 
petitive  portion  of  the  cshinet  trade— that  is 
among  the  non-sodety  hands—  (the  wagea  of 
the  society  men  I  have  before  explained  are 
regulated,  or  rather  fixed  by  custom)-* were 
twenty  years  ago  400  per  oent  better  in  some 
cases,  and  in  others  no  less  than  900  per  eent 
higher  than  they  are  at  present,  wad  this 
while  the  nnmbeir  of  workmen  has  decreased 
as  much  as  one-third  relativdy  to  the  rest  of 
the  population.  How,  then,  is  this  cuUtacff^ 
dinary  diminution  in  the  price  of  labour  to  be 
accounted  for?  Certainly  not  on  the  nftUBll 
assumption  that  the  quantity  of  woik  hBB  de- 
clined in  a  still  greater  proportion  than  the 
number  of  hands  to  do  it,  for  it  has  also  been 
proved  that  the  number  of  new  housea  built 
annually  in  the  metropolis,  and  therefore  the 
quantity  of  new  fiuniture  required,  has  of  late 
years  increased  very  considerably. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


227 


I&  the  eabmet  tnde,  then,  we  find  a  colloc- 
ticm  of  (dmunstances  atTarionce  with  that  law 
ef  topDlj  and  demand  bj-  which  many  suppose 
tfail  the  imte  of  wages  is  invariably  detor- 
aaniad.  Ifages,  it  is  said,  depend  upon  the 
*.  and  sQjrply  of  labour ;  and  it  is  com- 
mmed  that  they  cannot  be  affected  by 
J  che.  That  th^  are,  however,  sab- 
ieet  to  other  jtiffneneei,  tiie  hxstoiy  of  the  ca- 
UiHt  tiade  for  the  bat  twenty  years  is  a  most 
comiiMuig  ynei,  for  then  we  find,  that  idiile 
tht  qcaiiiitj  ef  weA,  or  in  other  words,  the 
^■■■id  for  lAovr,  has  increased,  and  the  snp- 
7^  Aeereaaed,  wages,  instead  of  xiaing,  have 
flBffHred  %  heiavf  dedine.  By  ndiat  means, 
liMBylt  thsiiediKtioii  in  the  price  of  labonr  to 
be  WfjilMiiedt  What  other  arenmstance  is 
tiiere  afiheting  the  remmemtion  for  woxk,  of 
'Wfaidi  eeooomists  ha^e  xtsually  omitted  to  take 
engnifwiee?  The  snswer  is,  that  wages  de- 
peod  as  much  on  the  distribntion  of  labomr  as 
«B  liie  demand  and  supply  of  it.  Assuming 
m  eerton  quantity  of  titiric  to  be  done,  the. 
amomt  of  remunention  coming  to  each  of 
Che  woifanen  engaged  most,  of  course,  be  re- 
vidalad,  not  only  by  the  nrnnber  of  hands,  but 
vy  the  proportion  of  labour  done  by  them  re- 
ipectivejiy;  that  is  to  say,  if  there  be  work 
emsgh  to  employ  the  i^ole  of  the  operatives 
for  asty  hears  a-week,  and  if  two-thiztb  of  the 
lunda  aie  aopplied  nith  sufficient  to  occupy 
them  niiiety  hours  in  the  same  space  of  time, 
then  ane4hiid  of  the  trade  most  be  thrown 
fcDj  ont  of  employmettt :  thTis  proving  that 
there  may  be  surplus  Mour  wx&ont  any  in- 
gcaee  o€  the  population.  It  may,  therefore, 
be  «Bidy  asoerted,  that  any  system  of  labour 
whiA  tends  to  make  the  members  of  a  craft 
prodnee  a  greater  quantity  of  work  than  usual, 
tends  at  the  aame  time  to  over-populate  the 
trade  as  oertainly  as  an  increase  of  workmen. 
This  ktw  tomj  be  summed  up  briefly  in  the  ex- 
pressifln  that  over-work  makes  under-x>ay. 

Henee  the  next  point  in  the  inqniiy  is  as  to 
the  wesaH  by  fihich  the  productiveness  of  ope- 
raliveB  is  eapable  of  bemg  extended.  There 
an  iDBqy  nodes  of  effecting  this.  Rome  of 
theee  hMe  been  long  known  to  students  of 
polhioal  eooaomy,  while  others  have  boon 
made  pvUic  for  tiie  first  time  in  these  letters. 
Uader  the  fimner  class  are  included  the  divi- 
eion  and  eo^cfperation  of  labour,  as  well  as  the 
"^krge  syatem  of  production;"  and  to  the 
latter  belonge  **  the  strapping  system,**  by  which 
men  are  nude  to  get  throu|^  four  times  as 
nraeh  work  as  tisual,  and  which  I  have  before 
deeeribed.  But  the  most  effectual  means  of 
increaalDg  the  prodoetiveBess  of  labourers  is 
ItMBid  to  finaaht,  not  in  any  system  of  miper- 
fisiflB,  hewrever  cogent,  nor  in  any  limitation 
«f  the  operatioBS  performed  by  the  wcrk- 
people  to  the  smallest  possible  number,  nor 
mtheawpoitionmcBt  of  the  difierent  parts  c€ 
the  woA  to  the  ^Bfferent  capabilities  -ef  the 
openrtivea,  bst  in  conneeting  the  workman's 
interest  direetily  with  his  labour;  that  is  to 


say,  by  makiug  the  amount  of  his  earnings 
depend  upon  the  quantity  of  work  done  by 
him.  This  is  ordinarily  efifected  in  manufac 
ture  by  means  of  what  is  called  piece-woik. 
Almost  all  who  work  by  the  day,  or  for  a  fixed 
salary — that  is  to  say,  those  who  labour  for  the 
gain  of  others,  not  for  their  own — have,  it  has 
been  well  remarked,  **  no  interest  in  doing  more 
than  the  smallest  quantity  of  work  that  wUl 
pass  as  a  ftdfilment  of  the  mere  teims  of  their 
engagement.**  Owing  to  the  insufficient  in- 
tercKt  which  day-labourers  have  in  the  result 
of  their  labour,  there  is  a  natural  tendency  in 
such  labour  to  be  extremely  inefficient — a 
tendency  only  to  be  overcome  by  vigilant  su- 
perintendence (such  aa  is  carried  on  under  the 
strapping  system  among  the  joinera)  on  the 
part  of  the  persons  who  are  interested  in  the 
result.  The  master^s  eye  is  notoriou^  the 
only  security  to  be  relied  on.  But  superintend 
Ihcm  OS  you  will,  day  labourers  are  so  much 
inferior  to  those  who  woric  by  the  piece,  that, 
as  we  before  said,  the  latter  system  is  prac- 
tised in  all  industrial  occupations  where  the 
woric  admits  of  being  put  out  in  definite  por- 
tions, without  involving  the  necessity  of  too 
troublesome  a  surveillance  to  guard  against 
inferiority  (or  scamping)  in  the  execution. 
But  if  the  labourer  at  piece-work  is  made  to 
produce  a  greater  quantity  than  at  day-wozk, 
and  this  solely  by  connecting  his  own  interest 
with  that  of  his  employer,  how  much  more 
largely  must  the  productiveness  of  workmen 
be  increased  when  labouring  whoUy  on  their 
own  account !  Accordingly,  it  has  been  inva- 
riably found,  that  whene\'er  the  operative  imitea 
in  himself  the  double  function  of  capitalist 
and  labourer,  making  up  his  own  materials  or 
workmg  on  his  own  ^perty,  his  productivo- 
ness  single-handed  is  considerably  greater 
than  can  be  attained  under  the  large  system 
of  production,  where  all  the  arts  and  appli- 
ances of  wh>^  extensive  capital  can  avail 
itself  ore  brought  into  operation. 

Of  the  industry  of  working  masters  or  trading 
operatives  in  manufactures  there  are  as  }*et  no 
authentic  accounts.  We  have,  however,  ample 
records  concerning  the  indefatigability  of  their 
agricultural  counterparts — the  peasant-x>ropri- 
eton  of  Tuscany,  Switzerland,  Germany,  and 
otlier  countries  where  the  labom'eTS  are  the 
ownera  of  the  soil  they  cultivHte.  **  In  walking 
anywhere  in  the  ne^bourhood  of  Ziirich," 
says  Inghs,  in  his  work  on  Switzerland,  the 
South  cf  France,  and  the  Pyrenees,  •*  one  is 
struck  with  the  extmordinaxy  industry  of  the 
inhabitants.  When  I  used  to  open  my  ease- 
ment,  between  four  and  five  o'clock  in  tho 
momittg,  to  look  out  ttpoo  the  lake  and  the 
distant  Alps,  I  saw  the  lahonrer  in  the  fields ; 
and  when  I  returned  from  an  evening  walk, 
long  after  aunaet,  as  late  perhai»  as  half-past 
eight,  there  was  the  labourer  mowing  his  grass 
or  tying  up  his  vines."  The  same  state  of 
thing  exists  ameog  the  French  peasaatiy 
the  aame  eiicnmataBees.    **  The  in- 


22S 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


dnstiy  of  the  small  proprietor/'  says  Arthur 
Toimg,  in  his  "  Travels  in  France,"  **  were  so 
conspicuous  and  so  meritorious,  that  no  com- 
mendation would  he  too  great  for  it  It  was 
sufficient  to  prove  that  property  in  land  is,  of 
all  others,  the  most  active  instigator  to  severe 
and  incessant  labour."  If,  then,  this  principle 
of  working  for  one's  self  has  been  found  to  in- 
crease the  industry,  and  consequently  the 
productiveness  of  labourers,  to  such  an  extent 
in  agriculture,  it  is  but  natural  that  it  should 
be  attended  with  the  same  results  in  manu- 
factures, and  that  we  should  find  the  small 
masters  and  the  peasant -proprietors  toiling 
longer  and  working  quicker  than  labourers 
serving  others  rather  than  themselves.  But 
there  is  an  important  distinction  to  be  drawn 
between  the  produce  of  the  peasant-proprietor 
and  that  of  the  small  master.  Toil  as  dili- 
gently as  the  little  farmer  may,  since  he  culti- 
vates the  soil  not  for  profit,  but  as  a  means  of 
subsistence,  and  his  produce  contributes  di- 
rectly to  his  support,  it  follows  that  his  com- 
forts must  be  increased  by  his  extra-produc- 
tion; or,  in  other  words,  that  the  more  he 
labours,  the  more  food  he  obtains.  The  small 
master,  however,  producing  what  he  cannot 
eat,  must  carry  his  goods  to  market  and  ex- 
oh&nge  tliem  for  articles  of  consumption. 
Hence,  by  over -toil  he  lowers  the  market 
against  himself;  that  is  to  say,  the  more  he 
labours  the  less  food  he  ultimately  obtains. 

But  not  only  is  it  true  that  over-work  makes 
nnder-pay,  but  the  converse  of  the  proposition 
is  equally  true,  that  under-pay  makes  over- 
work ;  that  is  to  say,  it  is  true  of  those  trades 
where  the  system  of  piece-work  or  small  mas- 
tership admits  of  the  operative  doing  the 
utmost  amount  of  work  that  he  is  able  to 
accomplish,  for  the  workman  in  such  cases 
seldom  or  never  thinks  of  reducing  hb  ex- 
penditure to  his  income,  but  rather  of  in- 
creasing his  labour,  so  as  still  to  bring  his 
income,  by  extra  production,  up  to  his  expen- 
diture. This  brings  us  to  another  important 
distinction  which  it  is  necessary  to  make 
between  the  peasant-proprietor  and  the  small 
master.  The  little  farmer  cannot  increase  his 
produce  by  devoting  a  less  amount  of  labour 
to  each  of  the  articles;  that  is  to  say,  he 
cannot  scamp  his  work  without  diminishing 
his  future  stock.  A  given  quantity  of  labour 
must  be  used  to  obtain  a  given  amount  of 
produce.  None  of  the  details  can  be  omitted 
without  a  diminution  of  the  result:  scamp  the 
ploughing  and  there  will  be  a  smaller  crop. 
In  manufactures,  however,  Uie  result  is  veiy 
different.  There  one  of  the  principal  means 
of  increasing  the  productions  of  a  particular 
trade,  and  of  the  cabinet  trade  espedaUy,  is 
by  decreasing  the  amount  of  wonc  in  each 
article.  Hence,  in  such  cases,  all  kinds  of 
schemes  and  impositions  are  resorted  to  to 
make  the  unskilled  labour  equal  to  the  skilled, 
and  thus  the  market  is  glutted  with  slop  pro- 
ductions till  the  honoorable  part  of  the  trade, 


both  workmen  and  employers,  are  nltimatdy 
obliged  to  resort  to  the  same  tricks  as  the  rest. 

There  were,  about  twenty  years  ago,  a  nu- 
merous body  of  tradesmen,  who  were  em- 
ployers, though  not  workmen  to  the  general 
public,  known  as  ''trade-working  mastefs.* 
These  men,  of  whom  there  are  still  a  few,  con. 
fined  their  business  solely  to  supplying  tba 
trade.  They  supplied  the  greater  ^taUisb* 
ments  where  there  were  showrooms  with  a 
cheaper  article  than  the  proprietors  of  those 
greater  establishments  might  be  able  to  havt 
had  manufactured  on  their  own  premisea. 
They  worked  not  on  speculation,  but  to  order, 
and  were  themselves  employers.  Some  em« 
ployed,  at  a  busy  time,  from  twenty  to  for^ 
hands,  all  working  on  their  premises,  whkA 
were  merely  adapted  for  making,  and  not  for 
selling  or  showing  f^imiture.  There  are  still 
such  trade-working  masters,  the  extent  of  their 
business  not  being  a  quarter  what  it  waa; 
neither  do  they  now  generally  adhere  to  the 
practice  of  having  men  to  work  on  their  pre* 
raises,  but  they  give  out  the  material,  whii^ 
their  journeymen  make  up  at  their  own  abodes. 

*'  About  twenty  years  ago,"  said  an  experi- 
enced man  to  me,  *'  I  dare  say  the  smsll  mas- 
ters formed  about  a  quarter  of  the  trade.  The 
slacker  trade  becomes,  the  more  the  small 
masters  increase;  that's  because  they  cant  get 
other  work  to  do ;  and  so,  rather  than  starve^ 
they  begin  to  get  a  little  stuff  of  their  own. 
and  mf^e  up  things  for  themselves,  and  sell 
them  as  best  they  can.  The  great  inerease  fd 
the  small  masters  was  when  trade  became  so 
dead.  When  was  it  that  we  used  to  have  to  go 
about  so  with  our  things?  About  %yB  yean 
since,  wasnt  it  ?"  said  he,  appealing  to  one  fd 
his  sons,  who  was  at  work  in  the  same  room 
with  him.  "  Yes,  father,"  replied  the  lad. 
"just  after  the  railway  bubble ;  nobody  wanted 
anything  at  all  then."  The  old  man  continued 
to  say, — **  The  greater  part  of  the  men  thai 
couldn't  get  employed  at  the  regular  shops 
then  turned  to  making  up  things  on  their  a»> 
count ;  and  now,  I  should  say,  there's  at  least 
one  half  working  for  themselves.  About  twebra 
years  ago  masters  wanted  to  cut  the  men  down, 
and  many  of  the  hands,  rather  than  put  up 
with  it,  took  to  making  up  for  thezniselTes. 
Whenever  there's  a  decrease  of  wages  there's 
always  an  increase  of  small  masters ;  for  it's 
not  until  men  can't  live  comfortably  by  their 
labour  that  they  take  to  making  things  on 
their  own  account." 

I  now  oome  to  the  amount  of  capital  re- 
quired for  an  operative  cabinet-maker  to  begin 
business  on  his  own  account. 

To  show  the  readiness  with  which  any  youth 
out  of  his  time,  as  it  is  called,  can  start  in 
trade  as  a  garret  cabinet  master,  I  have  learned 
the  following  particulars : — This  lad,  when  noi 
living  with  his  friends,  usually  occupies  a  gsr- 
ret,  and  in  this  he  constructs  a  rude  bench 
out  of  old  materials,  which  may  cost  him  9i. 
If  he  be  penniless  when  he  ceases  .to  be  an 


LONDON  LABOUn  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


229 


^fpreoatioe,  tnd  ean  get  no  work  as  a  journey- 
man, wliich  u  nearly  alwars  the  case,  for 
feasons  I  hare  before  stated,  he  assists  ano- 
ther garret-master  to  make  a  bedstead,  per- 
haps; and  the  established^arret-master  car- 
lies  two  bedsteads  instead  of  one  to  the 
alaoghter-honse.  The  lad's  share  of  the  pro- 
ceeds may  be  abont  &<. ;  and  ont  of  that,  if  his 
needs  will  pennit  him,  he  buys  the  article, 
and  so  proceeds  by  degrees.  Many  men,  to 
start  UiemselyeSy  as  it  is  called,  have  endured, 
I  am  informed,  something  like  starvation  most 
patiently.  The  tools  are  generally  collected 
by  degrees,  and  often  in  the  last  year  of  ap- 
pi«nticeship,  out  of  the  boy's  earnings.  They 
are  seldom  bought  first-hand,  but  at  the  ma- 
ntle-store shops,  or  at  the  second-hand  ftir- 
nitnxe  brokers'  in  the  New  Cut.  The  pur- 
chaser grinds  and  sharpens  them  up  at  any 
fiiendly  workman's  where  he  can  meet  with 
the  loan  of  a  grindstone,  and  puts  new  handles 
to  diem  himself  out  of  pieces  of  waste  wood. 
lOf.  or  even  bt,  thus  invested  has  started  a 
man  with  tools,  while  20«.  has  accomplished  it 
in  what  might  be  considered  good  style.  In 
•ome  cases  the  friends  of  the  boy,  if  they  are 
not  poverty-stricken,  advance  him  from  40«.  to 
0O».  to  be^  with,  and  he  must  then  shift  for 
bimselfl 

When  a  bench  and  tools  have  been  obtained, 
the  young  master  buys  such  material  as  his 
means  afibrd,  and  sets  himself  to  work.  If  he 
has  a  few  shUlings  to  spare  he  makes  himself 
a  sort  of  bedstead,  and  buys  a  rug  or  a  sheet 
md  a  little  bedding.  If  he  has  not  the  means 
to  do  so  he  sleeps  on  shavings  stuffed  into  an 
dd  sack.  In  some  few  cases  he  hires  a  bench 
alongside  some  other  garret-master,  but  the 
Sfiangement  of  two  or  three  men  occupying  one 
zoom  for  their  labour  is  more  frequent  when 
the  garrets  where  the  men  sleep  are  required 
fbp&eir  wives'  labour  in  any  distinct  business, 
cr  when  the  articles  the  men  make  are  too 
enmbrous,  like  wardrobes,  to  be  carried  easily 
down  the  narrow  stairs. 

A  timber  merchant,  part  of  whose  business 
consists  in  selling  material  to  little  masters, 
gave  me  two  instances,  within  his  own  know- 
ledge,  of  journeymen  beginning  to  manufacture 
CO  their  own  account. 

A  fitncy  cabinet-maker  had  Z$,  Qd,  at  his 
command.  "V^th  this  he  purchased  material 
for  a  desk  as  follows : — 

3  it.  of  solid  I  mahogany    .        .        .  I«.  Od, 
2tL  of  solid  f  cedar  for  bottom,  <S;c.    .  0    6 

Mahogany  top 0    3 

Bead  cedar  for  interior       .  .06 

lining         .        .        .        .  .04 

Lock  and  key  (no  ward  to  lock) .        .02 

Hinges 0    1 

Glue  and  springs  .  .  0    1^ 

2  Hi 

The  making  of  the  desk  occupied  four  hours, 
as  he  bestowed  extra  pains  upon  it,  and  he 


sold  it  to  a  slaughterer  for  35.  Od.  He  then 
broke  his  fast  on  bread  and  v^aicr,  bought 
material  for  a  second  desk  uud  went  to  work 
again,  and  so  he  proceeds  now;  toiling  and 
half-starving,  and  struggling  to  }^et  205.  a-head 
of  the  world  to  buy  more  wood  at  one  time, 
and  not  pause  so  often  in  his  work.  '^  Per- 
haps,*' said  my  informant,  "  he'U  marry,  as 
most  of  the  small  masters  do,  some  foolish 
servant-of-oll-work,  who  has  saved  3/.  or  42.| 
and  that  will  be  his  capital." 

Another  general  cabinet-maker  commenced 
business  on  305.,  a  part  of  which  he  expended 
in  the  material  for  a  4-foot  chest  of  drawers. 

3  ft.  6  inches  of  cedar  for  ends . 
Sets  of  mahogany  veneers  for  three  \ 

big  and  two  little  drawers         ) 
Drawer  sweep  (deal  to  veneer  the)      «    - 

front  upon)        .        .        .      ) 

Veneer  for  top 13 

Extras  ( any  cheap  wood)  for  inside )      5    q 

of  drawers,  partitioning,  &c,     ) 

0  locks 18 

8  knobs,  1«.,  glue,  sprigs,  &c.    .        .14 
Set  of  four  turned  feet,  beech-stained    1     0 


4j.0d. 
2    4 


lli     7 


For  the  article  when  completed  he  received 
255.,  toiling  at  it  for  27  or  28  hours.  The 
tradesman  from  whom  I  derived  this  informa- 
tion, and  who  was  familiar  with  every  branch 
of  the  trade,  calculated  that  three-fifths  of  the 
working  cabinet-makers  of  London  make  for 
the  warehouses — in  other  words,  that  there  are 
3000  small  masters  in  the  trade.  The  most 
moderate  computation  was  that  the  number  so 
employed  exceed  one  half  of  the  entire  body  of 
the  5000  metropolitan  joume}'man. 

The  next  point  in  this  inquiry  is  concerning 
the  industry  and  productiveness  of  this  class 
of  workmen.  Of  over-work,  as  regards  ex- 
cessive labour,  and  of  over-production  from 
scamped  workmanship,  I  heard  the  following 
accounts  which  different  operatives,  both  in 
the  fancy  and  general  cabinet  trade  concurred 
in  giving,  while  some  represented  the  labour 
as  of  longer  duration  by  at  least  an  hour,  and 
some  by  two  hours  a  day,  than  I  have  stated. 

The  labour  of* the  men  who  depend  entirely 
on  the  slaughter-houses  for  the  purchase  of 
their  articles,  with  all  the  disadvantages  that  I 
described  in  a  former  letter,  is  usufdly  seven 
days  a  week  the  year  through.  That  is  seven 
days — for  Sunday- work  is  all  but  universal — 
each  of  13  hours,  or  91  hours  in  all,  while  the 
established  hours  of  labour  in  the  honourable 
trade  are  six  days  of  the  week,  each  of  10  hours, 
or  60  hours  in  all.  Thus  50  per  cent  is  added 
to  the  extent  of  the  production  of  low-priced 
cabinet  work  merely  from  over-hours,  but  in 
some  cases  I  heard  of  15  hours  for  seven  days 
in  the  week,  or  105  hours  in  all.  The  excep- 
tions to  this  continuous  toil  arc  from  one  to 
three  hours  once  or  twice  in  the  week,  when 
the  workman  is  engaged  in  purchasing  his 


230 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


material  of  a  timber  merchant,  who  sells  it  in 
small  quantitieR,  and  from  six  to  eight  hours 
when  he  is  employed  in  conveying  his  goods 
to  a  warehouse,  or  fh)m  warehouse  to  ware- 
house for  sole.  Concerning  the  hours  of  labour 
I  had  the  following  minute  particulars  from  a 
garret-master  who  was  a  chairmaker. 

*•  I  work  from  6  every  morning  to  9  at  night 
— some  work  till  10 — I  breakfast  at  8,  which 
stops  me  for  10  minutes.  I  can  breakfast  in 
less  time,  but  it's  a  rest ;  my  dinner  takes  me 
say  20  minutes  at  the  outside,  and  my  tea  8 
minutes.  All  the  rest  of  the  time  Tm  slax-ing 
nt  my  bench.  How  many  minutes'  rest  is  that, 
sir  ?  38.  Well,  say  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
and  that  allows  a  few  sucks  at  a  pipe  when  I 
rest ;  but  I  can  smoke  and  work  too.  I  have 
only  one  room  to  work  and  eat  in,  or  I  should 
lose  more  time.  Altogether  I  labour  14|  hours 
every  day,  and  I  must  work  on  Sundays  at 
least  40  Sundays  in  the  year.  One  may  as 
well  work  as  sit  fretting.  But  on  Sundays  I 
only  work  till  it's  dusk,  or  till  five  or  six  in 
summer.  "NVhen  it's  dusk  I  take  a  walk ;  I'm 
not  well-dressed  enough  for  a  Sunday  walk 
when  its  light,  and  I  cant  wear  my  apron  very 
well  on  tliAt  day  to  hide  patches.  But  there's 
eight  hours  tliat  I  reckon  I  take  up  every  week 
in  dancing  about  to  the  slaughterers'.  I'm 
satisfled  that  I  work  very  nearly  100  hours  a- 
week  the  year  through,  deducting  the  time 
taken  up  by  the  slaughterers  and  buying  stuff 
— say  eight  hours  a-week,  it  gives  more  than 
DO  hours  a-wcek  for  my  work,  and  there's 
hundreds  labour  as  hard  as  I  do  just  for  a 
crust." 

This  excessive  toil,  however,  is  but  one  ele- 
ment of  over-production.  Scampmg  adds  at 
least  200  per  cent  to  the  productions  of  the 
cabinet-maker's  trade.  I  have  ascertained 
severnl  cases  of  this  over- work  from  scamping, 
and  adduce  two.  A  very  quick  hand,  a  little 
master,  working  as  he  called  it  ^*  at  a  slaughter- 
ing pace"  for  a  warehouse,  made  60  plain 
writing  desks  in  a  week  of  00  hours,  whilst  a 
flrst-rntc  workman,  also  a  quick  hand,  made  18 
in  a  week  of  70  hours.  The  scamping  hand 
said  he  must  work  at  the  rate  ho  did  to  make 
14».  a-week  from  a  slaughter-house,  and  so 
used  to  such  style  of  work  had  he  become,  that 
though  a  few  years  back  he  did  west-end  work 
in  the  best  style,  he  could  not  now  make  1 8 
desks  in  a  week,  if  compelled  to  finish  ihem  in 
the  style  of  excellence  displayed  in  the  work  of 
the  journeyman  employed  for  the  honourable 
trade.  Perhaps,  he  added,  he  couldn't  make 
them  in  tliat  style  at  all.  The  frequent  use  of 
rosewood  veneers  in  the  fancy  cabinet,  and 
their  occasional  use  in  the  general  cabinet 
trade,  gives,  I  was  told,  great  facilities  for 
scamping.  If,  in  his  haste,  the  scamping  hand 
injure  the  veneer,  or  if  it  has  been  originally 
faulty,  he  takes  a  mixture  of  gum  shellac  and 
"colour,"  (colour  being  a  composition  of 
Venetian  red  and  lamp  black)  which  he  has 
alraady  by  him,  rubs  it  over  the  damaged  part, 


ssooths  it  with  a  slightly  heated  iron,  and  so 
blends  it  with  the  colour  of  the  rosewood  that 
the  warehouseman  does  not  detect  the  flaw. 
Indeed,  I  was  told  that  very  few  warehousemen 
are  judges  of  the  frunitore  they  bought,  and 
they  only  require  it  to  look  weU  enough  for 
sale  to  the  public,  who  know  even  less  than 
themselves.  In  the  general  cabinet  trade  I 
found  the  same  ratio  of  scamping,  compared 
with  the  products  of  skilled  labour  in  tha 
honourable  trade.  A  good  workman  made  ft 
4-foot  mahogany  chest  of  drawers  in  five 
days,  working  the  regular  hours,  and  receiving 
at  piece-work  price  35s.  A  scamping  hand 
made  five  of  the  same  size^in  a  week,  and  had 
time  to  carry  them  for  sale  to  the  warehouses, 
wait  for  their  purchase  or  refusal,  and  buy 
materiaL  But  for  the  necessity  of  doing  this 
the  scamping  hand  could  have  made  seven  in 
the  01  hours  of  his  week,  of  course  in  a  rerj 
inferior  manner.  They  would  hold  together 
for  a  time,  I  was  assured,  and  that  was  all ; 
but  the  slaughterers  cared  only  to  have  them 
viewy  and  cheap.  These  two  cases  exceed  the 
average,  and  I  have  dted  them  to  show  what 
can  bo  done  under  the  scamping  system. 

I  now  come  to  show  how  this  scamp  work 
is  executed,  that  is  to  say,  by  what  helps  or 
assistants  when  such  are  employed.  As  in  all 
trades  where  lowness  of  wages  is  the  rule,  the 
apprentice  system  prevails  among  the  cheap 
cabinet- workers.  It  prevails,  however,  among 
the  garret-masters,  by  vety  many  of  them 
having  one,  two,  three,  or  four  i^prentices, 
and  BO  the  number  of  boys  thus  employed 
through  the  whole  trade  is  considerable.  Tbaa 
refers  principally  to  the  general  cabinet  trade. 
In  the  fancy  traide  the  number  is  greater,  as 
the  boys'  labour  is  more  readily  avulable,  hot 
in  this  trade  the  greatest  number  of  apprentices 
is  employed  by  such  warehousemen  as  are 
manufacturers,  as  some  at  the  east  end  are — 
or  rather  by  the  men  that  they  constantly- Ireep 
at  woriE.  Of  theso  men  one  has  now  8,  and 
another  14  boys  in  his  senice,  some  appren- 
ticed,  some  merely  engaged  and  discharged  at 
pleasure.  A  sharp  boy,  thus  apprenticed,  in 
six  or  eight  months  becomes  handy,  but  four 
out  of  five  of  the  workmen  thus  brought  up 
can  do  nothing  well  but  their  own  particular 
branch,  and  tliat  only  well  as  fiir  as  celerity,in 
production  is  considered. 

I  have  before  alluded  to  the  utter  destitution 
of  the  cheap  workers  belonging  to  the  cabinet 
trade,  and  I  now  subjoin  the  statement  of  a 
man  whom  I  found  last  winter  in  the  Asylum 
for  the  Houseless  Poor. 

'*  I  have  been  out  of  work  a  twelvemonth,  as 
near  as  I  can  reckon.  ^N'hen  I  was  in  wori^  I 
was  sometimes  at  piece-work  and  sometimes 
at  day-work.  When  I  first  joined  the  trade 
(I  never  served  my  time,  my  brother  learnt 
me)  there  was  plenty  of  work  to  do.  For  this 
last  twelvemonth  I  liave  not  been  able  to  get 
anything  to  do,  not  at  my  owii  trade.  I  have 
made  up  one  dozen  of  mahogany  chairs  on  my 


LQNDOy  LABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


231 


own  tccoimt.     The  wood  and  labour  of  them 

cost  me  1/.  55.,  I  had  to  pay  for  a  man  to  do 

the  earring  and  swoeping  of  them,  and  I  had 

to  ffite  U,  for  the  wood.    I  could  get  it  much 

chMper  noWf  but  then  I  didn't  know  anything 

about  the  old  broken  ship-wood  that  is  now 

xutd  for  ftamiture.     The  chairs  I  made  I  had 

to  seli  at  a  sacrifiee.    I  was  a  week  making 

them,  and  got  only  2/.  for  the  dozen  when 

they  were  done.    By  right  I  should  hare  had 

afe  least  JM)i.  for  them,  and  that  would  have  left 

2dt.  for  my  week's  work,  but  as  it  was  I  hod 

j     oriy  lAs.  dear  money,  and  I  have  worked  at 

theim  much  harder  than  is  usual  in  the  trade. 

There  are  two  large  houses  in  London  tliat  are 

making  lai^e  fortunes  in  this  manner.    About 

1     a  fortnight  after  I  found  out  that  I  couldn't 

ponbly  get  a  living  at  this  work,  and  as  I 

I     didn't  &el  inclined  to  make  the  fortunes  of  the 

lacge  houses  by  starving  myself,  I  gave  up 

woiking  at  chair-making  on  my  own  account. 

I  then  made  a  few  clothes-horses.    I  kept  at 

that  ior  about  six  months.    I  hawked  them  in 

I     the  streets,  but  I  was  half-starved  by  iL    Some 

I     days  I  sold  them,  and  some  I  was  without 

taking  a  penny.    I  never  in  one  day  got  rid  of 

mora  than  half-a-dozen,  and  they  brought  3«., 

ottt  of  which  there  was  the  wood  and  tho  other 

materials  to  pay  for,  and  they  would  be  Is.  Gd. 

itleaat.    If  I  could  get  rid  cdftwo  or  thxeo  in  a 

dqr  I  bought  I  did  preUy  well,  and  my  profit 

<B  these  was  about  9 J.,  njt  more.    At  last  I 

beeame  so  reduced  by  the  work  that  I  was  not 

lUe  to  buy  any  more  wood,  and  the  week  after 

tiMft  I  was  locced  to  quit  my  lodging.    I  owed 

thne  weeks'  rent,  at  Is.  6d.  a  week,  and  was 

tvaed  out  in  consequence.    I  had  no  things 

ibr  them  to  seize,  they  had  all  gone  long  be- 

ftee.    Then  I  was  thrown  upon  the  streets.    I 

had  no  friends  (my  brothers  are  both  out  of 

the  eountry)  and  no  home.    I  wus  sleeping 

abeot  anywhere  I  could.    I  used  to  go  and  sit 

at  the  cofl^houses  where  I  knew  my  mates 

were  in  the  habit  of  going,  and  they  would 

gnre  me  a  bit  of  something  to  eat,  and  make  a 

eoQection  to  pay  for  a  bed  for  me.    At  last 

this  even  began  to  fail  me,  my  mates  could  do 

ao  mors  £or  me.     Then  I  applied  to  some  of 

the  unions,  but  they  refused  to  admit  me  into 

the  casual  ward  on  account  of  my  not  being  a 

traveller.    I  was  a  whole  week  walking  in  tlie 

stieets  without  ever  lying  to  rest.    I  used  to 

go  to  Billingsgato  to  get  a  nap  for  a  few 

minBtes,  and  then  I  used  to  have  a  doze  now 

and  then  on  a  door-step  and  under  tlie  railway 

trehes.    At  this  time  I  had  scarcely  any  food 

tt  all,  not  even  bread.    At  last  I  was  fairly 

wom  out,  and  being  in  the  neighbourhood,  I 

■Vplied  at  St.  Luke's,  and  told  them  1  was 

starriog.    They  said  they  could  do  nothing  for 

ifit,  and  advised  me  to  apply  at  the  Houseless 

l^oor  Asylum.    I  did  so,  and  was  admitted 

directly.      I  have  been  four  nights  in  the 

Asjlum  already,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 

do  when  I  leave.    My  tools  are  all  gone ;  they 

tie  aohl,  and  I  have  no  money  to  buy  new  ones. 


There  are  hundreds  in  the  trade  like  me,  walk- 
ing about  the  streets  with  notliing  to  do  and 
DO  place  to  put  their  heads  in." 

I  shall  now  conclude  with  tho  following 
statement  as  to  the  effects  produced  by  the 
slop  cabinet  business  upon  tho  honourable 
part  of  the  trade.    I  derived  my  information 

from  Mr.  ,  one  of  the  principal  masters  at 

the  west- end,  and  who  has  the  highest  charac- 
ter for  consideration  for  his  men.  '*  Since  the 
estabhshment  of  slaughter- houses,  and  aptly 
indeed,"  said  my  informant,  "  from  my  know- 
ledge of  their  eflects  upon  the  workmen,  have 
they  been  named — tho  demand  fur  articles  of 
the  best  cabinet-work,  in  the  manui'acturo  of 
which  the  costliest  woods  and  the  moat  skilled 
labour  London  can  supply  are  required,  has 
diminished  upwards  of  25  per  cent.  The  de- 
mand, moreover,  continues  still  to  diminish 
gradually.  The  result  is  obvious.  Only  three 
men  are  now  employed  in  this  trade  in  lieu  of 
four  OS  formerly,  and  the  men  displaced  may 
swell  the  lists  of  the  underpaid,  and  even  of  the 
slop-workers.  The  expense  incurred  by  some 
of  the  leading  masters  in  tlie  honourable  trade 
is  considerable,  and  for  objects  the  designs  of 
which  inferior  masters  pirate  from  us.  Tho 
designs  for  new  styles  of  furniture  add  from 
5  to  10  per  cent  to  the  cost  of  the  most  elabo- 
rate  articles  that  we  manufacture.  Tho  first 
time  any  of  these  novel  designs  comes  to  the 
hummer  by  tho  side  of  a  gentleman's  efifocts 
they  are  certain  of  piracy,  and  so  the  pattern 
descends  to  the  slaughter-houses.  These 
great  houses  are  frequently  offered  prices,  and 
by  very  wealthy  persons,  that  are  an  insult  to 
a  tradiesman  wishing  to  pay  a  fair  price  to 
his  workmen.  For  instance,  for  an  8-foot 
mahogany  bookcase,  after  a  new  design,  and 
made  to  the  very  best  style  of  art,  the  material 
being  the  choicest,  and  every  tiling  about  in 
admirablti  keeping,  the  price  is  50  guineas.  '  O 
dear  1 '  some  rich  customer  will  say,  *  50  guineas ! 
I'll  give  you  20,  or,  indeed,  I'll  give  you  25."* 
(I  afterwards  heard  from  a  journeyman  that 
this  would  be  tho  cost  of  tho  labour  alone.) 
The  gentleman  I  saw  spoke  highly  of  the  in- 
telligence and  good  conduct  of  the  men  em- 
ployed, only  society  men  being  at  work  on  his 
premises.  Ho  feared  that  the  slop-trade,  iJ' 
not  checked,  would  more  and  more  swamp  the 
honourable  trade. 

Tub  Doll's>£ze  Makes. 

A  CTTRTOUS  part  of  the  street  toy  business  is 
tho  solo  of  doUs,  and  especially  that  odd 
brjinch  of  it,  doll's-eyo  maJdng.  There  ore 
only  two  persons  fullo^dng  Uiis  business  in 
London,  and  by  the  most  intelligent  of  thoso 
I  was  furnished  with  the  following  curious 
information : — 

"  I  make  all  kinds  of  eyc5,"  the  eye-manu- 
fiicturer  said.  "  both  dolls'  and  human  eyes ; 
birds'  eyes  are  mostly  manufactured  in  Bir- 
mingham, and  as  yon  say,  sir,  bulls'  eyes  at 


Ko.  LXVllI. 


330 


LOSJOOH  LABOUR  ANJ>  TBM  J^ 


n*XJL 


material  of  a  tiinber  irnirnhmt,  wlio  atHv  it^ 
small  qnantideB,  and  from  lis  to  d^  ' 
▼hen  he  is  employed  in  6onf«v>- 
to  a  wanhonse,  or  ftom  -^ 
house  for  sale.  ConoHii' 
I  had  the  fbOowIiig  mb 


^f'y 


^ '  '^^  ^aman  isfm^    Thcso  are  two 

'    ..^-^.Aoe  I  hare  Mack  and  hnzel,  and 

,"j>  Mue  and  grqr."    [Here  tlie  nioa 

/*^  /ids  off  a  coui&e  of  boxes,  nlNHii 

«^4j  binnacles,  that  stood  on  the  talile: 


"  I  vofk  from  fl  ev 
—some  wofffc  tm  V 
■topi  me  frr  10  IT 
lest  time,  hittil' 
■V  20  nuonta 
snittfeM.    All 
alia^ 
sirf  3e.    ^ 
and  that  r 
rat;  bnt 


■■■'M 


onlj  onf 


^^^ij^^^^^  f^.  «jmmon 


.^' 
^J^' 


Tl^^^^\%^.  but  now 


fhfl  decrease  of 

_         "     though 

jn  the  trado  in 

Ls  alwBjs  pufth- 

Immo- 

aU,  he  go&s 

£y^i^ii*f  ^  joirer  flgnfe  than  in  the 
t^iS^  *  and  »o  tl)o  pricca  have  Wen 


^^00  ^J^Z^^     J  Hi' 


^*^S*^  i  ^1**  bueiness,  as  well 
^^'ff??    Aft^r  the  Christmas  holidays 


brisk  and  a 
in 


t^  Hjifoh  ^^  ^"^^^  generaUy  litUo  to  do, 
itf  "iLri  tb»t  ^^^  ^J"^  begin  to  look  up 
***.  ^'^d  th«  busin^sa  remsina  pmetty  good 
*  ^h   wi"!  ^^  October,    Wber©  wo  make  one 
^     f  mi!s  f()r  home  consumption,  we  miike 
^ti  esporUtion;  a  great  many  eyes  go 
'JJ^j^    Y^B,  I  snppoao  we  shonld  bo  soon 
■Jjjjjpiilated  with  dolls  if  a  great  number  of 
J^  were  not  to  emigrate  every  year.    The 
^unl  inerease  of  dolk  goes  on  at  an  olnnn- 
jjjg  mlei    As  you  say,  sir,  the  yearly  rate  of 
^oailiiy  must  bo  veiy  high,  to  be  Hun?j  but 
vti]I  it's  nothing  to  the  rate  at  which  they  are 
broogbt  into  the  world*    They  can't  make 
^dx  dolls  in  America,  sir,  so  wo  ship  oft  a 
great  many  there*     The  rctuon  why  they 
can't  produce  dolls  in  Ameriea  ia  owing  to  the 
dim  ate.    The  wai  won*t  set  in  very  hot  wea- 
ther, and  it  cracks  in  extreme  c(^d.    I  knew 
a  psity  who  went  out  to  the  Umted  States  to 
start  »3  doU-maker.     He  took  Beverol  gross  of 
my  eyes  with  him,  but  he  con^dn't  succeed. 
The  eyes  that  we  mnko  for  Spanish  America 
are  nil  blnck.    A  blue-eyed  doll  wouldn't  sell 
nt  all  there.    Hots,  howevcrj  notliing  but  blue 
eyes  goes  down ;  that's  because  it's  the  colour 
of  the  Queen's  eyea,  and  abe  aeta  the  fashion 
in  our  eyes  as  in  other  things,    We  make  the 
satne  kind  of  eyes  for  the  gnttn-pcrcbn  doUii 
as  fer  the  was.    It  ia  true,  lbs  gutta-percha 
comphixion  isn't  portieulorly  dear;  ncvnrlhe- 
IcsSj  the  eyes  I  moke  for  the  washable  faces 
aro  nil  of  the  natuml  lint,  and  if  th©  fnitta- 
pefcha  doUa  look  rather  bilious,  why  I  oiu't  a 
t'nin^  to  make  my  eyes  look  bilious  to  match. 


^j^^ier^*  oontf!«f»i»^  IPO  different  eves,  imd  so 
,  aiture^  tLat  tiie  elfect  pruKliieotl  upon  a 
100  nnaccnstomed  to  Uio  sight  was  ninst 
fMcdiar^  and  far  fh>m  plea^^^nt.  The  whola 
af  the  360  optics  ell  seemed  to  be  staling 
direetly  at  the  spectator,  and  occnaioneil  a 
feeling  somewhat  similar  tn  tlio  bfl^nKl^■nn€nt 
one  ei[perienc^s  on  suddenly  k^ioinirig  oa 
object  of  geuer^  notice ;  as  if  the  ^^k^,  ind*4ed, 
of  a  whole  lectUTTC-room  were  crnnimi^d  into  a 
few  square  inches,  and  oil  turned  full  upon 
you.  The  eyes  of  the  whole  world,  as  we 
Erny,  literedly  appeared  to  lie  Jixed  upon  one, 
and  it  WAS  almost  impossible  at  first  to 
Inok  at  them  without  instinctively  averting 
tlie  ht^ftd.  The  hundred  eyes  of  Argns  wero 
positively  jnwigni (leant  in  compariwou  to  the 
a8r>  belonging  to  the  human  eye-maker,] 
Here  you  see  are  the  ladies'  eye-,"  he  con- 
tinued, taking  one  fh>m  the  bine-eye  tmy, 
■*  You  sec  there^B  more  sparkle  and  brilUjmce 
about  them  than  the  gentlemen's.  Here's 
two  different  ladies'  eyes;  they  belong  to  Hue- 
looking  young  women,  both  of  them.  Wheo 
a  lady  or  gentleman  comes  tn  ua  for  an  ey«^, 
we  are  obliged  to  have  a  sitting  just  like  a 
port  rait- painter.  We  take  no  sketch,  bnt 
study  the  tints  of  the  perft>ct  eye.  Tbtre  are 
a  number  of  eyoa  como  over  froni  France,  bnt 
these  are  generally  what  ve  call  misfits ;  tb^ 
are  sold  cheap,  and  seldom  match  the  oihar 
eye.  Again,  firom  not  fitting  tight  over  the 
ball  like  those  that  are  mode  ejtpressly  for  the 
person,  they  seldom  moTC  *  consentaneously,' 
as  5t  is  termed,  with  tlje  natural  eye,  and  hare 
therefore  a  tctj  unpleasant  and  tised  ataf«, 
worse  nlmost  than  the  defective  eye  itselL 
Now,  the  eyes  wo  make  move  so  freely,  and 
have  such  a  natural  appeamuce,  that.  I  con 
assure  you  a  gentiemon  who  had  one  of  his 
from  me  passed  nine  doctors  witboat  the 
deception  being  detected* 

There  is  a  I  oily  customer  of  mine  who  has 
been  married  three  years  to  her  husbands  and 
I  believe  he  doesn't  know  Ihot  fihe  has  a  Mse 
eye  to  thia  day. 

**  The  generality  of  persons  whom  wo  sen-e 
take  out  their  eye**  when  they  go  to  be^K  and 
sleep  with  them  either  under  tht'ir  piUoWt^or 
else  in  a  tumbler  of  water  on  the  toilot-lablo 
at  their  side.  Mofit  married  kJie^,  however, 
never  take  their  eyes  out  at  all. 

*■  Some  people  wear  out  a  false  eye  In  half 
the  time  of  others.  This  doesn't  arise  irom 
the  greater  use  of  them,  or  reUing  th(?ni  about, 
but  from  the  increased  secretion  of  (he  uarn, 
which  iK-t  on  the  false  eye  like  acid  r>u  metal, 
and  so  co^ro^les  and  roughens  the  suiljiee. 
This  roughness  produces  ioflammaLiou,  and 
then  n  n^^w  eye  becomea  necessary.  The 
Scotch  lose  a  great  many  eyes,  why  1  cunnob 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


233 


tty;  and  the  men  in  this  eountiy  lose  more 
tjesy  nearly  two  to  one.  We  generally  make 
only  one  eye,  but  I  did  once  make  two  false 
eyes  for  a  widow  lady.  She  lost  one  fii-st,  and 
we  repaired  the  loss  so  well,  that  on  her 
losing  the  other  eye  she  got  us  to  make  her  a 
second. 

"  False  eyes  are  a  great  charity  to  servants. 
If  they  lose  an  eye  no  one  will  engage  them. 
In  Paris  there  is  a  charitable  institution  for 
the  supply  of  fidse  eyes  to  the  poor;  and  I 
really  think,  if  there  was  a  similar  establish- 
ment in  this  country  for  famishing  artificial 
eyes  to  those  whose  bread  depends  on  their 
looks,  like  servants,  it  would  do  a  great  deal 
of  good.  Wo  always  supplies  eyes  to  such 
people  at  half-price.  My  usual  price  is  2/.  2s. 
for  one  of  my  best  eyes.  That  eye  is  a  couple 
of  goine&s,  and  as  fine  an  eye  as  you  would 
iriidi  to  see  in  any  young  woman's  head. 

"  I  suppose  we  make  from  300  to  400  false 
eyes  every  year.  The  great  art  in  making 
a  false  eye  is  in  polishing  the  edges  quite 
smooth.  Of  dolls'  eyes  we  make  about  6000 
dozen  pairs  of  tho  common  ones  every  year. 
1  take  it  that  there  are  near  upon  24,000 
dozen,  or  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million, 
fisirs  of  all  sorts  of  dolls'  eyes  made  annually 
in  London." 


THE  COAL-HEAVERS. 

Tbe  transition  from  the  artisan  to  the 
labourer  is  curious  in  many  respects.  In 
-pissing  from  the  skilled  operative  of  the  west- 
flnd  to  the  unskilled  workman  of  tlie  eastern 
qosrter  of  London,  the  moral  and  intellectual 
ehsnge  is  so  great,  that  it  seems  as  if  we  were 
in  a  new  land,  and  among  another  race.  The 
artisans  are  almost  to  a  man  red-hot  poli- 
ticians. They  are  sufficiently  educated  and 
thoughtful  to  have  a  sense  of  their  importance 
in  the  State.  It  is  true  they  may  entertain 
exaggerated  notions  of  their  natural  rank  and 
position  in  the  social  scale,  but  at  least  they 
have  read,  and  reflected,  and  argued  upon  the 
snbject,  and  their  opinions  are  entitled  to  con- 
sideration. The  political  character  and  senti- 
ments of  the  working  classes  appear  to  me 
to  be  a  distinctive  feature  of  tho  age,  and  they 
aro  a  necessary  consequence  of  the  dawning 
intelligence  of  the  mass.  As  their  minds  ex- 
pand, they  are  naturally  led  to  take  a  more 
«nlaxiged  view  of  their  calling,  and  to  contem- 
plate their  labours  in  relation  to  the  whole 
framework  of  society.  They  begin  to  view 
their  class,  not  as  a  mere  isolated  body  of 
workmen,  but  as  an  integral  portion  of  the 
nation,  contributing  their  quota  to  the  general 
welfare.  If  property  has  its  duties  as  well  as 
its  rights ;  labour,  on  the  other  hand,  they  say, 
has  its  rights  as  well  as  its  duties.  The 
artisans  of  London  seem  to  be  generally  well- 
informed  upon  these  subjects.  That  they  ex- 
press   their    opinions    violently,    and   often 


savagely,  it  is  my  duty  to  acknowledge ;  but 
that  they  are  the  unenlightened  and  imthink- 
ing  body  of  people  that  they  are  generally 
considered  by  those  who  never  go  among 
them,  and  who  see  them  only  as  "  the  dan- 
gerous classes,''  it  is  my  duty  also  to  deny.  So 
far  as  my  experience  has  gone,  I  am  bound  to 
confess,  that  I  have  found  the  skilled  labourers 
of  the  metropoUs  the  very  reverse,  both 
morally  and  intellectually,  of  what  the  popular 
prejudice  imagines  them. 

The  unskilled  labourers  are  a  dififerent  class 
of  people.  As  yet  they  are  as  unpolitical  as 
footmen,  and  instead  of  entertaining  violent 
democratic  opinions,  they  appear  to  have  no 
political  opinions  whatever;  or,  if  they  do 
possess  any,  they  rather  lead  towards  the 
maintenance  of  "things  as  they  are,"  than 
towards  the  ascendancy  of  the  working  people. 
I  have  lately  been  investigating  the  state  of 
the  coalwhippers,  and  these  reflections  are 
forced  upon  me  by  the  marked  difierence  in 
the  character  and  sentiments  of  these  people 
from  those  of  the  operative  tailors.  Among 
the  latter  class  there  appeared  to  be  a  genercd 
bias  towards  the  six  points  of  the  Charter  ;  but 
the  former  were  extremely  proud  of  their 
having  turned  out  to  a  man  on  the  10th  of 
April,  1848,  and  become  special  constables  for 
the  maintenance  of  law  and  order  on  the  day 
of  the  great  Chartist  demonstration.  As  to 
which  of  these  classes  are  the  better  members 
of  the  state,  it  is  not  for  me  to  ofier  an  opinion ; 
I  merely  assert  a  social  fact.  The  artisans  of 
the  metropolis  are  intelligent,  and  dissatisfied 
with  their  political  position :  the  labourers  of 
London  appear  to  be  the  reverse ;  and  in  pass- 
ing from  one  class  to  the  other,  tho  change 
is  so  curious  and  striking,  that  the  pheno- 
menon deserves  at  least  to  be  recorded  in  this 
place. 

The  labourers,  in  point  of  numbers,  rank 
second  on  the  occupation-hst  of  the  metro- 
poUs. Tho  domestic  servants,  as  a  body  of 
people,  have  the  first  numerical  position,  being 
as  many  168,000,  while  the  labourers  are  less 
than  one-third  that  number,  or  50,000  strong. 
They,  however,  are  nearly  twice  as  many  as 
the  boot  and  shoemakers,  who  stand  next  upon 
the  Ust,  and  muster  28,000  indiriduals  among 
them ;  and  they  are  more  than  t^ioe  as  many 
as  the  tailors  and  breeches-makers,  who  are 
fourtli  in  regard  to  their  number,  and  count 
23,500  persons.  After  these  come  the  mil- 
liners and  dressmakers,  who  are  20,000  in 
number. 

According  to  the  Criminal  Returns  of  tho 
metropolis  (for  a  copy  of  which  I  am  indebted 
to  the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  who  expresses 
himself  most  anxious  to  do  all  in  his  power  to 
aid  the  inquiry),  the  labourers  occupy  a  most 
unenviable  pre-eminence  in  police  history. 
One  in  every  twenty-eight  labourers,  according 
to  tlieso  returns,  has  a  predisposition  for  sim- 
ple larceny  :  the  average  for  the  whole  popula- 
tion of  London  is  one  in  every  200  individuals ; 


884 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


so  that  the  labourers  may  be  Boid  to  be  more 
than  nine  limos  as  dishonest  as  the  frencrality 
of  i)Ooplc  resident  in  the  niotn»p«»li3.  In 
drunki-nnoss  they  occnpy  tlie  sanu?  prominent 
position.  One  ill  every  twenty-two  individuals 
of  the  Iftliourinp  class  was  charged  with  being 
intoxicated  in  the  year  184H  ;  whi^reas  the 
averasrr  nnniher  of  drunkards  in  the  whole 
population  of  Tiondon  is  one  in  every  113  indi- 
%idnals.  Nor  are  they  less  pugnaciously  in- 
clined:  fmo  in  evj'iy  tw«.*nty-six  having  been 
charged  with  a  common  assault,  of  a  more  or 
less  aggravated  form.  The  labourers  of  Lon- 
don are,  therefore,  nine  times  as  dishonest, 
five  times  as  dmnk<Mi,  and  nine  times  as 
Ravage  as  tlie  rest  of  the  community.  Of  the 
state  of  their  education  as  a  body  of  people  I 
have  no  similar  moans  of  jud^jjing  at  present ; 
nor  am  I  in  a  position  to  test  their  ini- 
nrovidencc  or  their  poverty  in  the  same  con- 
clusive manner.  Talcing,  however,  the  Govern- 
ment returns  of  tlie  number  of  labourers 
located  in  the  different  unions  throughout  the 
countiy  at  the  time  of  tjiking  the  last  census, 
I  find  tliat  ono  in  ever}- 140  of  the  class  were 
paupers ;  while  the  average  fi)r  all  England 
and  Wales  was  one  in  every  ir>9  i)ersons:  so 
that,  wliilc  the  Government  returns  show  the 
labourers  generally  to  be  extraordinarily  dis- 
honest, dninken,  and  pugnacious,  their  \nces 
cannot  be  ascribed  to  the  poverty  of  their  call- 
ing; for,  compan^d  with  other  occupations, 
their  avocation  appears  to  produce  fewer 
paupers  than  the  generality  of  employment«5. 

Of  the  moral  and  prudential  qualities  of  tlic 
coolwhippers  and  coalporters,  as  a  special  por- 
tion of  I  ho  labouring  population,  the  crude, 
Tindigested,  and  essentially  unscientific  cha- 
racter of  all  the  Government  returns  will  not 
allow  me  to  judge.  Even  the  Census  affonls 
us  little  or  no  opportunity  of  estimating  the 
numbers  of  tho  class.  The  only  information 
to  be  obtiiined  from  that  docmneut — whos»^ 
insufflcirncy  is  a  national  disgrace  to  us,  for 
therp  the  trading  and  working  classes  are  all 
jumbled  together  in  the  most  perplexing 
conf\ision,  and  the  occupations  classitie<l  in  a 
manner  that  would  shame  tho  merest  tyro  in 
logic — ia  the  following  :— 

Of  coal  and  coHierj'  agents  and  factors 

there  are  in  London  .  .  .10 
Ditto  dealers  and  merchants  .  .  l.'»41 
Ditto  labonmrs,  heavers,  and  porters  17 Of) 
Ditto  meters 130 

Total  in  the  coal  trade  in  London     .  3303 

Deduct  from  this  the  numl>er  of  mer- 
chants from  tho  London  Post  Office 
Duectory 50  ."i 

Hence  tho  coal  labourers  in  the 
metropolis  amount  to  .        .        .  S6Q8 

Bnt  this  is  far  from  being  an  accurate  result. 


There  are  at  present  in  London  upwards  of 
1900  (say  2000)  registered  coalwhippers,  and 
as  many  more  coalbackers  or  porters.  These 
altogether  would  givo  as  many  as  4000  eoal- 
laboiirers.  besides,  there  are  150  meters;  so 
that,  altogether,  it  may  be  safely  snad  tiiat 
the  number  engaged  in  the  whipping  and 
portera.ee  of  coals  in  London  is  40fH)  and  odd. 

The  following  statistics,  carefully  collecled 
from  otHcial  returns,  wiU  fiimish  our  reados 
with  some  idea  of  the  amazing  increase  in  the 
importation  of  coal : — 

"  About  300  years  ago  (say  obont  15rM))  one 
or  two  sliips  were  sufiicient  for  the  demand 
and  supply  of  London.  In  1015,  about  200 
were  equal  to  its  demand ;  in  ITO'i,  about  000 
ships  were  engaged  in  the  London  co-il-trade ; 
in  ISO'),  4Sr)0  cargoes,  containing  about 
l,3ri0,000  tons ;  in  1820,  ftS84  cargoes,  can. 
taining  1,002,902  tons;  in  1830,  7108  cargoes, 
contAining  2,070,275  tons  ;  in  1840,  0132  car- 
goes, containing  2,500.809  tons;  in  1845, 
2t»90  ships  were  employed  in  carrnng  11,087 
cargoes,  containing  3,403,320  tons ;  nud  durhig 
the  year  1848,  2717  ships,  making  12,207 
voyages,  and  containing  3,418,340  tons.  The 
increase  in  the  importation  from  the  jear 
183K  to  1848,  when  the  respective  importations 
were  Si,'»18.0h5  tons  and  3,418,340  t«>ns,  is  up- 
wards of  90  per  cent.  Now,  by  taking  2700 
vessels  as  tlu»  actual  number  now  employed, 
and  by  calculating  such  vessels  to  average  300 
tons  burden  per  ship,  and  giving  to  a  vessel  of 
that  size  a  crew  of  eight  men,  it  will  appear 
that  at  the  present  time  21,600  seamen  are  em- 
ployed in  the  carrying  department  of  the  Lon- 
don cool -trade." 

Beforo  visiting  tho  district  of  Wapping, 
wliere  the  greater  part  of  the  coal  labour  is 
carried  on,  I  applied  to  the  Clerk  and  Regis- 
trar of  the  Coal  Exchange  for  the  statistics 
connected  with  the  body  of  which  ho  is  an 
othcer.  Such  statistics — as  to  the  extent  of 
their  great  traffic,  the  weekly  returns  of  sales,  in 
short,  the  ramifications  of  an  inqmiy  em- 
bracing maritime,  mercantile,  mining,  and 
labouring  interests,  are  surely  the  weekly 
i-outine  of  the  business  of  the  Il«:gistrar's  office. 
I  WHS  promised  a  series  of  returns  by  the  gen- 
tleman in  question,  bnt  I  did  not  receive  and 
could  not  obtain  them.  Another  officer,  tlie 
SecretaiT  of  the  Meters*  Office,  when  applied 
to,  with  the  sanction  of  his  co-officer,  the 
Cl(  rk  and  Registrar,  required  a  written  appli- 
cation whieh  should  be  attende^d  to  !  I  do  not 
allndc  to  these  gentlemen  with  the  slightest 
inclination  unduly  to  censure  them.  Tho 
tnUh  is,  with  questions  affecting  htbonr  and 
tho  poor  they  have  little  sympathy.  The 
labourer,  in  their  eyes,  is  but  a  machine ;  so 
many  labourers  are  as  so  many  hor<:e-power. 
To  deny,  or  withhold,  or  delay  information 
required  for  the  piupose**  of  the  present 
inquiiy  is,  however,  unavailing.  The  matter 
I  have  given  in  fulness  and  in  precision,  with- 
out any  aid  from  the  gentlemen  referred  to 


LOKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


235 


slioirs  that  it  was  more  through  conrteRY  than 
through  necessity  that  I  applied  to  them  in 
the  first  instance. 

Finding  my  time,  therefore,  only  wasted  in 
dancing  attendance  upon  city  coal  otticials, 
I  made  the  best  of  my  way  down  to  the  Coal- 
whippers*  OflBce,  to  glean  my  infonnation 
among  the  men  the  mselvcs.  The  following  is 
the  result  of  my  inquiries : — 

The  cooi-vessels  are  principally  moored  in 
that  part  of  the  river  called  the  Pool. 

The  Pool,  rightly  so  called,  extends  from 
Eatcliffe-cross,  near  tlie  Regenl's-ranal,  to 
Execution -dock,  and  is  about  a  mile  long,  but 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  Coal  Commissioners 
reaches  from  the  Arsenal  at  Woolwich  to 
London-bridge.  The  Pool  is  divided  into  the 
Upper  and  Lower  Pool ;  it  is  more  commonly 
called  the  North  and  South  side,  because  the 
eolliers  arc  arranged  on  the  Katcliflo  and 
Shadwell  side,  in  the  Lower  Pool,  and  on  the 
Redriff  and  Kotherhithe  side,  in  the  Upper. 
The  Lower  Pocd  consists  of  seven  tiers,  which 
generally  contain  each  from  fourteen  to  twenty 
ships;  these  are  moored  stem  to  stem,  and 
lie  firom  seven  to  ten  abreast.  The  Upper 
Pool  contains  about  ten  tiers.  The  four  tiers 
at  Mill-hole  are  equally  largo  with  the  tiers 
cf  the  Lower  Pool.  Those  of  Church-hole, 
which  are  three  in  number,  are  somewhat 
smaller ;  and  those  of  the  fast  tiers,  which  arc 
also  three  in  number,  are  single,  and  not 
double  tiers  like  the  rest.  The  fleet  often 
consists  of  from  200  to  300  ships.  In  the 
vinter  it  is  the  largest,  many  of  the  colliers  in 
the  summer  season  going  foreign  voyages.  An 
easteriy  Yfind  prevents  the  vessels  making 
their  way  to  London ;  and,  if  continuing  for 
any  length  of  time,  will  throw  the  whole  of 
the  coalwhippers  out  of  work.  In  the  winter, 
the  coalwhipper  is  occupied  about  five  days 
out  of  eight,  and  about  three  days  out  of  eight 
in  the  summer ;  so  that,  taking  it  all  the  year 
round,  he  is  only  about  half  of  his  time 
employed.  As  soon  as  a  collier  arrives  at 
Gravescnd,  the  captain  sends  the  ship's  papers 
np  to  the  factor  at  the  Coal  Exchange,  infonn- 
ing  him  of  the  quality  and  quantity  of  coal  in 
the  ship.  The  captain  then  falls  into  some 
tier  near  Gravesend,  and  remains  there  until 
he  is  ordered  nearer  London  by  the  horboiu*- 
master.  When  the  coal  is  sold  and  the  ship 
supplied  with  the  coal  -  meter,  the  captain 
receives  orders  from  the  harbour- master  to 
come  up  into  the  Pool,  and  take  his  berth  in 
a  particular  tier.  Tlie  captain,  when  ho  has 
moored  his  shij)  into  the  Pool  as  directed, 
applies  nt  the  Coalwhippers*  OflSce,  and  **  the 
gang  "  next  in  rotation  is  sent  to  him. 

There  are  upwards  of  200  gangs  of  coal- 
whippers. The  closs,  supernumeraries  in- 
cluded, numbers  about  2000  individuals.  The 
number  of  meters  is  iriO ;  the  consequence  is, 
that  more  than  one-fourth  of  the  gangs  are 
maprovided  with  meters  to  work  with  them. 
Hence  there  are  upwards  of  fifly  gangs  (of 


nine  men  each)  of  coalwhippers,  or  altogether 
4«'>0  men  more  Uian  there  is  any  real  occasion 
for.  The  consequence  is,  that  each  coalwhip* 
per  is  necessarily  thrown  out  of  employ  one- 
quarter  of  his  time  by  the  excc»ss  of  hands. 
The  cause  of  this  extra  number  of  hands 
being  kept  on  the  books  is,  that  'Aiien  there 
is  a  glut  of  vessels  in  the  river,  the  coal  mer- 
chants may  not  be  delayed  in  having  their 
cargoes  delivered  from  wont  of  whippera. 
When  such  a  glut  occurs,  the  merchant  has  it 
in  his  power  to  employ  a  private  meter;  so 
that  the  IftO  to  500  men  are  kept  on  the  year 
through,  merely  to  meet  the  particular  exi- 
gency, and  to  promote  the  mcichanfs  conve- 
nience. I)id  any  good  arise  from  this  system 
to  the  public,  the  evil  might  be  overlooked; 
but  since,  owing  to  the  combination  of  tlie 
coalfactors,  no  more  coals  can  come  into  the 
market  than  are  sufficient  to  meet  the  demand 
without  lowerinif  the  price,  it  is  clear  tliat  the 
extra  A^O  or  500  men  are  kept  on  and  allowed 
to  deprive  their  fellow-labourers  of  one-quarter 
of  tlieir  regular  work  as  whippers,  without  any 
advantage  to  the  public. 

The  c.>alwhipper8,  previous  to  the  passing  of 
the  Act  of  Parliament  in  1848,  were  employed 
and  pjdd  by  the  publicans  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  river,  from  Towcr-hill  to  Lime- 
house.  Under  this  system,  none  but  the  most 
dissolute  and  intemperate  obtained  employ- 
ment; in  fact,  the  more  intemperate  they  w^ere 
the  more  rciidily  they  found  work.  The  publi- 
cans were  the  relatives  of  the  northern  ship- 
owners; they  mostly  had  como  to  London 
penniless,  and  being  placed  in  a  tavern  by 
their  relatives,  soon  became  shipowners  them- 
selves. There  were  at  that  time  seventy 
taverns  on  the  north  side  of  the  Thames,  be-v 
low  bridge,  employing  coalwhippers,  and  all 
of  the  landlords  making  fortunes  out  of  the 
earnings  of  the  pi  ople.  When  a  ship  came  to 
be  *'  made  up,"  that  is,  for  the  hands  to  be 
hired,  the  men  assembled  round  the  bar  in 
crowds  and  began  calling  for  drink,  and  out- 
bidding each  other  in  the  extent  of  their 
orders,  so  as  to  induce  the  landlord  to  give 
them  employment.  If  one  called  for  beer,  the 
next  would  be  sure  to  give  an  onler  for  rum  ; 
for  he  who  spent  most  at  the  public-house  had 
the  greatest  chance  of  emploj-ment.  After 
being  •*  taken  on,"  their  first  care  was  to  put 
up  a  score  at  the  public-house,  so  as  to  idease 
their  employer,  the  publican.  In  the  morning 
before  going  to  their  work,  they  would  inva- 
riably call  at  the  house  for  a  quartern  of  gin 
or  rum ;  and  they  were  obliged  to  take  off  ijvitli 
them  to  the  ship  ''a  bottle,"  holding  nine  pots 
of  beer,  and  that  of  the  worst  description,  for 
it  was  the  invariable  practice  among  the  publi- 
cans to  supply  the  coalwhippers  with  the  very 
worst  articles  at  the  highest  prices.  When 
the  men  retumed  from  their  work  tliey  went 
back  to  the  public-house,  and  there  remained 
drinking  the  greater  part  of  the  nigl^t.  Ho 
must  have  been  a  very  steady  man  indeed,  I 


286 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


am  told,  'who  could  manage  to  return  home 
sober  to  his  wife  and  family.  The  conse- 
quence of  this  was,  the  men  used  to  pass  their 
days,  and  chief  part  of  their  nights,  drinking 
in  the  public-house;  and  I  am  credibly  in- 
formed that  frequently,  on  the  publican  set- 
tling with  tliem  after  leaving  the  ship,  instead 
of  having  anything  to  receive  tliey  were 
brought  in  several  shillings  in  debt;  this 
remained  as  a  score  for  the  next  ship :  in  fact, 
it  was  only  those  who  were  in  debt  to  the 
publican  who  wer©  sure  of  employment  on 
the  next  occasion.  One  publican  had  us  many 
OS  hftoen  ships ;  another  had  even  more  ;  and 
there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  without  his 
two  or  three  colliers.  The  children  of  the 
coalwhippers  were  almost  reared  in  the  tap- 
room, and  a  person  who  has  had  great  expe- 
rience in  the  trade,  tells  me  he  knew  as  many 
OS  500  youths  who  were  transported,  and  as 
many  more  who  met  with  an  untimely  death. 
At  one  house  tliere  wore  forty  young  robust 
men  employed,  about  seventeen  years  ago, 
and  of  these  there  are  only  two  living  at  pre- 
sent. My  informant  tells  me  that  ho  has 
frequently  seen  as  many  as  100  men  at  one 
time  fighting  pell-mell  at  King  James's -stairs, 
and  the  publican  standing  by  to  see  fair  play. 
The  average  money  spent  in  drink  by  each 
man  was  about  Vi$,  to  each  ship.  There 
were  about  10,000  ships  entered  the  Pool  each 
year,  and  nine  men  were  required  to  clear 
each  ship.  This  made  the  annual  expenditure 
of  the  coalwhippers  in  drink,  54,000/.,  or  27/.  a- 
vear  perman.  This  is  considered  an  extremely 
low  average.  The  wives  and  families  of  the 
men  at  tliis  time  were  in  the  greatest  destitu- 
tion, the  daughters  invariably  became  prosti- 
tutes, and  the  mothers  ultimately  went  to  swell 
the  number  of  paupers  at  tlie  union.  This 
state  of  things  continued  till  1843,  when,  by 
the  ctforts  of  three  of  the  coalwhippers,  the 
Legislature  was  induced  to  pass  an  Act  for- 
bidding the  system,  and  appointing  Commis- 
sioners for  the  registration  and  regulation  of 
coalwhippers  in  tlie  port  of  London,  and  so 
establishing  an  office  where  the  men  were  in 
future  employed  and  paid.  Under  this  Act, 
every  man  then  following  the  calling  of  a  coal- 
whipper  was  to  be  registered.  For  this  regis- 
tration 4(/.  was  to  be  paid;  and  every  man 
desirous  of  entering  upon  the  same  business 
had  to  pay  the  same  sum,  and  to  have  his 
name  registered.  The  employment  is  open  to 
any  labouring  man ;  but  every  new  hand, 
after  registering  himself,  must  work  for 
twenty-one  days  on  half-pay  before  he  is  con- 
sidered to  be  "broken  in,"  and  entitled  to 
take  rank  and  receive  pay  as  a  regular  coal- 
whipper. 

All  the  coalwhippers  are  arranged  in  gangs 
of  eight  whippers,  with  a  basket-man  or  fore- 
man. These  gangs  are  numbered  from  1  up 
to  218,  which  is  the  highest  number  at  the 
present  time.  The  basket-men,  or  foremen, 
enter   their  names  in   a  rotation-book  kept 


in  the  office,  and  as  their  names  stand  in 
that  book  so  do  they  take  their  turn  to  clear 
the  ship  that  is  offered.  On  a  ship  being 
offered,  a  printed  form  of  application,  kept  in 
the  office,  is  filled  up  by  the  captain,  in  which 
he  states  the  number  of  tons,  the  price,  and 
time  in  which  she  is  to  be  delivered.  If  tha 
gang  whose  turn  of  work  it  is  reflise  the  ship 
at  the  price  offered,  then  it  is  offered  to  aU 
the  gangs,  and  if  accepted  by  any  other  gang, 
the  next  in  rotation  may  claim  it  as  their 
right,  before  all  others.  Li  connexion  with 
the  office  there  is  a  long  hall,  extending  from 
the  street  to  the  water-side,  where  the  men 
wait  to  take  their  turn.  There  is  also  a  room 
called  the  basket-men's  room,  where  the  foi^e- 
men  of  the  gang  remain  in  attendance.  There 
is  likewise  a  floating  pier  called  a  depot,  wliich 
is  used  as  a  receptacle  for  the  tackle  with 
which  the  colliers  are  unloaded.  This  float- 
ing pier  is  fitted  up  with  seats,  where 
the  men  wait  in  the  summer.  The  usual 
price  at  present  for  delivering  the  colliers  is 
8rf.  per  ton ;  but  in  case  of  a  less  price  being 
offered,  and  the  gangs  all  refusing  it,  then  the 
captain  is  at  liberty  to  employ  any  hands  he 
pleases.  According  to  the  Act,  however,  the 
owner  or  purchaser  of  the  coals  is  at  liberty  to 
employ  his  own  servants,  provided  they  have 
been  in  his  senice  fourteen  clear  days  pre- 
vious, and  so  have  become  what  the  Act  terms 
hon&Jide  senants.  This  is  very  often  taken 
advantage  of,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
labourers  at  a  less  price.  One  lighterman, 
who  is  employed  by  the  ^as  companies  to 
^'  lighter  "  their  coals  to  theur  various  destina> 
tions,  makes  a  practice  of  employing  parties 
whom  he  calls  the  bond  fide  sen-ants  of  tlie  gas 
companies,  to  deliver  the  coals  at  a  x>enny  per 
ton  less  than  the  regular  pridb.  Besides  this, 
he  takes  one  man's  pay  to  himself,  and  so 
stops  one-tenth  of  the  whole  proceeds,  thereby 
realizing,  as  he  boasts,  the  sum  of  300/.  per 
annum.  Added  to  tliis,  a  relative  of  his  keeps 
a  beer-shop,  where  the  "  bonA  fide  servants " 
spend  the  chief  part  of  their  earnings, 
thereby  bringing  back  the  old  system,  which 
was  the  cause  of  so  much  misery  and  destitu- 
tion to  the  work-people. 

According  to  the  custom  of  the  trade,  the  rate 
at  wliich  a  ship  is  to  be  delivered  is  forty-nine 
tons  per  day,  and  if  the  ship  cannot  be  de- 
livered at  that  rate,  owing  to  the  merchant  fail- 
ing to  send  craft  to  receive  the  coals,  then  the 
coalwhippers  are  entitled  to  receive  pay  at  the 
rate  of  forty-nine  tons  per  day,  for  each  day 
they  are  kept  in  the  ship  over  and  above  the 
time  allowed  by  the  custom  of  the  trade  for  the 
delivery  of  the  coals.  The  merchants,  how- 
ever, if  they  should  have  failed  to  send  cxaft,  and 
60  keep  the  men  idle  on  the  first  days  of  the 
contract,  can,  by  the  by-laws  of  the  Commis- 
sioners, compel  the  coalwhippers  to  deliver 
the  ship  at  the  rate  of  ninety-eight  tons  per 
day:  the  merchants  surely  should  bo  made 
to  pay  for  the  loss  of  time  to  the  men  at  tha 


LONDON  lABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


237 


seme  rate.  The  wrong  done  by  this  practice 
IB  rendered  more  apparent  by  the  conduct 
of  the  merchants  daring  the  brisk  and  slack 
periods.  TVhen  there  is  a  slack,  the  mer- 
ehants  aro  all  anxioos  to  ^t  their  yessels 
deKyered  as  £ist  as  they  can,  becanso  coals  are 
wonting,  and  are  conseqaently  at  a  high  price ; 
then  the  men  are  taxed  beyond  their  power, 
and  are  frequently  made  to  deliver  100  to  200 
tons  {Mor  day,  or  to  do  four  days'  work  in  one. 
On  the  ecmtraiy,  when  there  is  a  glut  of  ships, 
and  the  merchants  are  not  particularly  anxious 
about  the  dehrery  of  the  coals,  the  men  are 
left  to  idle  away  their  time  upon  the  decks  for 
the  ILrat  two  or  three  days  of  the  contract,  and 
then  forced  to  the  same  extra  exertion  for  the 
last  two  or  three  days,  in  order  to  make  up  for 
the  lost  time  of  the  merchant,  and  so  save  him 
from  being  put  to  extra  expense  by  his  own 
neglect.  The  cause  of  the  injustice  of  these 
by-laws  may  be  fairly  traced  to  the  fact  of 
there  being  several  coal-merchants  among  the 
Commissioners,  who  are  entrusted  with  the 
formation  of  bye-laws  and  regulations  of  the 
trade.  The  ooalfaotors  are  generally  ship- 
owners, and  occasionally  pit-owners;  and 
when  a  glut  of  ships  come  in  they  combine 
together  to  keep  up  the  prices,  especially  in 
the  winter  time,  for  they  keep  back  the  car- 
goaa,  and  only  offer  such  a  number  of  ships 
as  will  not  influence  the  market.  Since  the 
passing  of  the  Act,  establishing  the  Coal- 
whippers'  Office,  and  thus  taking  the  em- 
ployment and  pay  of  the  men  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  publicans,  so  visible  has  been  the 
improTement  in  the  whole  character  of  the 
labourers,  that  they  have  raised  themselves 
in  the  respect  of  all  who  know  them. 

Within  the  last  few  years  they  have  es- 
tablished a  Benefit  Society,  and  they  expended 
in  the  year  1847,  according  to  the  last  account, 
646/.  odd,  in  the  rehef  of  the  sick  and  the 
burial  of  the  dead.  They  have  also  established 
a  superannuation  fhnd,  out  of  which  they  allow 
5s.  per  week  to  each  member  who  is  incapaci- 
tated from  old  age  or  accident  They  are,  at 
the  present  time,  paying  such  i)en8ions  to 
twenty  members.  At  the  time  of  the  cele- 
brated Chartist  demonstration,  on  the  10th  of 
April,  the  coalwhippers  were,  I  believe,  the 
first  dass  of  persons  who  spontaneously  offered 
their  services  as  special  constables. 

Further  than  this  they  have  established  a 
school,  with  accommodation  for  six  hundred 
scholars,  out  of  their  small  earnings.  On  one 
occasion  as  much  as  80/.  was  collected  among 
the  men  for  the  erection  of  this  institution. 

The  men  are  liable  to  many  accidents  ; 
some  &U  off  the  plank  into  the  hold  of  the 
▼essel,  and  are  killed ;  others  are  injured  by 
large  lumps  of  coal  ficdling  on  them ;  and,  in- 
de^,  so  frequent  are  these  disasters,  that  the 
Commissioners  have  directed  that  the  indi- 
Tisible  fraction  which  remains,  after  dividing 
the  earnings  of  the  men  into  nine  equal  parts, 
should  be  i^lied  to  the  relief  of  the  iigured ; 


and  although  the  f^d  raised  by  these  insig- 
niflcant  means  amounts  in  the  course  of  the 
year  to  30/.  or  40/.,  the  whole  is  absorbed  by 
the  calamities. 

Furnished  with  this  information  as  to  the 
general  character  and  regulations  of  the  call- 
ing, I  then  proceeded  to  visit  one  of  the  vessels 
in  the  river,  so  that  I  might  see  the  nature  of 
the  labour  performed.    No  one  on  board  the 

vessel  (the ,  of  Newcastle)  was  previously 

aware  of  my  visit  or  its  object  I  need  not 
describe  the  vessel,  as  my  business  is  with  the 
London  labourers  in  the  coal  trade.  It  is 
necessary,  however,  in  order  to  show  the  na- 
ture of  the  labour  of  coal -whipping,  that  I 
should  state  that  the  average  depth  of  coid  in 
the  hold  of  a  collier,  from  ceiling  to  combing, 
is  sixteen  feet,  while  there  is  an  additional 
seven  feet  to  be  reckoned  for  the  basket- 
man's  *•  boom,"  which  makes  the  height  that 
the  coals  have  to  be  raised  by  the  whippers 
from  twenty- three  to  thirty  feet  The  comple- 
ment of  a  gang  of  coalwhippers  is  about  nine. 
In  the  hold  are  four  men,  who  rcHeve  each 
other  in  tilling  a  basket — only  one  basket 
being  in  use  with  coal.  The  labour  of  these 
four  men  is  arduous :  so  exhausting  is  it  in 
hot  weather  that  their  usual  attire  is  found  to 
be  cumbrous,  and  they  have  often  to  work 
merely  in  their  trousers  or  drawers.  As  fast 
OS  tlieso  four  men  in  the  hold  fill  the  basket, 
which  holds  l^cwt,  four  whippers  draw  it  up. 
This  is  effected  in  a  peculiar  and,  to  a  person 
unused  to  the  contemplation  of  the  process, 
really  an  impressive  manner.  The  four  whip- 
pers stand  on  the  deck,  at  the  foot  of  what  is 
called  *•  a  way.**  This  way  resembles  a  short 
rude  ladder :  it  is  formed  of  four  broken  oars 
lashed  lengthways,  from  four  to  five  feet  in 
height  (gi\ing  a  step  from  oar  to  oar  of  more 
than  a  foot),  while  the  upright  spars  to  which 
they  are  attached  are  called  "  a  derrick."  At 
the  top  of  this  "  derrick  "  is  a  **  gin,"  which  is 
a  revolving  wheel,  to  which  the  ropes  holding 
the  basket,  "filled'*  and  "whipped,"  aro  at- 
tached. The  process  is  thus  one  of  manual 
labour  with  mechanical  aid.  The  basket  having 
been  filled  in  the  hold,  the  whippers  correctly 
guessing  the  time  for  the  filling — for  they 
never  look  down  into  the  hold — skip  up  the 
"  way,"  holding  the  ropes  attached  to  the  basket 
and  the  gin,  and  pulling  the  ropes  at  two 
skips,  simultaneously,  as  they  ascend.  They 
thus  hoist  the  loaded  basket  some  height  out 
of  the  hold,  and,  when  hoisted  so  far,  jump 
down,  keeping  exact  time  in  their  jump, 
from  the  topmost  beam  of  the  way  on  to  the 
deck,  so  giving  the  momentum  of  their  bodily 
weight  to  the  motion  communicated  to  the 
basket  While  the  basket  is  influenced  by 
this  motion  and  momentum,  the  basket- 
man,  who  is  stationed  on  a  plank  flung  across 
the  hold,  seizes  the  basket,  runs  on  with  it 
(the  gin  revolving)  to  **  the  boom,"  and  shoots 
the  contents  into  the  weighing-machine.  The 
boom  is  formed  of  two  upright  poles,  with  a 


33d 


lONDOy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


oross-pole  attached  by  way  of  step,  on  to  which 
the  basket-man  vaults,  and  rapidly  revertung 
the  bosket,  empties  it.  This  process  is  very 
quickly  cllV^cted,  for  if  the  basket-man  did  not 
avail  himself  of  the  swing  of  the  basket,  the 
feat  would  be  almost  beyond  a  man's  strength, 
or,  at  least,  he  would  soon  be  exhausted  by  it. 

The  machine  is  a  large  coal-scuttle  or  wooden 
box,  attAohed  to  a  scale  connected  with  2i  cwt. 
'When  the  weight  is  rained  by  two  deposits  in 
the  machiuo,  which  hangs  over  the  side  of  the 
ship,  it  discharges  it,  by  pulling  a  rope  connect- 
«d  with  it  down  a  sliding  wooden  plane  into  the 
barge  below.  The  machine  holds  2i  cwt,  and 
80  the  meter  registers  the  weight  of  coal  un- 
laden. This  process  is  not  only  remarkable 
for  its  ctlerity  but  for  another  characteristic. 
Sailors,  when  they  have  to  *'  pull  away  "  to- 
gether, generally  time  their  pulling  to  some 
rude  chant ;  tlieir  *•  Yo,  heave,  yo,"  is  thought 
not  only  to  regidate  but  to  mitigate  the  weight 
of  tlicir  labour.  The  coalwhippers  do  their 
work  in  porl'ect  silence :  they  do  it  indeed  like 
work,  and  hard  work,  too.  The  basket-man 
and  the  meter  are  equally  silent,  so  that  no- 
thing is  heard  but  the  friction  of  the  ropes, 
the  discharge  of  the  coal  from  tlie  basket  into 
the  machine,  and  from  the  machine  into  the 
barge.  'Ihe  usual  amount  of  work  done  by 
the  whippenj  in  a  day  (but  not  as  an  aver- 
age, one  day  with  another)  is  to  unload,  or 
whip,  ninety-eight  tons!  To  whip  one  ton, 
sixteen  I>nsketfuls  ore  retinired :  so  that  to 
whip  a  single  ton  these  men  jump  up  and 
down  14-t  ifet :  for  a  day's  work  of  ninety, 
eight  tons,  they  jump  up  and  down  13,0H8 
feet,  more  in  some  instances ;  for  in  the 
largest  ship  tlie  way  has  five  steps,  an<l  ten 
men  are  employed.  The  coalwhippera,  there- 
fore, raise  \\  cwt  very  nearly  four  miles  high, 
or  twice  as  high  as  a  balloon  ordinarily  mounts 
iu  the  air :  and,  in  addition  to  this,  the  cool- 
whippers  themselves  ascend  very  nearly  i\ 
mile  pei'pendicidai'ly  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
On  sonu.'  days  they  whip  upw»irds  of  l/)0  tons 
— 200  have  been  whipped,  when  double  this 
labour  must  bo  gone  tlirt>ugh.  The  ninety- 
eight  tons  take  about  seven  hours.  The 
basket-man's  work  is  the  most  critical,  and 
accidents,  from  his  falling  into  tlie  hold,  are 
not  very  unfreqnent.  The  complement  of  men 
for  the  unlading  of  a  vessel  Is,  as  1  have  said, 
nine :  four  in  the  hold,  four  whippers,  and  the 
basket-man — the  meter  forms  a  tenth,  but  he 
acts  independently  of  the  others.  They  seldom 
work  by  candlelight,  and,  whenever  possible, 
avoid  working  in  very  bad  weather ;  but  the 
merchant,  as  I  have  shown,  has  great  power 
in  regulating  their  labour  for  his  own  con- 
Tenience.  The  following  statement  was  given 
to  me  by  a  coalwhipper  on  board  this  vessel  :— 

"  We  should  hke  better  wages,  but  then  we 
have  enemies.  Now  suppose  you,  sir,  are  a  cool- 
merchant,  and  this  gentleman  here  freights 
a  ship  of  the  captain — you  underst-ond  me? 
The  man  who  freights  the  ships  that  way  is 


paid,  by  the  captain,  ninepence  a-ion,  for  a 
gang  of  nine  men,  such  as  you've  seen — nine 
coalwhippera — but  these  nine  men,  you  under- 
stand me,  are  paid  by  the  merchant  (or  buyer) 
only  eightpence^a  ton;  so  that  by  eveiyUm 
he  clears  a  penny,  without  any  labour  or 
trouble  whatsomever.  I  and  my  fellows  is 
dissatisfied,  but  can't  help  ourselves.  This 
merchant,  too,  you  understand  me,  finds  there's 
rather  an  opening  in  the  Act  of  Parliament 
about  whippers.  By  employing  a  man  as  his 
servant  on  his  premises  for  fourteen  days, 
he's  entitled  to  work  as  a  coalwhipper.  We 
call  such  made  whipper  *  boney  tides.'  There's 
lots  of  them,  and  plenty  more  would  be  made 
if  we  was  to  turn  rusty.  I've  heard,  yoa  under- 
stand me,  of  driving  a  coach  through  an  Act  of 
Parliament,  but  here  they  drive  a  whole  fleet 
through  it." 

The  coalwhipx)ers  all  present  the  same  aspect 
— they  ore  all  Uock.  In  summer,  when  the  men 
strip  more  to  their  work,  perspiration  causes  the 
coal-dust  to  adhere  to  the  skin,  and  blackness 
is  more  than  ever  the  rule.  All  about  the  ship 
partakes  of  the  grininess  of  the  prevailing  hue. 
The  soils  are  black ;  the  gilding  on  the  figure- 
head of  tlie  vessel  becomes  blackened,  and  the 
very  visitor  feels  his  complexion  soon  grow 
sable.  The  dress  of  the  whippers  is  of  every 
description ;  some  have  fustian  jackets,  some 
have  sailors'  jackets,  some  loose  great  coats, 
some  Guernsey  frocks.  Many  of  them  work 
in  strong  shirts,  which  once  were  white  with 
a  blue  stripe:  loose  cotton  neckerchiefs  are 
generally  worn  by  the  whippers.  All  have 
black  hair  and  block  whiskers  —  no  matter 
what  the  original  hue ;  to  the  more  stubbly 
beards  and  moustachios  the  coal-dust  adheres 
freely  between  the  bristles,  and  may  even  be 
seen,  now  and  then,  to  glitter  in  the  light 
amidst  the  hair.  The  barber,  one  of  these 
men  told  me,  charged  nothing  extra  for  shav- 
ing him,  although  the  coal-dust  mast  be  a 
formidable  tiling  to  tlie  best^tempered  razor. 
In  approacliing  a  coal-ship  in  the  river,  the 
side  has  to  be  gained  over  barges  bing  along- 
side— tlie  coal  crackling  under  the  \isitor'8 
feet  He  must  cross  tliem  to  reach  a  ladder 
of  very  i)rimitive  construction,  up  wliich  the 
deck  is  to  be  reached.  It  is  a  jest  among  the 
Yorkshire  seamen  that  every  thing  is  black  in 
0  collier,  especially  the  soup.  When  the  men 
aic  at  work  in  whipping  or  filling,  the  only 
spot  of  white  discernible  on  their  hands  is  a 
portion  of  the  nails. 

There  are  no  specific  hours  for  the  paj-ment 
of  these  men :  they  are  entitled  to  their  mo- 
ney as  soon  as  their  work  ta  reported  to  be 
completed.  Nothing  can  be  better  than  the 
way  in  which  the  whippers  are  now  paid. 
The  basket-man  enters  the  office  of  the  pay- 
clerk  of  the  coal  commission  at  one  door,  and 
hands  over  an  a^oining  counter  an  amount 
of  money  he  has  received  from  the  ci^^taio. 
The  pay-clerk  ascertains  that  the  nmomitis 
correct.    He  then  divides  the  sum  into  nine 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


939 


portions,  and,  tonching  a  spring  to  open  a 
door,  he  cries  out  for  "  Gang  such  a  number." 
The  nine  men,  who,  with  many  others,  are  in 
attendance  in  rooms  provided  for  them  ad- 
jacent to  the  pay-office,  appear  immediately, 
and  are  paid  offi  I  was  present  when  nine 
whippers  were  paid  for  the  discharge  of  36;H 
tons.  Tlie  following  was  the  work  done  and 
the  remuneration  received : — 

Day.  Tons. 

Dec.  Uth 1st a.*) 

„    15th 2nd 50 

Sunday  intervenes. 

„    17th 3rd 84 

„    18th 4th US 

„    19th 5th 90| 


30.3i 


These  363J  tons,  at  8</.  per  ton,  realized  to 
each  man,  for  five  days'  work,  1/.  6«.  4^<£. ; 
105.  of  which  had  been  paid  to  each  as 
subsistence  money  during  the  progress  of 
the  work.  In  addition  to  the  work  so  paid 
to  each,  there  was  deducted  a  farthing  in 
every  shilling  as  office  fees,  to  defray  the 
eipense9  of  the  office.  From  this  furthing 
reduction,  moreover,  the  basket-mnn  is  paid 
]{</.  in  the  pound,  as  commission  for  bringing 
the  money  from  the  captain.  Out  of  the 
Slim  to  be  dixided  on  the  occasion  I  specify 
there  was  an  indivisible  fraction  of  l\d. 
This,  as  it  cannot  be  shared  among  nine 
men,  goes  to  what  is  called  ^  The  Fraction 
Fund,**  which  is  established  for  the  relief  of 
persons  suffering  from  accidents  on  board 
ooal-ships.  These  indivisible  fractions  realize 
between  30/.  and  40/.  yearly. 

Connected  with  the  calling  of  the  whippers 
I  may  mention  the  existence  of  the  Purbiieu. 
These  are  men  who  carry  kegs  of  malt  liquor 
in  boats,  and  retail  it  afloat,  ha\'ing  a  license 
from  the  Waterman's  Company  to  do  so.  In 
each  boat  is  a  small  iron  grating,  containing 
a  fire,  so  that  any  customer  can  havo  the 
chill  off,  should  he  require  that  luxury.  The 
purlman,  riugs  a  bell  to  announce  his  visit 
to  the  men  on  board.  There  are  several 
pnrlmeu,  who  keep  rowing  all  day  about  the 
ooal  fleet;  they  are  not  allowed  to  sell  spirits. 
In  a  fog  the  glaring  of  the  fire  in  the  purl- 
men's  boots,  discernible  on  the  river,  has  a 
curious  effect,  nothing  but  the  fire  being 
visible. 

I  was  now  desirous  of  obtaining  some  in- 
fbtmation  from  the  men  collectively.  Ac- 
cordingly I  entered  the  basket-men's  waiting- 
room,  where  n  large  number  of  thera  were 
"  biding  their  turn ;  '*  and  no  sooner  had  I 
made  my  appearance  in  the  hall,  and  my 
object  becamo  known  to  the  men,  than  a 
rush  was  made  firom  without,  and  the  door 
was  obliged  to  be  bolted  to  prevent  tho  over- 
crowding of  the  room.  As  it  was,  the  place 
was  crammed  so  full,  that  tho  light  was  com- 
pletely blocked  by  the  men  piled  up  on  the 


seats  and  lockers,  and  standing  before  the 
windows.  The  room  was  thus  rendered  so 
dark  that  I  was  obliged  to  have  the  gas 
lighted,  in  order  to  see  to  take  my  notes ;  1 
myself  was  obliged  to  mount  the  opposite 
locker  to  take  the  statistics  of  the  meeting. 

There  were  eighty-six  pn.»sent.  To  show 
how  many  had  no  employment  whatever  last 
week,  forty-five  hands  were  held  up.  One  had 
had  no  employment  for  a  fortnight;  twenty- 
four  no  work  for  eight  days.  Of  those  who 
had  worked  during  the  previous  week,  eight 
had  received  20*.;  sixteen  between  15*.  and 
seventeen  between  1()«.  and  1 5». ;  ten  between 
5».  and  IO5. ;  one  had  received  under  5». ; 
twelve  had  received  nothing.  The  average  of 
employment  as  to  time  is  this:  —  None  are 
employed  for  thirty  weeks  during  the  year; 
all  for  twenty.five  weeks  or  upwards,  reaUzing 
12*.  perhaps,  yeariy,  per  week — so  many  of 
the  men  said;  but  the  office  returns  show 
Is.  l\d.  per  day  as  the  average  for  the  last 
nine  months.  "Waterage"  costs  the  whipper 
an  average  of  6</.  a-week  the  year  through. 
"Waterage"  means  the  conveyance  from  tho 
vessels  to  the  shore.  Fourteen  of  tho  men 
had  wives  or  daughters  who  work  at  slop 
needlework,  the  husbands  being  unable  to 
maintain  the  family  by  their  own  labour.  A 
coalwhipper  stated  that  there  were  more  of 
the  wives  of  the  coalwhippers  idle,  because 
they  couldn't  get  work,  than  were  at  work. 
All  the  wives  and  daughters  would  have 
worked  if  they  could  have  got  it.  "  AVhy, 
your  honour,"  one  man  said,  "  we  are  better 
off  in  this  office  than  under  tho  old  system. 
Wo  were  then  compulsory  drunkards,  and 
often  in  debt  to  a  publican  after  clearing  tho 
ship."  The  men  employed  generally  spent 
12.«.  to  15s.  a-week.  Those  unemployed  had 
abundant  credit  at  the  publican's.  One  man 
said,  **  I  worked  for  a  publican  who  was  also 
a  butcher;  one  week  I  had  to  pay  9s.  for 
drink,  and  lis.  for  meat,  and  he  said  I  hadn't 
spent  sufficient.  I  was  ono  of  his  constant 
men."  At  the  time  a  ship  was  cleared,  the 
whipper  had  often  nothing  to  take  home. 
**  Nothing  but  sorrow,"  said  one.  The  publican 
swept  all ;  and  some  publicans  would  advance 
2s.  M,  towards  the  next  job,  to  allow  a  man 
to  live.  Many  of  the  whippers  now  do  not 
drink  at  all.  The  average  of  the  drinking 
among  the  men ,  when  at  hard  work,  does  not 
exceed  three  half-pints  a-day.  The  grievances 
that  once  afflicted  the  coalwhipper,  are  still 
felt  by  the  ballast-men.  Tho  men  all  stated 
the  fact  as  to  the  0</.  allowed,  and  the  Sd.  per 
ton  paid  for  whipping.  They  all  represented 
that  a  lighterman,  engaged  by  tho  gas  com- 
panies,  was  doing  them  great  iiyury,  by  em- 
ploying a  number  of  '  bonafides,'  and  taking 
the  best  ships  away  from  the  regular  office, 
and  giving  them  to  the  *  bonafides '  who  "whip" 
the  vessel  at  a  lower  rate  of  wages  — about 
6</.  a-ton.  He  is  connected  with  a  beer-shop, 
and  the  men  are  expected  to  buy  hia  beer. 


240 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


If  this  man  gets  on  with  his  system,  (all  this 
the  men  concurred  in  stating,)  the  bod  state 
of  things  prevailing  under  the  publican's  ma- 
nagement might  be  brought  bock.  Sixteen 
years  ago  each  whipper  received  li\d,  per 
ton,  prices  steady,  and  the  men  in  union. 
**  If  it  wasn't  for  this  office,"  one  man  said, 
"  not  one  man  who  worked  sixteen  years  ago 
would  be  alive  now."  The  Union  was  broken 
up  about  twelve  years  ago,  and  prices  fell  and 
fluctuated  down  as  low  as  6<^.,  and  even  b\d., 
sometimes  rising  and  falling  l|d.  a- week.  The 
prices  continued  fluctuating  until  the  present 
office  was  established,  in  1844.  The  ship- 
owners and  merchants  agreed,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  office,  to  give  the  whippers 
9d,  a-ton,  and  in  three  months  reduced  it 
to  8if.  The  publicans,  it  was  stated,  formed 
themselves  into  a  compact  body  for  the  pur- 
pose of  breaking  down  the  present  system, 
and  they  introduced  hundreds  of  fresh  hands 
to  undersell  the  regular  workers.  In  1847 
wages  rose  again  to  Qd.\  the  whippers  ap- 
pealing to  the  trade,  urging  the  high  price  of 
provisions,  and  their  appeal  being  allowed. 
This  0</.  a-ton  continued  until  the  1st  of  June 
last.  At  that  time  the  *  bonafides '  were  gene- 
rally introduced,  and  greatly  increased,  and 
Setting  three  times  the  work  the  regular  men 
id,  they  ^the  regular  men)  consented  again 
to  lower  the  prices.  The  *  bonafides'  are  no 
better  off  than  the  regular  hands ;  for  though 
they  have  much  more  work  they  have  less 
per  ton,  and  have  to  spend  more  in  drink. 
The  coadwhippers  represented  themselves  as 
benefited  by  the  cheapness  of  provisions. 
"With  dear  provisions  they  couldn't,  at  their 
present  earnings,  live  at  aU.  The  removal  of 
the  backing  system  had  greatly  benefited 
the  whippers.  On  being  asked  how  many  had 
things  in  pawn,  there  was  a  general  laugh, 
and  a  cry  of  **  All  of  us."  It  is  common  to 
pawn  a  coat  on  Monday  and  take  it  out  on 
Saturday  night,  paying  a  month's  interest 
One  man  said,  **  I  have  now  in  pawn  seven 
articles,  all  wearing  apparel,  my  wife's  or  my 
own,  firt>m  15f.  down  to  0(f."  Four  had  in 
pawn  goods  to  the  amount  of  5/.  and  up- 
wards ;  five  to  4^ ;  six  to  3/. ;  thirteen  to  2/. ; 
thirteen  to  1/. ;  under  \l.  nineteen ;  five  had 
nothing  in  pawn.  When  asked  if  all  made  a 
practice  of  pawning  their  coats  during  the 
week,  there  was  a  general  assent.  Some 
could  not  redeem  them  in  time  to  attend 
church  or  chapel  on  a  Sunday.  One  man 
said,  that  if  all  his  effects  were  burnt  in  his 
absence,  he  would  lose  no  wearing  apparel. 
**  Our  children,  under  the  old  system,  were 
totally  neglected,"  they  said ;  "  the  public- 
house  absorbed  everytliing."  Under  that  sys- 
tem as  many  as  500  of  the  children  of  coal- 
whippers  were  transported ;  now  that  has  en- 
tirely ceased ;  those  charged  with  crime  now 
were  reared  under  the  old  system.  "  The 
legislature  never  did  a  better  thing  than  to 
emancipate  us,"  said  the  man ;  "  Uiey  have 


the  blessing  and  prayers  of  ourselves,  our 
wives,  and  children." 

After  the  meeting  I  was  furnished  with  the 
following  accounts  of  a  basket-man,  of  which 
I  have  calculated  the  averages  .*^ 

Fint  Quarter.-^Januarif  2, 1840,  to  March  2& 

Employed  .        •        •        •        •        .50  days 

Delivered 2570^^  tons 

Amount  earned  at  Od,  per  ton     .  J£10  15    2( 
Deduct  expenses  of  office  4m,  dd.  \     a  io  in 
Ditto  waterage        .        .  8*.  4^./     "  "  ^" 

£\0    2    4^ 

Average  weekly  earnings  about  .    0  16    6 

Second  Quarter,  —  April  7  to  June  30. 

Employed 44  days 

Delivered 2600  tons 

Amount  earned  at  Oi.  per  ton     £iQ  10    & 
Deduct  waterage  .        •    7f .  4<i.  1     ^  -n     ^ 
.    4*.  4rf.  I     "  "    ® 

jeo  12    0 


Office  expenses 


Average  weekly  earnings  .      0  15    H 

Tldrd  Quarter^  Jitlg  4  to  Septtmhtr  %L 
Employed      •        •        •        .        •      42  dflQft 

Delivered 2485  ton* 

Amount  earned  at  8J.  per  ton  .  £0  4  4| 
Deduct  waterage  •  7*.  Orf.  \  aa  ia  mi 
Office  expenses     •       8«.  Vd^d,]  *^  *"  ^^ 

Je8  IS    H 

Average  weekly  earnings  •    0  14    A 

FouHh  Quarter-'Oct.  4  to  Dec.  20. 

.    40  da^ 
2858itoii8 

Amount  earned  at  Qd,  per  ton  .  JE9  16  4f 
Deduct  waterage  .  .  8s.  2d.  \  o  12  Sft 
Office  expenses     .        .45.  IfJ.)  ^*    *' 

X9    4    1 


Employed 
Delivered 


Average  weekly  earnings   .    0    14  1{ 

First  Quarter      ....  iBlO    2  4) 

Second  Quarter  .        .        .        •       0  10  0 

Third  Quarter    .        .        •        .        8  Id  6) 

Fourth  Quarter  .        •        •        •       0    4  1 

£37  19    0 


Average  weekly  earnings  .    0  14    6 

Employed — ^First  Quarter  .  .  50  days. 

Second  Quarter  .  44     „ 

Third  Quarter  .  42     „ 

Fourth  Quarter  .  49    ,» 


185  days. 


Idle  .    .  180  days. 


.  ZOlTDOy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOXDON  POOR, 


241 


SscoND  .Account. 

Coalwhiffen, 
Employed 
Delivered 

Amoant  enmed  at  9tf.  per  ton 
Deduct  waterage 


103  days 
.  n^l^  tons 

1  12     2 


£A^    3    d| 

Ayerage  weekly  earnings  .        0  17    4^ 

Thxbd  AccorNT. 
Employed  ....        108  days 

Delivered 0874^  tons 

Amoant  earned  ....  £37  lU    0 
Deduct  waterage        .       ...       180 


Grosa  earnings 


jeso  11     0 


Average  weekly  earnings  .       0  14    0^ 

The  above  accounts  are  ratlier  above  than 
uder  the  average. 

I  then  proceeded  to  take  the  statement  of 
some  of  the  different  dastses  of  the  men. 
The  first  was  a  coalwhipper,  whom  the  men 
had  selected  as  one  knowing  more  about  their 
calling  than  tlie  generality.  He  told  me  as 
followb: — 

"  I  am  about  forty,  and  am  a  married  man 
with  a  family  of  six  children.  I  worked  under 
the  old  Bystem,  and  that  to  my  sorrow.  If  I 
kid  been  paid  in  money,  according  to  the 
work  I  then  did,  I  could  have  averaged  305. 
a-week.  Instead  of  receivinp:  that  amount  in 
money,  I  was  compelled  to  spend  in  drink 
Vi».  to  18«.  per  week,  when  work  was  good ; 
and  the  publican  even  then  gave  me  t)io 
residue  very  grudgingly,  and  often  kept  me 
fi'om  eleven  to  twelve  on  Saturday  night,  be- 
fore he  would  pay  me.  The  consequences  of 
this  system  were,  that  I  had  a  miserable  home 
to  go  to :  I  would  often  have  fai'cd  Newgate 
as  soon.  My  health  didn't  suffer,  because  1 
didn't  drink  the  liquor  1  was  forced  to  pay  for. 
I  gave  most  of  it  away.  The  liquors  were  beer, 
rum,  and  gin,  all  prepared  tho  night  before, 
adulterated  shamefully  for  our  consumption, 
as  we  dursn't  refuAo  it,— dursn't  even  grumble. 
The  condition  of  my  pfK>r  wife  and  cbildren 
was  then  most  wretched.  Now  the  tliinp:  is 
materially  altered,  thank  God;  my  wife  and 
children  can  go  to  chapel  at  ceiiain  times. 
when  work  is  pretty  goml,  and  our  tbinj^s  are 
not  in  pawn.  By  the  slricte*)t  economy,  1  can 
do  middling  well — very  Wfll  whon  compared 
with  what  things  were.  When  the  new  system 
first  came  into  operation,  I  felt  almost  in  a 
new  world.  I  felt  myself  a  fh?e  man ;  I  wasn't 
compelled  to  drink;  my  home  assumed  a 
better  aspect,  and  keeps  it  still.  Lost  Monday 
night  I  received  10«.  7</.  for  my  work  (five 
days)  in  the  previous  week.  1  shall  now 
(Thursday)  have  to  wait  until  Monday  next 
before  I  can  get  to  work  at  my  buainosa. 


Sometimes  I  get  a  job  in  idle  times  at  the 
docks,  or  otherwise,  and  ^ish  1  ooiiM  <ret  more. 
I  may  make,  one  week  with  another,  by  odd 
jobs,  1».  a- week.  Perhaps  for  montJis  1  can't 
get  a  job.  All  that  time  1  h.ive  no  choice  but 
to  be  idle.  One  week  with  anitthcr,  the  >'ear 
through  (at  8rf.  i)cr  ton ),  I  may  r'jim  14*.  The 
great  e\il  is  the  uncerttiinty  of  Uio  work.  Wo 
have  all  to  take  our  rotation.  This  uncer- 
tainty has  this  effect  upon  many  of  the  men— 
they  are  compelletl  to  live  on  credit  One  day 
a  num  may  receive  IOj.,  and  be  idle  for  eight 
days  after.  Conse(iueutly,  we  go  to  the  dealer 
where  we  have  credit.  The  chandler  supplies 
me  with  bread,  to  be  paid  for  next  pay-day, 
chfurging  me  a  halfpenny  a  loaf  more.  A  mui 
with  a  wife  and  family  of  six  children,  as  I 
havo,  will  consume  sixteen  or  seventeen  quar- 
tern loaves  a- week ;  consequently,  he  has  to 
pay  8(i.  a- week  extra  on  account  of  the  irre- 
gularity or  uncertainty.  My  rotation  would 
come  much  oftener  but  for  the  backing  system 
and  the  '  bonafides.'  I  also  pay  the  butcher 
fVom  a  half^nny  to  a  penny  per  pound  extra 
for  credit  when  my  family  requires  meat, 
sometimes  a  bit  of  mutton,  sometimes  a  bit  of 
beef.  I  leave  that  to  the  wife,  who  does  it 
with  economy.  I  this  way  pay  the  butcher  ^d. 
a-weok  extra.  The  additional  cost  to  me  of 
the  other  articles,  cht.'ose,  butter,  soap,  &o., 
which  I  get  on  credit,  will  be  Orf.  a- week. 
Altogotlier  that  will  be  3/.  18».  a-year.  My 
rent  for  a  littlo  house  with  two  nice  little 
rooms  is  3«.  per  week ;  so  that  the  extra  charge 
for  credit  would  just  pay  my  rent  Many  coal- 
whippers  deal  with  tallymen  for  their  wearing 
apparel,  and  have  to  pay  enormous  prices. 
1  have  hail  dealings  with  a  tal]}-man,  and  suf- 
fered for  it,  but  for  all  that  I  must  make  appli- 
cation for  a  supply  of  blankets  from  him  for  my 
family  this  winter.  I  paid  him  45s.  for  wearing 
apparel — a  shawl  for  my  wife,  some  dresses 
for  the  children,  a  blanket,  and  other  thing^. 
Their  intrinsic  value  was  30f .  Many  of  us — 
indeed  most  of  us,  if  not  all  of  us — are 
always  putting  things  in  and  out  of  the  pawn- 
shops. 1  know  1  have  myself  paid  more  than 
lOir.  a  year  for  interest  to  the  pawnbroker.  I 
know  some  of  my  fellow-workmen  who  pay 
nearly  5/.  a-year.  I  once  put  in  a  coat  that 
cost  me  3/.  Vis.  I  could  only  get  ;K)».  on  it. 
I  was  never  able  to  redeem  it,  and  lost  it 
The  anii:leH  lost  by  the  coalwhippers  pledged 
at  the  pawnshop  are  three  out  of  four.  There 
are  2000  coalwhippers,  and  I  am  sure  that 
each  has  50s.  in  pawn,  making  5000/.  in  a-year. 
Interest  may  l>e  paid  on  one  half  this  amount, 
2501 »/.  Tho  other  half  of  the  property,  at  least, 
is  lost  As  the  pawnbroker  only  advances 
one-third  of  the  value,  the  lofts  in  the 
forfeiture  of  the  propeity  is  75(K)/.,  nnd  in 
intei-est  25tK)/.,  making  a  total  of  10,(Xm.»/.  lost 
every  year,  greatly  through  the  uncertninty  of 
labour.  A  coolwliipper's  life  is  one  of  debt 
and  Rtnij^ghs — it  is  a  round  of  relievinir,  ])ay- 
ing,  and  credit    We  very  rarely  have  a  half- 


242 


LONDOX  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


penny  in  the  pocket  when  we  meet  our  credit. 
If  any  system  could  possibly  be  discovered 
which  would  render  our  work  and  our  earn- 
ings more  certain,  and  our  payments  more 
frequent,  it  would  benefit  us  as  much  as  we 
have  been  benefited  by  the  establishment  of 
the  office." 

I  visited  this  man's  cottage,  and  found  it 
neat  and  tidy.  His  children  looked  healthy. 
The  walls  of  the  lower  room  were  covered  with 
some  cheap  prints;  a  few  old  books,  well 
worn,  as  if  well  used,  were  to  be  seen ;  and 
everytliing  evinced  a  man  who  was  struggling 
bravely  to  rear  a  large  family  well  on  small 
means.  I  took  the  family  at  a  disadvantage, 
moreover,  as  washing  was  going  on. 

Hearing  that  accidents  were  frequent  among 
the  class,  1  was  anxious  to  see  a  person  who 
hud  suffered  by  the  danger  of  the  calling. 
A  man  was  brought  to  me  with  his  hand  bound 
up  in  a  handkerchief.  The  sleeve  of  his  coat 
was  ripped  open  and  dangled  down  beside  liis 
injured  arm.  He  walked  lame ;  and  on  my 
inquiring  wliether  his  leg  was  hurt,  he  began 
pulling  up  his  trousers  and  imlacing  his  boot, 
to  show  me  that  it  had  not  been  properly  sot. 
He  had  evidently  once  been  a  strong,  muscular 
man,  but  little  now  remained  as  evidence  of 
his  physical  power  but  the  size  of  his  bones. 
He  furnished  me  with  the  following  state- 
ment : — 

**I  was  a  coalwhipper.  I  had  a  wife  and 
two  children.  Four  months  ago,  coming  ofif 
my  day's  work,  my  foot  slipped,  and  I  fell  and 
broke  my  leg.  I  was  taken  to  the  hospital, 
and  remained  there  ten  weeks.  At  the  time  of 
my  accident  I  had  no  money  at  all  by  me,  but 
was  in  debt  to  the  amount  of  lOt.  to  my  land- 
lord. I  had  a  little  furniture,  and  a  few 
clothes  of  myself  and  wife.  While  I  was  in 
the  hospital,  I  did  not  receive  anything  from 
our  benefit  society,  because  I  had  not  been 
able  to  keep  up  my  subscription.  My  wife  and 
children  Uved  while  I  was  in  the  hospital  by 
pawning  my  things,  and  going  from  door  to 
door  to  every  one  she  knowed  to  give  her  a  bit 
The  men  who  worked  in  the  same  gang  as 
myself,  made  up  4^.  6</.  for  me,  and  that,  with 
two  loaves  of  bread  that  they  had  from  the 
relieving  officer,  was  all  they  got  While  I 
was  in  the  hospital  the  landlord  seized  for 
rent  the  few  things  that  my  wife  had  not 
pawned,  and  turned  her  and  my  two  little 
children  into  the  street  One  was  a  boy  three 
years  old,  and  the  other  a  baby  just  turned 
ten  months.  My  wife  went  to  her  mother, 
and  she  kept  her  and  my  little  ones  for  three 
weeks,  till  she  could  do  so  no  longer.  My 
mother,  poor  old  woman,  was  most  as  bad  off 
as  we  were.  My  mother  only  works  on  the 
groimd,  out  in  the  country,  at  gardening.  She 
makes  about  Is,  a-week  in  the  summer,  and 
in  tlie  winter  she  has  only  Ot^  a-day  to  live 
upon  ;  but  she  had  at  least  a  shelter  for  her 
child,  and  she  willingly  shared  that  with  her 
daughter  and  her  daughter's  children.    She 


pawned  all  the  clothes  she  hod,  to  keep  them 
from  stoning ;  but  at  lost  everything  was  gone ' 
from  the  poor  old  woman,  and  then  I  got  my 
brother  to  take  my  family  in.  My  brother 
worked  at  garden-work,  the  same  as  xny 
mother-in-law  did.  He  made  about  19s. 
a-week  in  the  summer,  and  about  half  t)iat 
in  the  winter  time.  He  had  a  wife  and  two 
children  of  his  own,  and  found  it  hard  enough, 
to  keep  them,  as  times  go.  But  still  he  took 
us  all  in,  and  shared  what  he  hod  with  us, 
rather  than  let  us  go  to  the  workhouse.  When 
I  was  told  to  leave  the  hospital — ^which  I  was 
forced  to  do  upon  my  crutches,  for  my  leg 
was  very  bad  still— my  brother  took  me  in 
too.  He  had  only  one  room,  but  he  got  in  a 
bundle  of  straw,  for  mo,  and  we  lived  and  slept 
there  for  seven  weeks.  He  got  credit  f6r  more 
than  a  pound's  worth  of  bread,  and  tea,  and 
sugar  for  us ;  and  now  he  can't  pay,  and  the 
man  threatens  to  summon  him  for  it  After  I 
left  my  brother's,  I  came  to  live  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Wapping,  for  I  thought  I  might 
manage  to  do  a  day's  work  at  coalwhippmgr 
and  I  couldn't  bear  to  live  upon  his  little  earn- 
ings any  longer — he  could  scarcely  keep  him- 
se&  then.  At  last  I  got  a  ship  to  deliver ;  but 
I  was  too  weak  to  do  the  work,  and  in  pulling 
at  the  ropes  my  hands  got  sore,  and  festered 
for  want  of  nourishment"  [He  took  the  hand- 
kerchief off  and  showed  that  it  was  covered 
with  plaster.  It  was  almost  white  from  de- 
ficient circulation.]  "  After  this  I  was  obliged 
to  lay  up  again,  and  that's  the  only  job  of  work 
I've  been  able  to  do  for  these  lost  four  months. 
My  wife  can't  do  anything  ;  she  is  a  delicate^ 
sickly  little  woman  as  well,  and  has  the  two 
UtUe  children  to  mind,  and  to  look  after  me 
likewise.  I  had  one  pcnnj-worth  of  bread  this 
morning.  We  altogether  had  half-a-qnartexn 
loaf  among  the  four  of  us,  but  no  tea  nor 
coffee.  Yesterday  we  had  some  bread,  and 
tea,  and  butter ;  but  wherever  my  wife  got  it 
from  I  don't  know.  I  was  three  days  but  a 
short  timo  back  without  a  taste  of  food." 
[Here  he  burst  out  crying.]  "  I  had  nothing 
but  water  that  passed  my  lips.  I  had  merely 
a  little  at  home,  and  that  my  wife  and  children 
had.  I  would  rather  starve  myself  than  let 
them  do  so :  indeed,  Fve  done  it  over  and  over 
again.  I  never  begged :  I'll  die  in  the  streets 
first  I  never  told  nobody  of  my  life.  The 
foreman  of  my  gang  was  the  only  one  besides 
God  that  knew  of  my  miser}' ;  and  his  wife 
came  to  me  and  brought  me  money  imd 
brought  me  food,  and  himself,  too,  many  a 
time."  ["  I  had  a  wife  and  five  children  of  my 
own  to  maintain,  and  it  grieved  me  to  my 
heart,"  said  the  man  who  sat  by,  *!  to  see  them 
want,  and  I  unable  to  do  more  for  them."] 
*'  If  any  accident  occurs  to  any  of  us  who  are 
not  upon  the  society,  they  must  be  as  bad  off 
as  I  am.  K  I  only  had  a  little  nourishment 
to  strengthen  me,  I  could  do  my  work  again ; 
but,  poor  as  I  am,  I  can't  get  strength  to  do 
it,  and  not  being  totally  incapacitated  from 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


248 


resuming  my.  kbonr,  I  cannot  get  any 
assistance  from  the  superannuation  fund  of 
our  men." 

I  told  the  man  I  wished  to  see  him  at  his 
oim  home,  and  he  and  the  foreman  who  had 
brought  hun  to  me,  and  who  gave  him  a  most 
excellent  character,  led  me  into  a  small  house 
in  a  court  near  the  Shadwell  entrance  to  the 
London  Docks.  When  I  reached  the  place  I 
found  the  room  almost  bare  of  fhmiture.  A 
bttby  lay  sprawling  on  its  back  on  a  few  rags 
beside  tJie  handful  of  fire.  A  little  shoeless 
boy,  with  only  a  Ught  washed-out  frock  to 
eoTer  him,  ran  shyly  into  a  comer  of  the  room 
as  we  entered.  There  was  only  one  choir  in 
the  room,  and  that  had  been  borrowed  down 
stairs.  Over  the  chimney  hung  to  dry  a  few 
ragged  infant's  chemises  that  had  been  newly 
wasJied.  In  front  of  the  fire,  on  a  stool,  sat 
the  thinly*  clad  wife ;  and  in  the  comer  of  the 
apartment  stood  a  few  old  tubs.  On  a  line 
above  these  were  two  tattered  men's  shirts, 
hanging  to  dry,  and  a  bed  was  thrown  on 
some  boxes.  On  a  shelf  stood  a  physic-bottle 
that  the  man  had  got  from  the  parish  doctor, 
and  in  the  empty  cupboard  was  a  slice  of 
bread — all  the  food,  they  said,  they  had  in  the 
wozld,  and  they  knew  not  where  on  earth  to 
loek  for  more. 

I  next  wished  to  see  one  of  the  improvident 
men,  and  was  taken  to  the  lodging  of  one  who 
made  the  following  statement : — 

**I  have  been  a  coalwhipper  for  twenty 
years.  I  worked  imder  the  old  publican's 
system,  when  the  men  were  compelled  to 
insk.  In  those  days  I8«.  didn't  keep  me  in 
drink.  I  have  now  been  a  teetotaler  for  five 
years.  I  have  the  bit  of  grub  now  more  regu- 
lar than  I  had.  I  earn  less  than  13s.  a- week. 
I  have  four  children,  and  have  buried  four. 
My  rent  is  1».  6<i."  ["  To-night,"  interrapted 
the  wife,  "  if  ho  won't  part  with  his  coat  or 
boots,  he  must  go  without  his  supper."]  *'  My 
wife,"  the  man  continued,  "  works  at  bespoke 
work — stay -making,  but  gets  very  little  work, 
and  so  earns  very  little— perhaps  1«.  Crf.  a 
week." 

This  Cimily  resided  in  a  wretched  part  of 
Wopping,  colled,  appropriately  enough,  "the 
Kuins."  Some  houses  hove  been  pulled  down, 
and  so  an  open  space  is  formed  at  the  end  of  a 
narrow  airless  alley.  The  wet  stood  on  the 
pavement  of  the  dley,  and  the  cottage  in 
which  the  whipper  I  \isited  lived,  seemed  with 
another  to  have  escaped  when  the  other  houses 
were  pulled  down.  The  man  is  very  tall,  and 
almost  touched  the  ceiling  of  his  room  when 
he  stood  upright  in  it.  The  ceiling  was  as 
wet  OS  a  newly- washed  floor.  The  grate  was 
fireless,  the  children  barefoot,  and  the  bed- 
stead (for  there  was  a  bedstead)  was  bed- 
less,  and  all  showed  cheeriess  poverty.  The 
dwelling  was  in  strong  contrast  with  that 
of  the  provident  whipper  whom  I  have  de- 
scribed. 


The  Coalbaceebs. 

I  CONCLUDE  with  the  statement  of  a  coal- 
backer,  or  coalporter — a  class  to  which  the 
term  coolheaver  is  usually  given  by  those  who 
are  unversed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  caUing. 
The  man  wore  the  approved  fantail,  and  weU- 
tarred  short  smock-frock,  black  velveteen  knee 
breeches,  dirty  white  stockings,  and  lace-up 
boots. 

"I  am  a  coolbacker,"  he  said.  "I  have 
been  so  these  twenty-two  years.  By  a  coal- 
backer,  I  mean  a  man  who  is  engaged  in  car- 
rying  coals  on  his  back  from  ships  and  craft 
to  the  waggons.  We  get  il\d.  for  every  fifth 
part  of  a  ton,  or  lUrf.  per  ton  among  five  men. 
We  carry  the  coals  in  sacks  of  2  cwt.,  the 
sack  usually  weighs  from  14  lbs.  to  20  lbs.,  so 
that  our  load  is  mostly  238  lbs.  We  have  to 
carry  the  load  from  the  hold  of  the  ship,  over 
four  barges,  to  the  waggon.  The  hold  of  a 
ship  is  from  sixteen  to  twenty  feet  deep.  We 
carry  the  cools  this  height  up  a  ladder,  and 
the  ship  is  generally  from  sixty  to  eighty  feet 
from  the  waggon.  This  distance  wo  have  to 
trovel  over  planks,  with  the  sacks  on  our 
backs.  Each  man  will  ascend  this  height  and 
trovel  this  distance  about  ninety  times  in  a 
day ;  hence  he  will  Ufl  himself,  with  2  cwt. 
of  coals  on  his  bock,  1400  feet,  or  upwards  of 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  high,  which  is  three  times 
the  height  of  St  Paul's,  in  twelve  hours. 
And  besides  this,  he  will  travel  6300  feet,  or 
1^  miles,  carrying  the  same  weight  as  he  goes. 
The  labour  is  very  hord — ^there  are  few  men 
wlio  can  continue  at  it."  My  informant  said 
it  was  too  much  for  him ;  he  had  been  obliged 
to  give  it  up  eight  months  back;  he  had  over- 
strained himself  at  it,  and  been  obliged  to  lay 
up  for  many  months.  **  I  am  forty-five  years 
of  age,"  he  continued,  *<  and  have  as  many  as 
eight  children.-  None  of  them  bring  me  in  a 
sixpence.  My  eldest  boy  did,  a  little  while 
back,  but  his  master  failed,  and  he  lost  his 
situation.  My  wife  made  slop-shirts  at  a 
penny  each,  and  could  not  do  more  than  three 
a-doy.  How  we  have  lived  through  all  my  ill- 
ness, I  cannot  say.  I  occasionally  get  a  littlo 
job,  such  as  mending  the  hots  of  my  fellow- 
workmen  :  this  would  sometimes  bring  me  in 
about  2s.  in  the  week,  and  then  the  parish 
allowed  four  quartern  loaves  of  bread  and 
2«.  Qd.  a-week  for  myself,  wife,  and  eight  chil- 
dren. Since  I  have  overstrained  myself,  I 
have  not  done  more  than  two  days'  work  alto- 
gether. Sometimes  my  mates  would  give  me 
an  odd  seven  tons  to  do  for  them,  for  I  was 
not  able  to  manage  more."  Such  accidents  as 
overstraining  are  very  common  among  tho 
coalbockers.  The  labour  of  carrying  such  a 
heaN'y  weight  from  tlie  sliip's  hold  is  so  exces- 
sive, that  after  a  man  turns  forty  he  is  con- 
sidered to  be  past  his  work,  and  to  be  very 
liable  to  such  accidents.  It  is  usually  reck- 
oned that  the  strongest  men  cannot  last  more 


244 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


than  twenty  years  at  the  business.  Many  of 
the  heartiest  of  the  men  arc  knocked  up 
through  the  bursting  of  blood-vessels  and 
other  casnaities,  and  even  the  strongest  can- 
not continue  at  the  labour  three  days  togetlier. 
After  the  second  day's  work,  they  are  obliged 
to  hire  some  unemployed  mate  to  do  the  work 
for  them.  The  coalbackers  work  in  gangs  of 
five  men,  consisting  of  two  shovel-men  and 
three  backers,  and  are  employed  to  deliver  the 
ship  by  the  wharfinger.  Knch  gang  is  paid 
ll^rf.  per  ton,  which  is  at  the  rate  of  )l\d.  per 
ton  for  each  of  the  five  men.  The  {Tft»o  ^'il^ 
do  from  thirty  to  forty  tons  in  the  course  of 
the  day.  The  length  of  the  day  depends  upon 
the  amount  of  work  to  be  done,  according  to 
the  wharfinger's  orders.  The  coalbackers 
are  generally  at  work  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  winter  and  summer.  In  the  winter 
time,  they  have  to  work  by  the  light  of  large 
fires  in  hanging  coldrrms,  which  they  coll 
bells.  Their  day's  work  seldom  ends  before 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  They  are  paid 
every  night,  and  a  man  after  a  hard  day's 
work  will  receive  0«.  Strong,  hearty  men,  who 
are  able  to  follow  up  tho  work,  can  earn  from 
25«.  to  *iOji.  per  week.  But  the  business  is  a 
fluctuating  one.  In  the  summer  time  there 
is  little  or  nothing  to  do.  The  earnings  during 
the  slack  season  are  about  one  half  what  they 
are  during  the  brisk.  Upon  an  average,  their 
earnings  ore  1/.  a- week  all  the  year  round. 
The  class  of  coalbackers  is  supposed  to  con- 
sist of  about  1500  men.  They  have  no  pro- 
vident or  benefit  society.  Between  seventeen 
and  eighteen  years  ago,  each  gang  used  to 
have  Is.  (\\d.  per  ton,  and  about  a  twelvemonth 
afterwards  it  foil  to  the  present  price  of  \\\d, 
I>er  ton.  About  six  weeks  back,  the  merchants 
made  an  attempt  to  take  off  the  odd  farthing ; 
the  reason  assigned  was  the  cheapness  of  pro- 
\isions.  They  nearly  carried  it;  but  the 
backers  formed  a  committee  among  them- 
selves, an<l  ojiposed  tho  reduction  so  strongly 
that  tho  idea  was  abandoned.  The  backers 
are  paid  extra  for  sifting,  at  the  rate  of  2d. 
per  sack.  For  this  office  they  usually  employ 
a  lad,  pn\'ing  him  at  the  rate  of  10«.  ])er  week. 
ITpon  this  they  will  usually  clear  from  'ix.  to 
4*.  per  week.  The  most  injurious  part  of  the 
backer's  work  is  carrj-ing  from  the  ship's  hold. 
That  is  what  they  object  to  most  of  all,  and 
consi<lcr  tliey  get  the  worst  paid  for.  They  do 
n  groat  injury  to  the  coahvhippers,  and  the 
baclcers  say  it  would  be  as  great  a  benefit  \o 
themselves  as  to  tho  coalwhippers,  if  the  sys- 
tem was  done  away  with.  By  bringing  the 
ships  np  aloni?side  tho  wharf,  the  merchant 
saves  tho  expense  of  whipping  and  hghtering, 
tr)gether  with  tho  cost  of  barges,  <^-c.  Many 
of  the  bnckt'i-s  are  paid  at  the  public-house  ; 
the  whai-fingcr  gives  them  a  note  to  receive 
their  daily  earnings  of  the  publican,  who  has 
the  money  from  the  merchant.  Often  the 
backers  are  kept  waiting  an  hour  at  the  pub- 
lic-house ior  their  money,  and  they  have  credit 


through  the  day  for  any  drink  they  may 
choose  to  csdl  for.  While  waiting,  they  mostly 
have  two  or  three  pots  of  beer  before  they  arc 
paid;  and  the  drinking  once  commenoed, 
many  of  them  return  home  drank,  with  only 
half  tlieir  earnings  in  their  pockets.  There  is 
scarcely  a  man  among  the  whole  class  of 
backers,  but  heartily  wishes  the  system  of 
payment  at  the  public-house  may  l>e  entirely 
abolished.  Tho  coalbackers  ore  mostly  an 
intemperate  class  of  men.  This  arises  chiefly 
fr«)m  the  extreme  labour  and  tlic  over-exertion 
of  tho  men,  the  violent  perspiration  and  the 
intense  thirst  produced  thereby.  Immediately 
a  pause  occui-s  in  their  work,  they  fly  to  the 
public-house  for  beer.  One  eoalbacker  made 
a  regular  habit  of  drinking  sixteen  half-pints 
of  beer,  with  a  pennyworth  of  gin  in  eaeh» 
before  breakfast  every  morning.  The  sum 
spent  in  drink  by  the  *  moderate  *  men  varies 
fnDm  9s.  to  1:2*.  per  week,  and  the  immoderate 
men  on  tho  average  spend  15».  a- weak. 
Hence,  assuming  the  class  of  coalbackers  to 
be  2000  in  number,  and  to  spend  only  10*. 
a- week  in  drink  each  man,  the  sum  that  would 
be  annually  expended  in  malt  liquors  and 
spirits  by  the  class  would  amount  to  no  less 
than  5'.>,000/.  The  wives  and  children  of  the 
coalbackers  are  generally  in  great  distress. 
Sometimes  no  more  than  one  quarter  of  the 
men's  earnings  is  taken  home  at  night. 

*•  When  I  was  moderate  inclined,*'  said  one 
of  them  to  me,  **  I  used  to  have  a  glass  of 
mm  the  first  thing  when  I  came  out  of  a 
morning,  just  to  keep  the  cold  out  —  that 
might  be  as  early  as  about  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  about  seven  o'clock  I 
should  want  half  a  pint  of  beer  with  gin  in  it» 
or  a  1  int  without  After  my  work  I  should 
be  warm,  and  feel  mjrself  dry ;  then  I  should 
continue  to  work  till  breakfast-time ;  then  I 
should  have  another  half  pint  witli  gin  in  it, 
and  so  I  should  keep  on  through  the  day, 
having  either  some  beer  or  gin  every  two 
hours.  I  reckon  that  unless  a  man  spent 
about  \s.  Qd.  to  25.  in  drink,  he  wonld  not  be 
able  to  continuo  his  labour  through  the  day. 
In  the  evening,  he  is  tired  with  his  work,  and 
being  kept  at  the  public-house  for  his  pay,  he 
begins  drinking  there,  and  soon  feels  uiwil. 
ling  to  move,  and  he  seldom  does  so  until  all 
his  wages  ore  gone."  My  informant  tolls  me 
that  he  thinks  the  class  would  be  much  im- 
proved if  the  system  of  paj-ing  the  men  at  the 
public-house  was  done  away,  and  tho  men 
paid  weekly  instead  of  daily.  The  hard 
drinking  ho  thinks  a  necessity  of  tlie  hard 
labour.  Ho  has  heard,  he  says,  of  coalbackers 
being  teetotalers,  but  none  were  able  to  keep 
the  pledge  beyond  two  months.  Iftliey  drink 
water  and  cotlee,  it  will  rather  increase  than 
quench  their  thirst  Nothing  seems  to  quench 
tho  thirst  of  a  hard-working  man  so  well  as 
ale. 

**  The  only  difference  between  the  pay  of  the 
baskctman  and  the  whipper  is  the  l\d.  in  the 


J 


.  LONJH>N  I*ABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


94A 


poimd  whiok  the  fonner  zcoeiTes  for  ctirying 
tbe  money  ttam  the  captain  of  the  ship  to  the 
derk  of  the  pay-office.  He  has  also  tor  this 
fiim  to  keep  a  correct  aooount  of  the  work 
done  by  the  men  eveiy  day,  and  to  find  secu- 
rity for  his  honesty  to  the  amount  of  10/.  To 
obtain  this,  they  luually  pay  2s.  Gd.  aycar  to 
the  Guarantee  Society,  and  they  prefer  doing 
this  to  seeking  the  secority  of  some  baker  or 
pnldican  in  the  neighbourhood,  knowing  that 
if  they  did  so,  they  would  be  expected  to 
become  customers  of  the  parties." 

I  now  resume  my  inquiry  whether  stimu- 
lating drinks  are  necessary  for  the  pcrform- 
anee  of  scTere  labour. 

I  have  already  published  the  statement  of  a 
ooalbacker,  who  declared  that  it  was  an  absolute 
necesai^  of  that  kind  of  labour  that  the  men 
engaged  iu  backing  coals  from  the  hold  of  a 
ship  should,  though  earning  only  I/,  per  week, 
spend  at  least  12s.  weekly  in  beer  and  spirits, 
to  stimulate  them  for  their  work.  This  sum, 
the  man  assured  me,  was  a  moderate  allow- 
ince,  for  16t.  was  the  amount  ordinarily  cs- 
pmded  by  the  men  in  drink  every  week.  Now 
if  this  quantity  of  drink  be  a  necessity  of  the 
ctlling,  it  follows  that  the  men  pursuing  tlic 
severest  labour  of  all— doing  work  that  cripples 
the  strongest  in  from  twelve  to  twenty  years 
— are  the  worst  paid  of  all  labourers,  their 
•etnal  clear  gains  being  only  from  Os.  to  85. 
per  week.  Tliis  struck  me  as  being  so  tt^rrible 
a  state  of  things  that  I  could  hardly  believe  it 
to  be  true,  though  I  was  assured  by  several 
ooalwhippers  who  were  present  on  the  occasion, 
that  the  coalbaoker  who  had  mode  the  statc- 
BteDt  had  in  no  way  exaggerated  the  account 
of  the  sufferings  of  his  fellow-workraen.  I 
determined,  nevertheless,  upon  inquiring  into 
the  qoestion  myself,  and  ascertaining,  by  the 
testimony  and  experience  of  different  classes 
of  individuals  engaged  in  this,  the  greatest 
labour,  perhaps,  pexformed  by  any  men,  whe- 
ther drink  was  really  a  necessity  or  luxury  to 
the  working  man. 

Accordingly,  I  called  a  meeting  of  the  coal- 
whippert,  that  I  might  take  their  opinion  on 
the  subject,  when  I  found  that  out  of  eighty 
individuals  only  four  were  satisfied  that  fer- 
mented liquors  could  bo  dispensed  with  by  tlie 
Itbouring  classes.  I  was,  however,  still  far 
from  sat^ed  upon  the  subject,  and  I  deter- 
niined,  as  the  question  is  one  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  Uie  working  men, — being  more 
intimately  connected  with  their  welfare,  phj-si- 
caL  intellectual,  and  moral,  than  any  other, — to 
give  Uie  subject  my  most  patient  and  imbiassed 
consideration.  I  was  anxious,  without  advoca- 
ting any  opinion  upon  the  subjects  to  collect 
the  sentiments  of  the  coal  labourers  themselves ; 
and  in  order  that  I  might  do  so  as  impar- 
tially as  possible,  I  resolved  upon  seeing — 
1st,  such  men  as  were  convinced  that  stimu- 
lating liquors  were  necessary  to  the  laboiuing 
man  in  tlie  performance  of  his  work ;  2ndly, 
inch  men  as  once  thought  differently,  and,  in- 


deed, had  once  taken  the  pledge  to  abstain 
from  the  use  of  all  fermented  liquors,  but  had 
been  induced  to  violate  their  vow  in  conse- 
quence of  their  health  having  suffered;  and 
ardly,  such  men  as  had  taken  the  pledge  and 
kept  it  without  any  serious  injury  to  their  con- 
stitutions. To  carry  the  subject  out  with  the 
fulness  and  impartiality  that  its  importance 
seemed  to  me  to  demand,  I  further  determined 
to  prosecute  the  inquiry  among  both  classes 
of  conl  labourers — the  coolwhippers  and  coal- 
backers  ns  well.  The  result  of  these  inves- 
tigations I  shaU  now  subjoin.  Let  me,  how- 
ever, in  tho  first  place,  lay  before  the  reader 
the  following 

CosrPAiunvE  Table  of  Drunkenness  of  the 

Dn-TERENT  TRADES  IN  LoNDON. 

Above  the  Average. 

Button-m.ikors,  one  individual  iu  cveiy  7*2 

Tool -nmkei-s KM 

Sun-eyoi-s ll«s 

Paper-makers  and  Stainers   .         .        .  12*1 

Brass-founders 12*4 

Gold-beaters 14*5 

Millers 160 

French  Polishers 17-3 

Cutlers 18-2 

Corkcutters 10*7 

Musicians 2'2-0 

Opticians 22*3 

Bricklayers 22'0 

Labourera      ..•,..  22*8 

General  and  Marine-store  Dealers        .  23*2 

Brushmakers 24*4 

Fishmongers  •  .  •  •  .  28*2 
Coach  and  Cabmen       •        •        •        .28*7 

Glovers 29*4 

Smiths 29-5 

Sweeps 32*2 

Hairdressers          •        •        .        .        .  42*3 

Tailors 43*7 

Tinkers  and  Tinmen     .        .        .        .45*7 

Saddlers 49*3 

Masons.         ......  490 

Glassmakers,  dbc 50*5 

Curriers 50*0 

Printers 52*4 

Hatters  and  Trimmers  ....  531 

Carpenters 63*8 

Ironmongers 50*0 

Dyers 50*7 

Sawjers 58*4 

Turners 59*3 

Engineers 69*7 

Butchers 03-7 

Laundresses 03.8 

Painters 00*1 

Brokers 077 

Medical  Men 08*0 

Brewers 70*2 

Clerks 734 

Shopkeepers 'J7-1 

Shoemakers 780 

Coaohmakeis         •        •        •       •        .  78*8 


346 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Milliners        .        .        .        .1  in  every    81-4 

Bakers 820 

Pawnbrokers 84*7 

Gardeners 97-6 

Weavers 99-3 

Drapers 102*3 

Tobacconists 103*4 

Jewellera 104*5 

Artists 100*3 

Publicans J  08*0 

Average  .        .       113-8 

Below  the  Average, 
Caners  nnd  Gilders       .         •        •        .  125*2 
Artificial  Flower  Makers        .  .  128*1 

Bookbinders 148*6 

Greengrocers 157*4 

Watchmakers 204-2 

Grocers 226-0 

Clockinakers 280*0 

Parish  officers 373-0 

Clergymen     • 4170 

Servants 585*7 

The  above  cnlcnlations  have  been  made  from 
the  Official  Returns  of  the  Metropolitan  Po- 
lice. The  causes  of  the  different  degrees 
of  intemperance  here  exhibited,  I  leave  to 
otliers  to  discover. 

After  the  meetinj(  of  coalwluppers  just  de- 
«cribcd,  I  requested  some  of  the  men  who 
had  expressed  the  various  opinions  respecting 
the  necessity  for  drinking  some  kind  of  fer- 
mented liquor  during  their  work  to  meet  me, 
■so  that  I  might  take  down  their  sentiments 
on  the  subject  more  fully.  First  of  all,  came 
two  of  the  most  intelligent,  who  believed 
ipalt  lijjuor  to  be  necessary  for  the  pcrform- 
tince  of  their  labour.  One  was  a  basketman 
or  tireman,  and  the  other  an  "  up-and-dowu  " 
man,  or  whipper;  the  first  doing  the  lighter, 
and  the  second  the  heavier  kind  of  work.  The 
basketman,  who  I  afterwards  discovered  was  a 
"good  Greek  and  Latin  scholar,  said :  "  If  I  have 
anything  like  a  hea\'y  day's  work  to  do,  I  con- 
«idor  three  pints  of  porter  a-day  necessary. 
W'c  are  not  like  other  labouring  men,  having 
on  hour  to  dinner.  Often,  to  save  tide,  we  take 
only  ton  minutes  to  our  meals.  One  thing  I 
>vish  to  remark  is,  that  what  renders  it  neces- 
•sarj-  to  have  the  three  pints  of  beer  in  winter, 
and  two  pots  in  summer,  is  the  coal-dust 
tirising  from  the  work,  which  occasions  great 
thirst.  In  the  summer  time  the  basketman  is 
on  the  plank  all  day,  and  continually  exposed 
to  the  sun,  and  in  the  winter  to  the  incle- 
mency of  tlie  weather.  What  with  the  labour 
and  tlie  heat,  the  perspiration  is  excessive. 
A  bafjketnian  with  a  bad  gang  of  men  has  no 
sine<nire.  In  the  summer  he  can  wear  neither 
coat  nor  waistcoat ;  vcr>'  few  can  bear  the  hat 
on  the  head,  and  tliey  wear  nightcaps  instead. 
The  work  is  always  done,  in  summer  time,  with 
only  the  shirt  and  trousers  on.  The  basket- 
man  never  lakes  olf  his  shirt,  like  the  whippers. 
The  necessity  for  drink  in  the  summer  does 


not  arise  so  much  firom  the  extent  of  the  laboiir, 
as  from  the  irritation  caused  by  the  coal-dost 
getting  into  the  throat  There  is  not  so  mneh 
dust  from  the  coals  in  the  winter  as  in  the- 
simuner,  the  coals  being  more  damp  in  wet 
than  in  fine  weather.  It  is  merely  the  Uuret 
that  makes  the  drink  requisite,  aa  f ar  u  the 
basketman  is  concerned.  Tea  wonld  allay  the 
thirst,  but  there  is  no  opportunity  of  haring 
this  on  board  ship.  If  there  were  an  oppor- 
tunity of  having  tea  at  our  work,  the  bai3cet- 
man  might  manage  to  do  with  it  as  well  as 
with  beer.  Water  I  don't  fancy,  especially  the 
water  of  the  river ;  it  is  very  impure,  and  at 
the  time  of  the  cholera  we  were  prohibited 
from  drinking  it  If  we  could  get  pure  water, 
I  do  not  think  it  would  do  as  well  for  as,  espe- 
cially in  winter  time.  In  winter  time  it  would 
be  too  cold,  and  too  great  a  contrast  to  the 
heat  of  the  blood.  It  would,  in  my  opinion, 
produce  stagnation  in  the  circulation.  We 
have  had  instances  of  men  dying  suddenly 
through  drinking  water  when  in  a  state  of 
excitement.**  [He  distinguishes  between 
excitement  and  perspiration:  he  calls  the 
basketman's  laboiur  an  exciting  one,  and  the 
whipper's  work  a  heating  one.]  **  The  men 
who  died  suddenly  were  whipi)er8.  I  never 
heard  of  a  basketman  dying  from  drinking 
cold  water  when  at  his  work ;  I  don't  think 
they  ever  tried  the  experiment.  The  whippers 
have  done  so  through  necessity,  not  through 
choice.  Tea  is  a  beverage  that  I  don't  fimej, 
and  I  conceive  it  to  be  equally  expensive,  so  I 
prefer  porter.  When  I  go  off  to  my  woric 
early  in  the  morning,  I  take  about  a  pint  of 
coffee  with  me  in  a  bottle,  and  warm  it  up  on 
board  at  the  galley-fire  for  my  breakfast;  that 
I  find  quenches  my  thirst  for  the  time  as  wdl 
porter.  Porter  would  be  too  insipid  the  flnt 
thing  in  the  morning;  I  never  drank  oofflM 
through  the  day  while  at  my  work,  so  I  cannot 
say  what  the  effect  would  be.  I  drink  porter 
when  at  my  work,  not  as  giving  me  greater 
strength  to  go  through  my  labour,  but  merely 
as  a  means  of  quenching  my  thirst,  it  being 
as  cheap  as  any  other  drink,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  water,  and  less  trouble  to  procure. 
Water  I  consider  dangerous  at  our  work,  but 
I  can't  say  that  it  is  so  fVom  my  own  expe- 
rience. I  was  in  the  hospital  about  seven 
years  ago,  and  the  doctor  there  asked  me  how 
many  pints  of  beer  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
drinking  per  day.  This  was  before  the  office 
was  established.  I  told  him,  on  the  lowest 
calculation,  six  or  seven ;  it  was  the  case  then 
under  the  old  system ;  and  he  then  ordered 
me  two  pints  of  porter  a-day,  as  I  was  reiy 
weak,  and  he  said  I  wanted  a  stimulus.  I  am 
not  aware  that  it  b  the  habit  of  the  publicans 
to  adulterate  their  porter  with  salt  and  water. 
If  such  is  the  case,  it  would,  without  a  doubt, 
increase  rather  than  diminish  the  thirst  I 
have  often  found  that  the  beer  sold  by  some 
of  the  publicans  tends  more  to  create  than 
allay  thirst  I  am  confident,  that  if  the  working 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


217 


men  genenlly  knew  that  salt  and  water  was 
inTaziably  mixed  with  the  porter  by  the  pub- 
licans, they  would  no  longer  hold  to  the  notion 
that  it  could  quench  their  thirst ;  but,  to  con- 
vince them  of  that,  it  would  be  almost  neces- 
Huy  that  they  should  see  the  publican 
•dnlterafiing  the  leer  with  their  own  eyes. 
If  it  really  is  the  case  that  beer  is  adulterated 
with  salt  and  water,  it  must  be  both  injurious 
and  heating  to  the  labouring  man.  Some  of 
the  men  who  are  in  the  habit  of  drinking 
porter  at  thdr  work,  very  probably  attribute 
the  thirst  created  by  the  salt  and  water  in  tlie 
porter  to  the  thirst  created  by  the  coal-dust  or 
the  work,  and  continue  drinking  it  from  the 
force  of  habit.  The  habit  of  drinking  is  doubt- 
kasly  the  effect  of  the  old  system,  when  tbo 
men  were  forced  to  drink  by  the  publicans  who 
pidd  them.  A  most  miraculous  change,  and 
one  imparalleled  in  history,  has  been  produced 
by  altering  the  old  mode  of  employing  and 
paying  the  men.  The  reformation  in  the 
morals  and  character  of  the  men  is  positively 
▼onderfbl.  The  sons  are  no  longer  thieves, 
and  the  daoghters  are  no  longer  prostitutes. 
Formerly  it  was  a  competition  who  could 
drink  the  most,  for  ho  who  could  do  so  got  the 
moat  work.  The  introduction  for  a  job  was 
inianahly,  '  You  know,  Mr.  So  and  So,  I'm  a 
good  drinking  man.'  Seeing  the  benefit  that 
ha*  resulted  from  the  men  not  drinking  so 
mtwh  as  formerly,  I  am  of  opinion  that, 
though  I  take  my  beer  every  day  myself,  a 
great  good  would  ensue  if  ihe  men  would 
orink  eTen  less  than  they  do  now,  and  eat 
move ;  it  would  be  more  conducive  to  their 
health  and  strength.  But  they  have  not  the 
iime  ftuBility  for  getting  food  over  their  work 
as  there  is  for  getting  beer.  You  see,  they  can 
hare  credit  for  beer  when  they  can't  get  a 
morsel  of  food  on  trust  Thei-e  are  no  floating 
bntchers  or  bakers,  like  there  arc  floating  pub- 
licans or  purimen.  If  there  were,  and  men 
could  have  trust  for  bread  and  meat  while  at 
thdr  work  on  the  river,  I  am  sure  they  would 
eat  more  and  drink  less,  and  be  aU  the  better  for 
it.  It  would  be  better  for  themselves  and  for 
their  families.  The  great  evil  of  the  drink 
is,  that  when  a  man  has  a  little  he  often 
wants  more,  and  doesn't  know  whore  to  stop. 
When  he  once  passes  the  *  rubi-can,'  as  I  coll 
it,  he  is  loet.  If  it  wasn't  for  this  evil,  I  think 
A  pint  or  two  of  porter  would  make  them  do 
their  work  better  than  either  tea  or  water. 
Our  labour  is  peculiar.  The  air  is  always 
full  of  coal-dust,  and  ever>'  nen-e  and  muscle 
of  the  body  is  strained,  an<l  every  pore  of  the 
body  open,  so  that  he  requires  somo  drink 
that  will  counteract  the  cold." 

The  next  two  that  I  saw  were  men  who  did 
the  heaviest  work ;  that  is,  **  up-and-down 
men,"  or  coalwliippers,  as  they  are  usually 
called.  They  had  both  of  them  been  tee- 
totalers. One  had  been  so  for  eight  years, 
and  the  otlier  had  tried  it  for  three  months. 
One  who  stood  at  least  six  feet  and  a^half 


high,  and  was  habited  in  a  long  blue  great 
coat  that  reached  to  his  heels,  and  made  him 
look  even  taller  tlian  lie  was,  said, — "  I  was 
a  strict  teetotaler  for  many  veurs,  and  I  wisli 
I  could  be  so  now.  All  Ih'ut  time  I  was  a 
coalwhipper  at  the  hea\iest  work,  and  I  have 
made  one  of  a  gang  that  have  dono  as  many 
as  180  tons  in  one  day.  I  drank  no  fer- 
mented liquor  the  whole  of  the  time ;  1  hod 
only  ginger-beer  and  milk,  and  that  cost  me 
\s. \id.  It  was  in  the  siunmer  time.  I  didnt 
*  butf  it'  on  that  day;  that  is,  1  didn't  tako 
my  shirt  oflf.  I  did  this  work  at  the  liei^'ont's 
Canal ;  and  there  was  a  little  milk-shop  close 
on  shore,  and  I  used  to  nm  there  when  I 
was  dry.  I  had  about  two  quails  of  milk 
and  five  bottles  of  ginger-beer,  or  about  three 
quarts  of  fluid  altgether.  I  found  that  amount 
of  drink  necessary.  I  perspired  very  vio- 
lently; my  shirt  was  wet  through,  and  my 
flannels  wringing  wet  with  the  per3]»iraiion 
over  the  work.  The  rule  among  us  is,  that 
we  do  28  tons  on  deck,  and  XJ8  tons  filling 
in  the  ship's  hold.  We  go  on  in  that  way 
throughout  tlie  day,  spelling  at  every  28  tons. 
The  perspiration  in  the  summer  time  streams 
down  our  foreheads  so  rapidly,  that  it  will  oflcn 
get  into  our  eyes  before  we  have  time  to 
wipe  it  off".  Tliis  makes  the  eyes  veiy  sore. 
At  night,  when  wo  get  home,  we  cannot  bear 
to  sit  with  a  candle.  The  perspiration  is  of 
a  very  briny  nature,  for  I  often  taste  it  as 
it  runs  down  to  my  lips.  We  are  often  so 
heated  over  our  work  that  the  perspiration 
rims  into  the  shoes ;  and  often,  from  the  dust 
and  heat,  jumping  up  and  down,  and  tho 
feet  being  galled  with  the  small  dust.  I  have 
had  my  shoes  full  of  blood.  Tho  thirst  pro- 
duced by  our  work  is  very  excessive;  it  is 
completely  as  if  you  had  a  fever  upon  you. 
The  dust  gets  into  the  throat,  and  very  nearly 
suffocates  you.  You  can  scrape  the  coal-dust 
oflf  the  tongue  with  the  teeth ;  and  do  what 
you  will  it  is  impossible  to  get  the  least 
spittle  into  tho  mouth.  I  have  known  tho 
coal-dust  to  be  that  thick  in  a  ship's  hold, 
that  I  have  been  unablo  to  see  my  mate, 
though  he  was  only  two  feet  from  me.  Your 
legs  totter  imder  you,  both  before  and  after 
you  are  a  teetotaler.  I  was  one  of  the 
strongest  men  in  tho  business;  I  was  able 
to  carry  7  cwt.  on  my  bock  for  fifty  yards, 
and  I  could  lift  nine  half-hundreds  with  my 
right-arm.  After  finishing  my  day's  work  I 
was  like  a  child  with  weakness.  When  we 
have  done  14  or  28  tons,  we  generally  stop 
for  a  drop  of  drink,  and  then  I  have  found 
that  anything  that  would  wet  my  mouth 
would  revive  me.  Cold  tea,  milk,  or  ginger- 
beer,  were  refreshing,  but  not  so  much  as 
a  pint  of  porter.  Cold  water  wouLl  give  a 
pain  in  tho  inside,  so  that  a  man  would  have 
to  lie  down  and  be  taken  ashore,  and,  per- 
haps, give  up  work  altogether.  Many  a 
man  has  been  taken  to  the  hospital  merely 
through  drinking  cold  water  over  his  work. 


243 


LONDON  LABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOM. 


They  havo  complained  of  a  weight  and  cold- 
ness in  the  chest;  they  say  it  has  chilled 
the  fat  of  the  heart  I  can  positively  sUite," 
continued  the  man,  "  that  during  the  whole 
of  eight  years  I  took  no  fermented  drink. 
My  usual  drink  was  cold  tea,  milk,  ginger- 
beer,  or  coffee,  whichever  I  could  catch :  tlie 
ginger-beer  was  more  lively  than  the  milk; 
but  I  believe  I  could  do  more  work  ui)on  the 
milk.  Tea  I  found  much  better  than  coffee. 
Cold  tea  was  very  refreshing ;  but  if  I  didn't 
take  it  with  me  in  a  bottle,  it  wsisn't  to  be 
had.  I  used  to  take  a  quart  of  cold  tea  with 
me  in  a  bottle,  and  make  that  do  for  me  all 
day,  as  well  as  I  could.  The  ginger-beer  was 
the  most  expensive,  and  would  cost  me  a 
shilling,  or  more  than  that  if  I  could  get  it. 
The  nulk  would  cost  me  sixpence  or  eight- 
pence.  For  tea  and  coffco  the  expense  would 
be  about  twopence  the  day.  But  often  I  have 
done  the  whole  day's  work  without  any  diink, 
because  I  would  not  touch  beer,  and  then  I 
was  more  fit  to  be  carried  home  than  walk. 
I  have  known  many  men  scarcely  able  to 
crawl  up  the  ladder  out  of  the  hold,  they  were 
80  fatigued.  For  myself,  being  a  very  strong 
man,  I  was  never  so  reduced,  thank  God. 
But  often,  when  I've  got  home,  I've  been 
obliged  to  drink  three  pints  of  milk  at  a 
stretch,  before  I  could  touch  a  bit  of  victuals. 
As  near  as  I  can  guess  it  used  to  cost  me, 
when  at  work,  a  shilling  a-day  for  ginjrcr- 
becr,  milk,  and  other  teetotal  drinks.  When 
I  was  not  at  work  my  drink  used  to  cost  me 
little  or  nothing.  For  eight  years  I  stuck  to 
the  pledge,  but  I  found  myself  failing  in 
strength  and  health ;  I  foimd  that  I  couldn't 
go  tlirongh  a  day's  work  as  clever  as  I  used 
before  I  left  off  drink,  and  when  first  I  was  a 
teetotaler.  I  found  myself  failing  in  every 
inch  of  my  carcase,  my  limbs,  my  body  and 
all.  Of  my  own  free-will  I  gave  it  up.  I  did 
not  do  it  in  a  fit  of  passion,  but  deliberately, 
because  I  was  fully  satisfied  that  it  was  in- 
juring my  health.  Shortly  after  taking  the 
pledge  I  found  I  could  have  more  meat  than 
I  iLsed  to  liave  before,  and  I  found  that  I 
neither  got  strong  nor  weak  upon  it.  After 
about  five  years  my  appetite  began  to  fail, 
and  then  I  found  my  strength  leaving  me; 
80  I  made  up  my  mind  to  nJter  the  system. 
When  I  returned  to  beer,  I  found  myself 
getting  better  in  health  and  stronger  didly. 
Before  I  was  a  teetotaler  I  used  to  drink 
heavy,  but  after  teetotalism  I  was  a  temperate 
man.  I  am  sure  it  is  necessary  for  a  hard- 
working man  that  he  should  drink  beer.  He 
can't  do  liis  work  so  well  without  it  as  he 
can  with  it,  in  moderation.  If  he  goes  be- 
yond his  allowance  he  is  better  without  any. 
I  have  taken  to  drinking  beer  again  within 
the  last  twelve  months.  As  long  as  a  man 
does  not  go  beyond  his  allowance  in  beer, 
his  drink  will  cost  him  quite  as  much  when 
he  is  teetotaler  as  it  will  when  he  has  not 
taken  the  pledge.     The  difference  between 


the  teetotal  and  fermented  drinks  I  find  to 
be  this : — ^When  I  drank  milk  it  didn't  make 
me  any  liveher;  it  quenched  my  thirst,  but 
didn't  give  me  any  strength.  But  when  I 
drank  a  pint  or  a  quart  of  beer,  it  did  me  no 
much  good  after  a  day's  labour,  that  after 
drinking  it  I  could  get  up  and  go  to  my  work 
again.  This  feeling  would  continue  for  a  con- 
siderable time;  indeed,  I  think  the  beer  is 
much  better  for  a  hardrworking  man  than 
any  unfermented  drink.  I  defy  any  man  in 
England  to  contradict  me  in  what  I  say,  and 
that  is — a  man  who  takes  bis  reasonable 
quantity  of  beer,  and  a  fair  share  of  food, 
is  much  better  with  it  than  without." 

Another  man,  who  had  been  a  teetotaler 
for  three  months  at  one  time,  and  seven  years 
at  another,  was  convinced  that  it  was  impos- 
sible  for  a  hard-working  man  to  do  his  work  as 
well  without  beer  as  with.  '*  He  had  tried  it 
twice,  and  he  spoke  from  his  own  experience, 
and  he  would  say  that  a  little — that  is,  two 
pints,  or  three  for  a  very  hard  day'a  labour,— 
would  never  hurt  no  man.  Beyond  that  a 
man  has  no  right  to  go;  indeed,  anything 
extra  only  makes  him  stupid.  Under  the  old 
system,  I  used  to  be  obliged  to  buy  rum;  and, 
over  and  over  again,  I've  had  to  pjSj  fifteen- 
pence  for  half-a-pint  of  rum  in  a  ginger-beer 
bottle ;  and  have  gone  into  the  street  and  sold 
it  for  sixpence,  and  got  a  steak  with  the 
money.  No  man  can  say  drink  has  mined 
my  constitution,  for  I've  only  had  two  penny- 
worth of  antibilious  pills  in  twenty-five  years ; 
and  I  will  say,  a  little  beer  does  a  man'  more 
good  than  harm,  and  too  much  does  a  man 
more  harm  than  good.** 

The  next  two  *'  whippers  "  that  I  saw  were 
both  teetotalers.  One  had  taken  the  pledge 
eight  months  before,  and  the  other  four  years ; 
and  they  had  both  kept  it  strictly.  One  had 
been  cellarman  at  a  public-house,  and  he  siud, 
"  I  neither  take  spruce  nor  any  of  the  cor- 
dials :  water  is  my  beverage  at  dinner."  The 
other  had  been  an  inveterate  drunkard.  The 
cellarman  is  now  a  basketman,  and  the  other 
an  up-and-down  man,  or  whipper,  in  the  same 
gang.  The  basketman  said,  '*  1  can  say  tins 
from  my  own  experience, — that  it  is  not  ne- 
cessary for  a  working  man,  doing  the  very 
hardest  labour,  to  drink  fermented  liquors.  I 
was  an  up-and-down  man  for  two  years,  with- 
out  tasting  a  drop  of  beer  or  spirits.  I  havo 
helped  to  whip  189  tons  of  coal  in  one  day,  with- 
out any ;  and  that  in  the  heat  of  summer.  What 
I  had  with  me  was  a  bottle  of  cocoa;  and  I  took 
with  tliot  plenty  of  steak,  potatoes,  and  bread. 
If  the  men  was  to  take  more  meat  and  less 
beer,  they  would  do  much  better.  It's  a  delu- 
sion to  think  beer  necessaiy.  Often,  the  men 
who  say  the  beer  is  necessary  will  deliver  a 
ship,  aye,  and  not  half-a-dozen  half-pints  be 
drank  aboard.  The  injury  is  done  ashore. 
The  former  custom  of  our  work— the  compul- 
sory system  of  drinking  that  we  were  under, — 
has  so  imbedded  the  idea  of  drink  in  the  men, 


LONBON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


240 


tfast  flief  fliink  it  is  t0tnRl]7Deoes8a]7.  It*8 
not  the  lawt  to  be  wondered  at,  that  there's  so 
many  dmdcBfuB  anionic  them*  I  do  not 
think  we  ahaH  ever  'be  able  to  nndo  the  habit 
of  drinking  among  the  whippem  in  this  gene- 
ratkm.  As  far  ae  I  am  ooneerned,  since  I've 
Veen  ateelotader,  Ihave  enjoyed  a  more  regular 
stake  of  health  than  I  nsed  before.  Now  that 
I  am  a  basketraan,  I  drink  only  water  with 
in  J  finner ;  and  during  my  work  I  take  no- 
Anng.  I  -have  got  a  ship  in  hands — going  to 
woik  on  Monday  morning.  I  fihall  have  to 
nm  baekwards  and  forwards  on  a  one-and- 
twenty.foot  plank,  and  deliver  800  tons 
cf  ooals:  and  I  idiall  do  that  upon  water. 
That  man,**  pointing  to  the  tcot'jtaler  who 
•ccompanied  him,  ^'will  be  in  it,  and  he'll 
have  to  help  to  pull  the  coals  twenty  foot 
above  iho  deck ;  and  hell  do  it  all  upon  water. 
When  I  was  a  coalwhipper  mj'self,  I  used  to 
diink  cocoa.  I  took  it  cold  with  mc  of  a 
notning,  and  warmed  it  aboard.  They  pro- 
phesied  it  would  kill  mo  in  a  week;  and  I 
snow  it*8  done  me  everv-  good  iu  life.  I  have 
4lnmk  water  when  I  was  a-working  up-and- 
down, -and  when  I  was  in  the  highest  perspir- 
ation, and  never  found  it  injure  mc.  It 
aUays  the  thirst  more  than  anything.  If  it 
didnt  allay  the  thirst  I  should  want  to  drink 
often :  but  if  I  take  a  drink  of  water  from  the 
cask  I  ftud  my  thirst  immediately  qnenclicd. 
Many  of  tlie  men  who  drink  beor  will  take  a 
drink  of  water  aftenvards,  because  the  beer 
increases  their  thirst,  and  heats  tliem.  lliat, 
I  believe,  is  principally  from  the  salt  water  in 
it:  in  feet,  it  stands  to  reason,  that  if  beer  is 
half  brine  it  can't  quench  tliirnt.  Ah  I  it's 
thoddng  stuff  the  purlin  en  make  up  for  them 
on  the  river.  AVhen  I  was  drinking  beer  at 
my  employment,  I  used  seldom  to  exceed 
throe  pints  of  beer  a-day  :  tliat  is  what  I  took 
ftnboMnL  "What  I  had  on  shore  was  not,  of 
course,  to  help  me  to  do  my  labour.  I  know 
fte  beisr  used  to  inflame  my  thirst,  because 
l'?e  had  to  drink  water  after  it  <rv-er  and  over 
igun.  I  never  made  a  habit  of  drinking, — 
oot  since  the  establishment  of  tho  office. 
Previous  to  that,  of  course,  I  was  obliged  to 
drink.  I've  got  *  jolly '  now  and  then,  but  I 
Bever  made  a  habit  of  it.  It  used  to  cost  me 
iboottwo  shillings  or  two  shillings  and  six- 
pence a-week,  on  the  average,  for  drink,  at  the 
Qttenttoet;  because  I  coul<iu*t  atford  more. 
Sbce  IVe  taken  the  pledge,  I'm  sure  it  hasn't 
cost  me  sixpence  a-week.  A  teetotaler  feels 
leiB  thirst  than  any  other  man.  I  don't  know 
*hat  natural  thiiTit  is.  except  I've  been  eating 
*slt  provisions.  I  belong  to  a  total  abstinence 
8ocioty,  and  there  are  obout  a  dozen  coal- 
whinpore,  and  about  the  sanje  number  of  coal- 
Wieni,  members  of  it.  Some  liave  been 
total  abstainers  for  twelve  years,  and  ore  Uving 
Guesses  that  fermented  drinks  arc  not  n«>- 
ceisary  for  working  men.  There  are  about 
two  hundred  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  coal- 
^hippors,  I  have  been  given  to  underetand, 


who  are  teetotalers.  Those  -eoalwhippen 
who  have  been  total  abstainers  for  twelve 
years,  are  not  weaker  or  worse  in  health  for 
the  want  of  beer."  [This  statement  was  de- 
nied  by  a  person  present ;  but  -a  gentleman, 
who  was  intimately  acquainted  witii  the  whole 
body,  mentioned  tiie  names  of  several  men 
who  had  been,  some  ten  years,  and  some  up- 
wards of  twelve  years,  ^strict  adherents  to  the 
principles  of  teetctalism.]  **  The  great  quan- 
tity of  drinking  is  carried  on  ashore.  1  should 
say  the  men  generolly  drink  twice  as  much 
ashore  as  they  do  afloat.  Those  who  dri^ 
beer  are  always  thirsty.  Through  drinking 
over  their  work,  a  tliirst  is  created  aboard,  which 
they  set  to  drinking,  when  ashore,  to  ollay; 
and,  after  a  hard  day's  labour,  a  vexy  little 
ON'orcomes  a  man.  One  or  two  pots  of  beer, 
and  the  man  is  loth  to  stir.  He  is  tired ;  and 
the  drink,  instead  of  refreshing  liim,  makes  him 
sleepy  and  heavy.  The  next  morning  afror 
di-inkin;;?  lie  is  thirstier  still ;  and  then  he  goes 
to  work  drinking  again.  Tiie  perspiration 
will  start  out  of  liim  in  large  drops,  like  jMsas. 
You  will  sec  it  stream  down  his  face  and  his 
hands,  witli  the  coal-dust  sticking  to  them, 
just  like  as  if  he  hod  a  pair  of  silk  gloves  on 
him.  It's  a  common  saying  with  us,  about 
such  a  man,  tliat  •  he's  got  the  gloves  on.*  The 
drunkards  always  perspire  the  most  over  their 
work.  The  prejudice  existing  among  the 
men  in  favoiir  of  drink  is  such,  that  they  be- 
lieve they  would  die  without  it.  I  am  quite 
astonished  to  see  such  an  improvement  among 
them  as  there  is ;  and  I  do  think  that,  if  the 
cliTgymen  of  the  neighbourhood  did  their 
duty,  and  exerted  themselves,  the  people 
would  be  better  still.  At  one  time  there  were 
as  many  as  five  hundred  coalwhijipers  total 
abstainers;  and  the  men  were  much  better 
clothed,  and  the  homes  and  appearance  of  the 
wliippers  were  much  more  decent.  "What  I 
should  do  if  I  drank,  I  don't  know.  I  pot  1/. 
for  clearing  a  sliip  last  week,  and  shan't  get 
any  more  till  Monday  night;  and  I  have  six 
cliihlrcn  and  a  wife  to  keep  out  of  that.  Fop 
this  last  fortnight  I  have  only  made  lOs.  a- 
weok,  so  I  am  sure  I  couldn't  even  afford  a 
shilling  a-week  for  drink,  without  robbing  my 
family." 

The  second  teetotaler,  who  had  been  an  in- 
votoi-ate  drunkard  in  his  time,  stated  as  follows. 
Like  most  of  the  cojdwhippers,  he  thought 
once  tliat  he  could  not  do  his  work  without 
beer.  He  used  to  drink  as  much  as  he  could 
p<»t.  He  averaged  two  pots  at  his  work,  and 
when  he  come  on  shore  he  would  liave  two 
pots  more. 

"  He  had  been  a  coalwhipper  for  ujrwards 
of  twenty  years,  and  for  nineteen  years  and 
three  months  <»f  that  time  he  was  a  hard 
drinker, — a  regular  stiff  'un,'"  said  he;  *' I 
not  only  u<!t»d,"  he  added,  *'  to  got  drunk,  but 
I  taught  my  childitn  to  do  so, —  I  hove  got 
sons  as  big  as  myself,  coalbackers,  and  total 
abstainers.       Otteu  I  have  gone  home  on 


^X  LXIX. 


^:.o 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


a  Sunday  morning  drunk  myself,  and  found 
two  of  my  sons  £unk, —  they'd  bo  unable  to 
sit  at  the  table.  They  were  about  fourteen 
then,  and  when  they  went  out  with  me  I  used 
to  teach  them  to  take  their  littlo  drops  of  neat 
rum  or  gin.  I  have  seen  the  youngest  *  mop 
up '  his  half-quartern  as  well  as  I  did.  Then 
I  was  always  thirsty ;  and  when  I  got  up  of  a 
morning  1  used  to  go  stalking  round  to  the 
first  public-house  that  was  open,  to  see  if  I 
could  get  a  pint  or  a  quartern.  My  mouth 
was  dry  and  parched,  as  if  I  had  got  a  burning 
fever.  If  I  had  no  work  that  day  I  used  to 
sit  in  a  public-house  and  spend  all  the  money 
I'd  got.  If  I  had  no  money  I  would  go  home 
and  raise  it  somehow.  I  would  ask  the  old 
woman  to  give  me  the  price  of  a  pint,  or  per- 
haps the  young  ims  were  at  work,  and  I  was 
pretty  safe  to  meet  them  coming  home.  Talk 
about  going  out  of  a  Sunday !  I  was  ashamed 
to  be  seen  out.  My  clothes  were  ragged,  and 
my  shoes  would  take  the  water  in  at  one  end 
and  let  it  out  at  the  other.  I  keep  my  old 
rags  at  homo,  to  remind  mo  of  what  I  was — ^I 
call  them  the  regimentals  of  the  guzzler.  I 
pawned  everything  I  could  get  at.  For  ten  or 
twelve  years  I  used  a  boer-shop  regularly. 
That  was  my  house  of  call.  Now  my  home  is 
▼eiy  happy.  All  my  children  are  teetotalers. 
My  sons  arc  as  big  as  myself,  and  they  are  at 
work  carrying  If  cwt  to  2  cwt.  up  a  Jacob's 
ladder,  thirty- three  steps  high.  They  do  this 
all  day  long,  and  liave  been  doing  so  for  the 
last  seven  days.  They  drink  nothing  but 
water  or  cold  tea,  and  say  they  find  themselves 
tlie  better  able  to  do  their  work.  Coalbacking 
is  about  the  hardest  labour  a  man  can  per- 
form. For  myself,  too,  I  find  I  am  quite  as 
able  to  do  my  work  without  intoxicating  drinks 
as  I  was  with  them.  There's  my  basketnian," 
said  he,  pointing  to  the  other  teetotaler,  **  and 
he  can  tell  you  whether  what  I  say  is  true  or 
not.  I  have  helped  to  whip  147  tons  of  coal 
in  the  heat  of  summer.  The  other  men  were 
calling  for  beer  every  time  they  could  see  or 
hear  a  purlman,  but  I  took  nothing — I  don't 
think  I  perspired  so  much  as  they  cUd.  When 
I  was  in  the  drinking  custom,  I  have  known 
the  perspiration  run  down  my  arms  and  legs 
as  if  I* d  been  in  a  hot  bath.  Since  I've  taken 
the  pledge  I  scarcely  perspire  at  all.  I'll  work 
against  any  man  that  takes  beer,  provided  I 
have  a  good  teetotal  pill — that  is,  a  good  pound 
of  steak,  with  plenty  of  gravy  in  it.  That's 
the  stuff  to  work  upon — that's  what  the  work- 
ing man  wants — plenty  of  it,  and  less  beer, 
and  he'd  beat  a  horse  any  day.  I  am  satisfied 
the  working  man  can  never  be  raised  above 
ids  present  position  until  he  con  give  over 
drinking.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  am 
sticking  to  the  pledge,  that  I  may  be  a  living 
example  to  my  class  that  they  can  and  may 
work  without  beer.  It  has  made  my  home 
happy,  and  I  want  it  to  moke  every  other 
workinff  man's  as  comfortable.  I  tried  the 
principle  of  teetotalism  first  on  board  a  steam- 


boat. I  was  stoker,  and  we  burnt  27  cwt» 
of  coals  every  hour  we  were  at  sea — thal'a 
very  nearly  a  ton  and  a-half  per  hour.  There, 
with  the  heat  of  the  fire,  we  felt  the  effects  of 
drinking  strong  brandy.  Brandy  was  tho 
only  fermented  drink  we  were  allowed.  After 
a  time  I  tried  what  other  stimulants  we  could 
use.  The  heat  in  the  hold,  especially  before 
the  fires,  was  awful.  There  were  nine  stokers 
and  four  coal-trimmers.  Wo  found  that  the 
brandy  that  we  drank  in  the  day  made  .us  ill, 
our  heads  ached  when  we  got  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, so  four  of  us  agreed  to  try  oatmeal  and 
water  as  our  drink,  and  we  found  that  suited 
us  better  than  intoxicating  liquor.  I  myself 
got  as  fat  as  a  bull  upon  it.  It  was  recom- 
mended to  me  by  a  doctor  in  Falmouth,  and 
we  all  of  us  tried  it  eight  or  nine  voyages. 
Some  time  after  1  left  the  company  I  went  to 
strong  drink  again,  and  continued  at  it  till  the 
1  st  of  May  last,  and  then  my  children's  love 
of  drink  got  so  dreadful  that  I  got  to  hate 
myself  as  being  the  cause  of  it  But  I 
couldn't  give  up  the  drinking.  Two  of  my 
mates,  however,  urged  me  to  try.  On  the  Ist 
of  May  I  signed  tlie  pledge.  I  prayed  to  God 
on  the  night  I  went  to  give  me  strength  to 
kee]p  it,  and  never  since  have  I  felt  the  least 
inclmation  to  return.  When  I  had  left  off  a 
fortnight  I  found  myself  a  great  deal  better ; 
all  the  cramps  that  I  had  been  loaded  with 
when  1  was  drinking  left  me.  Now  I  am 
happy  and  comfortable  at  home.  My  wife's 
about  one  of  the  best  women  in  the  world* 
She  bore  with  me  in  all  my  troubles,  and  now 
she  glories  in  my  redemption.  My  children 
love  me,  and  we  club  all  our  earnings  together, 
and  can  always  on  Sunday  manage  a  joint  of 
sixteen  or  seventeen  pounds.  My  wife,  now 
that  we  are  teetotalers,  need  do  no  woric; 
and,  in  conclusion,  I  must  say  that  I  have 
much  cause  to  bless  the  Lord  that  ever  I 
signed  the  teetotal  pledge. 

"  After  I  leave  my  work,"  added  the  teeto- 
taler, "  I  find  the  best  thing  I  can  have  to 
refresh  me  is  a  good  wash  of  my  face  and 
shoulders  in  cold  water.  This  is  twice  as 
enlivening  as  ever  I  found  beer.  Once  a 
fortnight  I  goes  over  to  Goulston  -  square, 
Whitechapel,  and  have  a  warm  bath.  This  ia 
one  of  the  finest  things  that  ever  was  invented 
for  the  working  man.  Any  persons  thai  vse- 
them  don't  want  beer.  I  invited  a  coalwhiiiper^ 
man  to  come  with  me  once.  *  How  much  does  it 
cost?' he  asked.  I  told  him,  *  A  penny.*  'WelU* 
he  said,  *  I'd  sooner  have  half-a-pint  of  beer.. 
I  haven't  washed  my  body  for  these  twenty- 
two  years,  and  don't  see  why  I  should  begin 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  these  new-fangled 
notions  at  my  time  of  life.'  I  will  say,  thai  a 
good  wash  is  better  for  the  working  man  than 
the  best  drink." 

The  man  ultimately  made  a  particular  re- 
quest that  his  statement  might  conclude  with 
a  verso  that  he  had  chosen  from  the  Tempe- 
rance Melodies : — 


LOXDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


251 


**  And  now  we  lovo  the  social  cboer 
Of  the  bright  winter  eve ; 
We  have  no  amse  for  sigh  or  tear, 
We  have  no  cause  to  grieve. 

Our  wives  are  clad,  our  children  fed ; 

Wo  boast  where'er  wc  go  — 
Twas  all  because  we  sigu'd  the  i»lcdgc, 

A  long,  long  time  ago." 

At  the  close  of  myintemew  wiUi  these  men 
I  received  from  them  an  invitation  to  visit 
them  at  their  own  houses  whenever  I  should 
think  fit  It  was  clearly  their  desire  that  I 
should  see  the  comforts  and  domestic  ar- 
rangements of  their  homes.  Accordingly  on 
the  morrow,  choosing  an  hour  when  there 
could  have  been  no  preparation,  I  called  at 
the  lodgings  of  the  first.  I  found  the  whole 
family  assembled  in  the  back  kitchen,  that 
served  them  for  a  parlour-  As  I  entered  the 
room  the  mother  was  busy  at  work,  washing 
and  dressing  her  children  for  the  day.  There 
stood  six  little  things,  so  young  that  they 
seemed  to  he  all  about  the  same  height,  with 
thoir  faces  shining  with  the  soap  and  water, 
and  their  cheeks  burning  red  with  the  friction 
of  the  towel.  They  were  all  laughing  and 
playing  about  the  mother,  who,  with  comb  and 
brush  in  hand,  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  get 
them  to  stand  still  while  she  made  "  the 
parting.**  First  of  all  the  man  asked  me  to 
step  up-stairs  and  see  the  sleeping-room.  I 
vas  much  struck  with  the  scrupulous  cleanli- 
oess  of  the  apartment.  The  blind  was  as 
white  as  snow,  half  rolled  up,  and  fastened 
with  a  pin.  The  floor  was  covered  with 
patches  of  different  coloured  carpet,  showing 
that  they  had  been  bought  from  time  to  time,  and 
tellmg  how  difficult  it  had  been  to  obtain  the 
hixary.  In  one  comer  was  a  cupboard  with 
the  door  taken  off,  Uie  better  to  show  all  the 
tnmblers,  teacups,  and  colourod-glass  mugs, 
that,  with  two  decanters,  well  covered  with 
painted  flowers,  were  kept  more  for  ornament 
than  use.  On  the  chimneypiece  was  a  row 
of  shells,  china  shepherdesses,  and  lambs, 
<uid  a  stuffed  pet  canary  in  a  glass-case  for  a 
centre  ornament.  Against  the  wall,  surrounded 
hy  other  pictures,  hung  a  half-crown  water- 
colour  drawing  of  the  wife,  with  a  child  on 
her  knee,  matched  on  the  other  side  by  the 
hosband's  likeness,  cut  out  in  black  paper. 
Pictnres  of  bright-colom-ed  ducks  and  a  print 
of  Father  Moore  the  teetotaler  completed  the 
coUectioD. 

"You  see,"  said  the  man,  "we  manages 
pwtty  well ;  but  I  can  assure  you  we  has  a 
Wd  time  of  it  to  do  it  at  all  comfortably.  Me 
And  my  wife  is  just  as  we  stands — all  our  other 
things  are  in  pawn.  If  I  was  to  drink  I  don't 
blow  what  I  should  do.  How  others  manage 
>«  to  me  a  mystery.  This  will  show  you  I 
^peak  the  truth/'  he  added,  and  going  to  a 
«^cretary  that  stood  against  the  wall  he  pro- 
duced a  handfhl  of  duplicates.  There  were 
seventeen  tickets  in  all,  amounting  to  3/.  Os.  0<2., 
^e  highest  sum  borrowed  being  10«.   '*  That'll 


show  you  I  don't  like  ray  poverty  to  be  known, 
or  I  should  have  told  you  of  it  before.  And 
yet  we  manage  to  sleep  clean  ;"  and  he  pulled 
back  the  patchwork  counteii)ano,  and  showed 
me  the  snow-white  sheets  beneath.  "  There's 
not  enough  clothes  to  keep  us  wjirm,  but  at 
lesist  they  ore  clean.  Were  obliged  to  give  as 
much  as  we  can  to  the  children.  Cleanliness 
is  my  i)vife's  hobby,  and  I  let  her  indulge  in  it. 
I  can  assure  you  last  week  my  wife  had  to  take 
the  gown  off  her  back  to  get  1».  on  it.  My 
little  ones  seldom  have  a  bit  of  meat  from  one 
Sunday  to  another,  and  never  a  bit  of  butter." 

I  then  descended  into  the  porlom-.  The 
chililren  were  all  stjated  on  little  stools  that 
their  father  had  made  for  them  in  his  spare 
moments,  and  warming  themselves  round  the 
fire,  their  httle  black  shoes  i*esting  on  the 
white  hearth.  From  their  regular  features, 
small  mouths,  large  black  eyes,  and  fair  skins, 
no  one  woidd  have  taken  them  for  a  lalx)uring 
man's  family.  In  answer  to  my  questions,  he 
said :  '*  The  eldest  of  them  (a  pretty  little  half- 
clad  girl,  seated  in  one  comer)  is  ten,  the  next 
seven,  that  one  five,  that  three,  and  tliis  (a 
little  thing  perched  upon  a  table  near  the 
mother)  two.  I've  got  all  their  ages  in  the 
Bible  up-stairs."  I  remarked  a  stnutige  look 
about  one  of  the  little  girls.  **  Yes,  she  always 
suffered  witli  that  eye;  and  down  at  the 
hospital  they  lately  perfonued  an  operation 
on  it."    An  artificial  pupil  had  been  made. 

The  room  was  closed  in  from  the  passage  by 
a  radely  built  partition.  "  That  I  did  myself 
in  my  leisure,"  said  the  man ;  *'  it  makes  the 
room  snugger.''  As  he  saw  me  looking  at  the 
clean  rolling-pin  and  bright  tins  hung  against 
the  wall,  he  observed :  "  That's  all  my  wife's 
doing.  She  lias  got  them  together  by  some- 
times going  without  dinner  herself,  and  laying 
out  the  2(i.  or  3rf.  in  things  of  Uiat  sort.  That 
is  how  she  manages.  To-day  she  has  got  us 
a  sheep's  head  and  a  few  turnips  for  our  Sun- 
day's dinner,"  he  added,  taking  off  the  lid  of 
the  boiling  saucepan.  Over  the  mantelpiece 
hung  a  picture  of  George  IV.,  surrounded  by 
four  other  frames.  One  of  them  contxiined 
merely  three  locks  of  hair.  The  man,  laugh- 
ing, told  me,  "  Two  of  them  are  locks  of  myself 
and  my  wife,  and  the  light  one  in  the  middle 
belonged  to  my  wife's  brother,  who  died  in 
India.     That's  her  doing  again,"  he  added. 

After  tliis  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  other  teeto- 
taler at  his  home,  and  there  saw  one  of  his 
sons.  He  had  six  children  altogether,  and 
also  supported  his  wife's  mother.  If  it  wasn't 
for  him,  the  poor  old  thing,  who  was  seventy- 
five,  and  a  teetotaler  too,  must  have  gone  to 
the  workhouse.  Three  of  his  six  children 
lived  at  home;  tlio  other  three  were  out  at 
service.  One  of  the  lads  at  home  was  a  coal- 
backer.  He  was  twenty-four  years  of  age,  and 
on  an  average  could  earn  17«.  Orf.  It  was  four 
years  since  he  had  taken  to  backing.  He  said, 
•*  I  am  at  work  at  one  of  the  worst  wharfs  in 
London ;  it  is  called  *  the  slaughter-house '  by 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  men,  bocaUBe  the  work  is  so  excessive. 
Tha  strongest  man  cun  only  hist  twelve  yeaw 
at  tlie  work  there;  oiler  that  ho  is  uverstndiieil 
and  of  uo  use.  I  do  the  liordcst  work,  and 
carry  the  coals  up  from  the  hold.  The  ladder 
I  mount  has  about  thirt^'-flve  steps,  and  stands 
very  nearly  stroiglit  on  end.  Plach  time  I 
mount  I  Qvcrry  on  my  back  2n8  pounds.  No 
man  can  work  at  this  for  more  than  five  days 
in  the  week.  I  work  three  days  running,  then 
have  a  day's  rest,  and  then  work  two  days  more. 
I  myself  generally  do  five  days'  work  out  of  the 
six.  I  never  drink  any  beer,  and  have  not  for 
the  last  eight  months.  For  thiXN3  years  and 
four  months  I  took  beer  to  get  over  tlie  work. 
I  used  to  liave  a  puit  at  eleven,  a  x>ot  at  dinner, 
a  pint  at  four  o'clock,  and  double  allowanoe,  or 
a  coujile  of  pots,  afUir  work.  Very  often  I  had 
more  than  double  allowance.  I  seldom  in  a 
day  drank  less  than  that;  but  I  have  done 
more.  I  have  ilnmk  five  pot^i  in  four  minutes 
and  a-IialC  So  my  (ixpenditure  for  beer  was 
]«.  -W.  a-day  I'cgularly.  Iiidei^l,  I  use^l  to 
allow  mysulf  thnje  hidf-cr«wns  to  spend  in 
beer  a-week.  Sundays  included.  AVhen  a  coal- 
worker  is  in  full  work,  he  usually  siKjnds  'Is. 
a-day,  or  \)U,  a- week,  in  bt»«T.  The  trade  calls 
these  men  tcmix-mte.  When  they  spend  l^s. 
the  trade  tliink  tliey  are  intern pcrate.  lieftmt 
I  took  the  pledg.i  I  scarcely  ever  went  to  In-d 
sober  after  my  laboiu*.  I  was  not  always  drunk, 
but  I  wjis  heavy  imd  stupid  with  beer.  Twice 
witliin  the  time  I  was  a  conlbacker  I  hiiv<.> 
been  iusi^unibly  (hnink.  I  should  say  thrcn?- 
fourths  of  the  coalbai'kers  are  dnuik  twice  a- 
wot*k.  Coalbackiug  is  as  hoa^-y  a  class  of 
labour  as  any  performed.  I  don't  know  tmy 
that  can  beat  it.  I  have  been  eight  months 
doing  tlie  work,  and  can  Si)lemnly  state  I  have 
never  tosteil  a  dix)p  of  fermented  liijuor.  I 
have  foimd  I  could  do  my  work  bitter  and 
brisker  than  when  I  drank.  I  never  feel 
thirsty  over  my  work  now ;  before,  I  was  always 
di7,  and  telt  as  if  I  could  never  drink  enough 
to  quench  iL  Now  I  never  think  from  the 
time  I  go  to  work  till  the  time  I  have  my 
dinner ;  then  my  usual  beverage  is  (ntlier  cold 
coffee  or  oatmeal  and  water.  From  that  time 
I  never  drink  till  I  take  my  t(>a.  On  Uiis 
system  I  find  mys<^lf  quite  as  strong  us  I  did 
with  the  i>orter.  "When  I  ilraiik  porter  it  used 
to  itiuko  me  go  along  with  a  sack  a  little  bit 
biisker  for  half.an-hour,  but  after  that  I  was 
dead,  and  obliged  to  have  some  more.  There 
are  men  at  the  wharf  wlio  drink  beer  and 
spirits  that  can  do  six  days'  labour  ui  the  week. 
1  oau't  do  this  myself.  I  have  done  as  much 
when  I  took  fermented  Uquors,  but  I  only  did 
80  by  whipping  myself  up  with  stimulants.  I 
■was  obliged  to  drmk  every  hour  a  pint  of  beer 
to  force  ma  along.  That  was  only  working  for 
the  publican ;  for  I  had  leas  money  at  the 
week's  end  than  when  I  did  less  work.  Now  I 
can  keep  longer  and  more  steadily  at  my  work. 
In  a  month  I  would  wairant  to  back  more 
coals  than  a  drunkard*.    X  think  the  drunkard 


can  do  more  for  a  short  space  of  time  than  the 
teitotalcT.  I  am  satisfied  the  coolbockers  aa 
a  ehiss  would  be  better  off  if  they  left  off  the 
diinking:  and  then  masters  would  not  force 
them  to  do  so  much  work  after  dark  as  they  do 
now.  They  always  pay  at  public-houses.  If 
tliat  system  was  abandoned,  the  men  would  be 
j^Toatly  benefited  by  it  Drinking  is  not  a 
necessity  of  the  labour.  All  I  want  when  Tm. 
at  work  is  a  bit  of  coal  in.  tfae  month.  This 
not  only  keeps  the  moutii  coolybui  aa  we  go  up 
the  ladder  we  very  often  scrunoh  our  teeth— 
the  work's  so  hard.  The  coal  kaepa  us  fkxuo. 
biting  the  tongue,  that's  one  use ;  the  other  is^ 
that  by  rolling  it  along  in  the  mouth  it  excitea 
the  spittle,  and  it  moistens  the  mouth.  This. 
I  find  a  great  deal  better  tiian  a  pot  of 
porter." 

In  order  to  complete  my  investigodans  oon« 
ceming  the  necessity  of  drinking  in  tlie  coaL 
whipping  trade,  I  had  an  interview  with  some 
of  tiie  more  intelligent  of  the  mea  who  had 
bei-n  principally  concerned  in  the  pasting  of 
the  Act  that  rescued  the  dasa  from  the  "thral- 
dom of  the  pubUcan." 

**  I  consider,"  sidd  one,  "  tliot  diink  is  not  a 
necessity  of  oiu:  labour,  but  it  is  a  uecessity  of 
the  system  under  whieh  wo  were  formerly 
working.  I  have  done  th*)  hanlest  work  that 
any  labouring  man  ciui  do,  and  drank  no  fer- 
mented hquor.  Nor  do  1  consider  fermented 
liquors  to  be  necessary  for  the  severest  hibour. 
This  I  cim  say  of  my  own  experience,  having 
been  a  t<>etuUder  for  sixteen  mouths.  But  if 
the  working  man  don't  have  the  driidc,  he  mutit 
have  good  solid  food,  superior  to  what  ho  is  ia 
the  habit  of  having.  A  pot  of  cotfee  and  a 
gooil  beef  dumpling  will  get  one  over  the  most 
severe;  labour.  But  if  ho  can't  liave  that  ha 
must  have. the  stimulants.  A  pint  of  beec  ha 
can  always  have  on  credit,  but  he  can't  the 
beef  dumpling.  If  there  is  an  oxousa  for  any 
I)ersons  ilnnkmg  Uiere  is  for  the  ooalwhippera^ 
for  under  the  old  system  they  were  forucd  to 
become  habitual  dnuikanls  to  obtain  work.!' 

I  also  questioned  anotlier  of  the  men,  who 
had  been  a  prime  mover  in  obLaining  the  Act. 
He  assured  me,  that  before  the  "  emancipation" 
of  the  men  the  universal  belief  of  the  coal- 
whippers,  enuouraged  by  the  publicans,. was, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  work  with- 
out hquor.    In  order  to  do   away  with  thut 
delusion,  the  three  principal  agents  in  pBocm^ 
ing  the  Act  became  teetotalers  of  their  own 
accord,  and  remained  so,   one    foe    sixtoen      x 
montlis  and  anoUier  for  nine  years,  in  ovder 
to  prove  to  their  fellow  workmen  that  drinking      | 
over  their  labotur  could  be  dispensed  with»  and     j 
that  they  might  have  "cool  brains  to  fight 
through  the  work  they  had  tuadextaken." 

Anotlier  of  the  more  intelligent  men  who 
had  been  a  teetotaler : — ^  I  pesfonnad.  tha 
hardest  labour  I  ever  did,  befova  or  aftasi  with 
more  ease  and  satisfaction  than,  aver  I  did 
under  tha.  drinking  system.  It  ia  q|iita  a  delu- 
sion, to  beliave  that  with,  proi^ntttamaot  tha 


LOKDOir  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOXDON  POOR. 


253 


health    decHxXQS   tmder  principles   of   total 
ibstiiience.* 

JMter  thfar  t  was  anxions  to  continne  my 
mTPstigadonB  among  die  coidipoiters,  and'  see 
whe&er  the  more  intelligent  among'  them 
were  as  ftrmly  convinced  as  the  better  class  of 
eofllwhippeis'  were,  that  intoxicating  drinks 
were  not  necessary  for  the  performance  of 
hard  labour.  I  endeavom^  to  And  one  of 
each  dflSB,  pursning  the  same,  plan  as  I  had 
ad)opted  witk  the  coalwhippers':  tiz:  I  sought 
fixs^  on»  who  war  90  flnnlj  convinced  of  the 
neces^ty  of  drinking' fbnnented  liquors  during 
his  wotIc^  that  he  had  never  been  induced  to 
abandon  thenr;  secondly,  I  endeavoured  to 
obtain  the  evidence  of  one  who  had  tried  the 
principle  of  total  abstinence  and  fbund  it  ftiil ; 
and  thirdly,  I  strove  to  procure  the  opinion  of 
those  who  had  been  teetotalers  fbr  several 
years,  and  who  could  conscientiously  state 
that  no  stimulant  was  necessary  for  the  per- 
fbrmance  of  their  labour.  Subjoined  is  the 
result  of  my  investigations. 

Omceming  the  motives  and  reasons  for  the 
great  consumption  of  beer  by  the  coalportcrs, 
I  obtained  the  following  statement  from  one 
of  diem : — **  I've  been  all  my  life  at  coalporter- 
ing,  off  and  on,  and  am  now  thirty-nine.  For 
tbe  last  two  years  or  so  Pvc  worked  regularly 
M  a  filler  to  Mr.  — ^'s  waggons.  1  couldn't 
do  my  work  without  a  good  allowance  of  beer. 
I  can't  afford  so  much  now,  as  my  ftmiily  costs 
mc  more ;  but  my  regular  allowance  one  time 
was  three  pots  a-day.  I  have  drank  four  pots, 
and  always  a  glass  of  giu  in  tbe  morning  to 
keep  out  the  cold  air  from  the  water.  If  I  got 
off  then  for  7*.  a  week  for  drink  1  reckoned  it 
a  cheap  week.  I  can't  do  my  work  without 
my  beer,  and  no  coalporter  can,  properly. 
It's  all  nonsense  talking  about  ginger-beer,  or 
tea,  or  milk,  or  that  sort  of  thing ;  what  body 
is  there  in  any  of  it  ?  Many  a  time  I  might 
have  been  clicked  with  rool-dnst,  if  I  hadn't 
had  my  beer  to  clear  my  throat  wth.  I  can't 
say  that  I'm  particularly  tliirsty  like  next 
ooming,  after  drinking  three  or  four  pots  of 
beer  to  my  own  work,  but  I  don't  get  drunk." 
Ho  fhjquently,  and  with  some  emphasis,  re- 
peated the  words,  "But  I  don't  get  dnmk." 
**Tou  see,  when  you're  at  such  hard  work  as 
ours,  one's  tired  soon,  and  a  drop  of  good  beer 
puts  new  sap  into  a  man.  It  oils  bis  joints 
Hke.  He  con  lift  better  and  stir  about  brisker. 
I  dont  care  much  fur  beer  when  I'm  quiet  at 
bome  on  a  Sunday;  it  sets  me  to  sleep  then. 
Tonoe  tried  to  go  without  to  please  a  master, 
«od  did  work  one  day  with  only  one  half-pint. 
Iwent  home  as  tired  as  a  dog.  I  should  have 
l»een  soon  good  for  noUiing  if  Td  gone  on  that 
^y — half-pinting  in  a  day.  Lord  love  you  ! 
5*  know  a  drop  of  good  beer.  The  coalporters 
i«  admitted  to  be  as  good  judges  of  beer  as 
•nymcn  in  London — maybe,  the  best  judges; 
Wer  than  publicans.  No  salt  and  waterwiU 
go- down  with  us.  Irs  no  use  a  publican  trying- 
tO'pDDmon  na  wxtii  any  of  hia  cag-mag-  8tn£ 


Salt  and  water  for  us  I  Sartainly,  a  drop  of 
short  (neat  spirit)  does  one  good  in  a  cold 
morning  like  this ;  it's  uncommon  raw  by  the 
waterside,  you  see.  Coalporters  doesn't  often 
catch  cold — beer  and  gin  keeps  it  out.  Perhaps 
my  beer  and  gin  now  cost  me  5».  a- week,  and 
that's  a  deal  out  of  what  I  can  earn.  I  dare 
say  I  earn  18.t.  a- week.  Sometimes  I  may 
spend  0».  That's  a  third  of  my  earnings,  you 
say,  and  so  it  is ;  and  as  it's  necessary  for  my 
work,  isn't  it  a  shame  a  poor  man's  pot  of 
beer,  and  drop  of  gin,  and  pipe  of  tobacco, 
should  be  so  dear?  Taxes  makes  them  dear. 
I  can  read,  sir,  and  I  understaind  these  things. 
Beer — four  pots  a-day  of  it  doesn't  make  mo 
step  unsteady.  Hard  work  carries  it  off,  and 
so  one  doesn't  feel  it  that  way.  Beer^  made 
of  com  OS  well  as  bread,  and  so  it  stands  to 
reason  it's  nouiishing.  Nothing'll  persuade 
me  it  isn't  Let  a  tw^total  gentleman  trj'  his 
hand  at  coal-work,  and  then  he'll  see  if  beer 
has  no  support  in  it.  Too  much  is  bad,  I 
know,  but  a  man  can  always  tell  how  much  he 
wonts  to  help  him  on  with  his  work.  If  beer 
didn't  agree  with  me,  of  course  I  wouldn't 
drink  it:  but  it  docs.  Saiiainly  we  drops  into 
a  beer-shop  of  a  night,  and  does  tipjde  a  little 
when  work's  done;  and  the  old  women  (our 
wives)  comes  for  us,  and  they  get  a  sup  to 
soften  them,  nnd  so  they  may  get  to  like  it 
overmuch,  as  you  say,  and  one's  bit  of  a  house 
may  po  to  rack  autl  manger.  Pve  a  good  wife 
myself,  though.  I  know  well  enough  all  them 
things  is  bad — drunkenness  is  bad !  ^Ul  I  ask 
for  is  a  proper  allowance  at  work ;  the  rest  is 
no  j,'ood.  I  can't  t^ll  whether  too  much  or  no 
beer  at  coal-work  would  be  best;  perhaps  none 
at  all :  leastways  it  would  bo  safer.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  try  either.  Perhaps  coalporters  does 
get  old  sooner  than  other  trades,  and  mayn't 
live  so  long;  but  that's  their  hartl  woi-k,  and  it 
would  be  worse  still  without  beer.  But  I 
don't  get  drunk.*' 

I  conversed  with  sevend  men  on  the  subject 
of  their  beer-drinking,  but  the  foregoing  is  the 
only  Htat^Miient  I  mot  witli  where  a  coalporter 
could  give  any  reason  for  his  faith  in  the 
^•irtu(ts  of  beer ;  and  vngne  as  in  somo  points 
it  may  be,  tlie  other  reasons  I  had  to  listen  to 
were  still  vaguer.  "  Somehow  we  can't  do 
without  beer ;  it  puts  in  the  strength  that  the 
work  takes  out."  '*  It's  necessary  Xov  support." 
Such  was  the  pith  of  every  argument. 

In  order  ftilly  to  carry  out  this  inquiry,  I 
obtained  the  address  of  a  coalbackcr  firom  the 
ships,  who  worked  hard  and  drank  a  good  deal 
of  beer,  and  who  had  the  character  of  being  an 
industrious  man.  I  saw  him  in  his  own  i^art- 
ment,  his  wife  being  present  while  he  made 
the  following  statement :—"  Pve  worked  at 
backing  since  I  was  twenty-four,  and  that's 
more  than  twelve  years  ago.  I  limit  myself 
now,  because  times  is  not  so  good,  to  two  pots 
of  beer  a-day ;  that  is  when  Pm  all  day  at 
work.  Some  takes  more.  I  reckon,  that  when 
times  was  better  I  dnmk  fifteen  pots  a-week, 


204 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOF. 


for  I  was  in  regular  work,  and  middlin'  well 
oft*.  That's  780  pots,  or  195  gallons  a-year, 
you  say.  Like  enough  it  may  be.  I  never 
calculaU'd,  but  it  does  seem  a  deal.  It  can't 
be  done  witliout^  and  men  themselves  is  the 
best  judges  of  what  suits  their  work — I  mean, 
of  how  much  to  take.  Ill  tell  you  what  it  is, 
sir.  Our  work's  harder  than  people  guess  at, 
and  one  must  rest  sometimes.  Now,  if  you 
sit  down  to  rest  without  something  to  refresh 
you,  the  rest  does  you  harm  instead  of  good, 
for  your  joints  seem  to  stiffen  ;  but  a  good  pull 
at  a  pot  of  beer  backs  up  the  rest,  and  we 
start  Ughtsomcr.  Our  work's  very  hard.  I've 
worked  till  my  head's  ached  like  to  split ;  and 
when  I've  got  to  bed,  I've  felt  as  if  I've  had 
the  weight  on  my  bock  still,  and  I've  started 
awake  when  I  fell  off  to  sleep,  feeling  as  if 
something  was  crushing  my  back  flat  to  my 
chest  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  tried  to  do  with- 
out beer  altogether.  If  I  was  to  think  of  such 
a  thing,  my  old  woman  there  would  think  I  was 
out  of  my  head."  The  wife  assented.  **  I've 
often  done  with  a  little  when  work's  been 
Blockish.  First,  you  see,  we  bring  the  coal  up 
from  the  ship's  hold.  There,  sometimes,  it's 
dreadful  hot,  not  a  mouthful  of  air,  and  the 
coal-dust'  sometimes  as  thick  as  a  fog.  You 
breathe  it  into  you,  and  your  throat's  like  a 
flue,  so  that  you  must  have  something  to 
drink.  I  fancy  nothing  quenches  you  like 
beer.  We  want  a  drink  that  tastes.  Then 
there's  the  coals  on  your  back  to  be  carried  up 
a  nasty  ladder,  or  some  such  contrivance,  per- 
haps twenty  feet,  and  a  sack  fiill  of  coals 
weighs  2  cwt  and  a  stone,  at  least ;  the  sack 
itselTs  heavy  and  thick :  isn't  that  a  strain  on 
a  man  7  No  horse  could  stand  it  long.  Then, 
when  you  get  fairly  out  of  the  ship,  you  go 
along  planks  to  the  waggon,  and  must  look 
sharp,  'specially  in  slippeiy  or  wet  weather,  or 
you'U  topple  over,  and  then  there's  the  hospi- 
tal  or  the  workhouse  for  you.  Last  week  we 
carried  along  planks  sixty  feet,  at  least. 
There's  notlung  extra  allowed  for  distance, 
but  there  ought  to  be.  I've  sweat  to  that 
degree  in  summer,  that  I've  been  tempted  to 
jump  into  the  Thames  to  cool  myself.  The 
sweat's  run  into  my  boots,  and  I've  felt  it  run- 
ning  down  me  for  hours  as  I  had  to  trudge 
along.  It  makes  men  bleed  at  the  nose  and 
mouth,  this  work  does.  Sometimes  we  put  a 
bit  of  coal  in  our  mouths,  to  prevent  our  biting 
our  tongues.  I  do,  sometimes,  but  it's  almost 
as  bad  as  if  you  did  bite  your  tongue,  for  when 
the  strain  comes  heavier  and  heavier  on  you, 
you  keep  scrunching  the  coal  to  bits,  and 
swallow  some  of  it,  and  you're  half  choked ; 
and  then  it's  no  use,  you  must  have  beer. 
Some's  tried  a  bit  of  tobacco  in  th^ir  mouths, 
but  that  doesn't  answer ;  it  makes  you  spit, 
and  often  spit  blood.  I  know  I  can't  do  with- 
out beer.  I  don't  think  they  'didterate  it  for 
us;  they  may  for  fine  people,  that  just  tastes 
it,  and.  I've  heard,  has  wine  and  things.  But 
we  must  have  it  good,  and  a  publican  knows  I 


who's  good  customers.  Perhaps  a  bit  of  good 
grub  might  be  as  good  as  beer  to  strengtihen 
you  at  work,  but  tJbe  straining  and  sweating 
makes  you  thirsty,  more  than  hungiy ;  aad  if 
poor  men  must  work  so  hard,  and  for  so  little, 
for  rich  men,  why  poor  men  will  take  idiat 
they  feel  will  satisfy  them,  and  run  the  risk  of 
its  doing  them  good  or  harm ;  and  that's  just 
where  it  is.  I  can't  work  three  days  running 
now  without  feeling  it  dreadfuL  I  get  a  mate 
that's  fresher  to  finish  my  work.  I'd  rather 
earn  less  at  a  trade  tliat  would  give  a  man  a 
chance  of  some  ease,  but  all  trades  is  over- 
stocked. You  see  we  have  a  niceish  tidy  room 
here,  and  a  few  middling  sticks,  so  I  can't  be 
a  drunkard." 

I  now  give  the  statement  of  a  coalporCer  who 
had  been  a  teetotaler : — **  I  have  been  twenty- 
two  years  a  coalheaver.  When  I  began  that 
work  I  earned  bO$.  a-week  as  backer  and  filler. 
I  am  now  earning,  one  week  with  another,  say 
155.  We  have  no  sick  fund  among  ns — ^no 
society  of  any  sort — no  club— no  schools— no 
nothing.  We  had  a  kind  of  union  among  us 
before  the  great  strike,  more  than  fourteen 
years  back,  but  it  was  just  for  the  strike.  We 
struck  against  masters  lowering  the  pay 
for  a  ton  to  2^.  from  2iJ.  The  strike  only 
lasted  two  or  three  weeks,  and  the  men  were 
forced  to  give  way ;  they  didn't  all  give  way 
at  once,  but  came  to  gpradual.  One  cant  see 
one's  wife  and  children  without  bread.  There's 
very  few  teetotalers  among  us,  though  there's 
not  many  of  us  now  that  can  be  called  drunken 
— they  can't  get  it,  sir.  I  was  a  teetotaler 
myself  for  two  years,  till  I  couldnt  keep  to  it 
any  longer.  We  all  break.  It's  a  few  years 
back,  I  forget  zactlv  when.  At  that  time  tee- 
totalers might  drink  shrub,  but  that  never  did 
me  no  good ;  a  good  cup  of  tea  freshened  me 
more.  I  used  then  to  drink  ginger-beer,  and 
spruce,  and  tea,  and  coffee.  I've  paid  as  much 
as  6*,  a-week  for  ginger-beer.  When  I  teeto- 
taled,  I  always  felt  thirsty.  I  used  to  long 
for  a  drink  of  beer,  but  somehow  managed  to 
get  past  a  public-house,  until  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer.  A  derk  of  ours  broke  first,  and  I 
followed  him.  I  certainly  felt  weaker  before 
I  went  back  to. my  beer;  now  I  drink  a  pint 
or  two  as  I  find  I  want  it.  I  can't  do  without 
it,  so  it's  no  use  trying.  I  joined  because  I 
felt  I  was  getting  racketty,  and  giving  my 
mind  to  not^g  but  drink,  instead  of  looking 
to  my  house.  There  may  be  a  few  teetotalers 
among  us,  but  I  think  not.  I  only  knew  two. 
We  all  break — we  can't  keep  it.  One  of  these 
broke,  and  the  other  kept  it,  because,  if  he 
breaks,  his  wife'U  break,  and  they  were  both 
reg^ular  drunkards.  A  coalporter's  worn  out 
before  what  you  may  call  wdl  old.  There's 
not  very  old  men  among  us.  A  man's  done 
up  at  fiiiy,  and  seldom  Uves  long  after,  if  he 
has  to  keep  on  at  coalportering.  I  wish  we 
had  some  sick  fhnd,  or  something  of  that 
kind.  If  I  was  laid  up  now,  there  would  be 
nothing  but  the  parish  for  me,  my  wi£9,  and 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


255 


four  childer  (here  the  poor  man  spoke  in  a 
broken  Toice).  The  masters  often  discharge 
old  bands  when  they  get  feeble,  and  put  on 
bojs.  We  have  no  coals  allowed  for  our  own 
firesides.  Some  masters,  if  we  buys  of  them, 
charges  us  full  price,  others  a  little  cheaper." 

I MW  this  man  in  the  eyening,  after  he  had 
left  his  work,  in  his  own  room.  It  was  a 
large  and^airy  garret  His  wife,  who  did  not 
know  previously  of  my  visit,  had  in  her  do- 
mestic arrangements  manifested  a  desire  com- 
mon to  the  better  disposed  of  the  wives  of  the 
labourers,  or  the  poor — tliat  of  trying  U\  make 
her  **  bit  of  place"  look  comfortable.  She  had 
to  tend  a  baby  four  months  old;  two  elder 
chililren  were  iU  clad,  but  clean;  the  eldest 
boy,  who  is  fifteen,  is  in  the  summer  employed 
on  a  river  steamboat,  and  is  then  uf  great  help 
to  his  parents.  There  were  two  beds  in  the 
room,  and  the  bedding  was  decently  arranged 
so  as  to  form  a  bundle,  while  its  scantiness  or 
worn  condition  was  thus  concealed.  The  soli- 
tary table  had  a  fadrd  green  cloth  cover,  very 
threadbare,  but  still  a  cover.  There  were  a 
few  cheap  prints  over  the  mantelshelf,  and 
the  host  description  I  can  give  is,  in  a  phrase 
not  unconimou  among  the  poor,  that  tlie  whole 
was  an  attempt  to  "  appeal*  decent."  The 
woman  spoke  well  of  her  husband,  who  was 
kind  to  her,  and  fond  of  his  home,  and  never 
drank  on  Sundays. 

Last  of  all,  I  obtained  an  iuterWew  with  two 
coalporters  who  had  been  teetotalers  for 
some  years : — 

•'I  have  been  a  coalportor  ever  since  I 
have  been  able  to  cany  coals,'  said  one.  "  I 
be;?an  at  sixteen.  I  have  been  a  backer  all 
the  time.  I  have  been  a  teetotaler  eight 
years  on  the  10th  of  next  March.  My  average 
earnings  where  I  am  now  is  about  35«.  per 
week.  At  some  wharfs  work  is  veiy  bad,  and 
I  the  men  don't  averag<.»  half  that.  They  were 
paid  every  night  where  I  worked  last,  and 
sometimes  I  have  gone  home  with  2\d,  Take 
OQe  ^-ith  the  other,  I  should  say  the  coal- 
porter's  earnings  average  about  1/.  a-week. 
^ly  present  place  is  about  as  good  a  berth  as 
there  is  along  the  waterside.  There  is  only 
one  gang  of  us,  and  we  do  as  much  work  as 
two  will  do  in  many  wharfs.  Before  I  was  a 
teetotaler,  I  principally  drank  ale.  I  judged 
that  the  more  I  gave  for  my  drink,  the  better 
it  was.  Upon  an  average,  I  used  to  drink 
from  three  to  four  pints  of  ale  per  day.  I  used 
to  drink  a  good  drop  of  gin,  too.  The  coal- 
porters  are  very  partial  to '  dog's  nose ' — tliat  is, 
half  a  pint  of  ale  with  a  pennywortli  of  gin  in 
it ;  and  when  they  have  got  the  money,  they 
go  up  to  wliat  they  term  *  the  lucky  shop '  for 
it.  The  coalporters  take  this  every  morning 
through  the  week,  when  they  can  afibrd  it 
After  my  work,  I  used  to  drink  more  than 
when  I  was  at  it  I  used  to  sit  as  long  as  the 
house  would  let  me  have  any.  Upon  an  ave- 
nge, I  should  say  I  used  to  take  three  or  four 
pints  more  of  an  evening ;  so  that,  altogether, 


I  think  I  may  fairly  say  I  drank  my  four  pots 
of  ale  regularly  every  day,  and  about  half  a 
pint  of  dog's  nose.  I  reckon  my  drink  used  to 
cost  me  13».  a-week  when  I  was  at  work.  At 
times  I  was  a  drunken,  noisy  gentleman  then." 

Another  coalporter,  who  has  been  a  tee- 
taler  ten  years  on  the  25th  of  last  August, 
told  me,  that  before  he  took  the  pledge  he 
used  to  drink  a  great  deal  after  he  had  done 
Ills  work,  but  while  he  was  at  work  he  could 
not  stand  it  "  I  don't  think  I  used  to  drink 
above  three  pints  and  a  half  and  a  penny- 
worth of  gin  in  the  daytime,"  said  this  man. 
**  Of  an  evening  I  used  to  stop  at  the  pubUc- 
house,  generally  till  I  was  drunk  and  unfit  to 
work  in  the  morning.  I  will  vouch  for  it 
I  used  to  take  about  three  pots  a-day  after  I 
had  done  work.  My  reckoning  used  to  come 
to  about  \$.  8rf.  a-day,  or,  including  Sundays, 
about  10«.  i)d.  per  week.  At  that  time  I  could 
average  all  the  year  round  about  305.  arweek, 
and  I  used  to  drink  away  10«.  of  it  regularly. 
I  di  1,  indeed,  sir,  more  to  my  shame." 

The  other  coalporter  told  me  his  earnings 
averaged  about  the  same,  but  he  drank  more. 

"  I  should  say  I  got  rid  of  ueaily  one- half 
of  my  money.  I  did  like  the  boer  then :  I 
thought  I  could  not  live  without  it.  It's  be- 
tween twelve  and  thirteen  years  since  the  first 
coalporter  signed  the  pledge.  Ilis  name  was 
John  Sturge,  and  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  mad- 
man. I  looked  upon  him  myself  in  that  light. 
The  next  was  Thomas  Bailey,  and  he  was  my 
teetotal  father.  When  I  first  heard  of  a  coal- 
porter doing  without  beer,  I  thought  it  a  thing 
impossible.  I  mode  sure  they  wouldn't  live 
long ;  it  was  part  of  my  education  to  believe 
they  couldn't.  Aly  grandfather  brewed  home- 
brewed beer,  and  he  used  to  say  to  me,  *  Drink, 
my  lad,  it'll  make  tliee  strong.'  The  coal- 
porters say  now,  if  wo  could  get  the  genuine 
home-brewed,  tbat  would  be  the  stuff  to  do  us 
good;  the  publican's  wash  is  no  good.  I 
drank  for  strength  ;  the  stimulation  caused  by 
the  alcohol  I  mistook  for  my  own  power." 

"  Richard  Ilooper  !  lie's  been  a  teetotaler 
now  about  twelve  years.  He  was  the  fourth 
of  tlie  coaleys  as  signed  the  pledge,  and 
he  first  instilled  teetotahsm  on  my  mind," 
said  the  other  man.  "  Where  he  works  now 
there's  nine  out  of  fifteen  men  is  teetotalers. 
Seeing  that  he  could  do  his  work  much  better 
than  when  he  drinkcd  beer,  induced  me  to 
become  one.  He  was  more  regular  in  his 
work  after  he  liad  given  it  up  tlian  whenever 
I  knowed  him  before." 

"  The  way  in  which  Thomas  Bailey  put  it 
into  my  head  was  this  here,"  continued  the 
other.  "  He  invited  me  to  a  meeting  :  I 
told  him  I  would  come,  but  he'd  never  make 
a  teetotaler  of  mo,  I  knowed.  I  went  with 
the  intention  to  listen  to  what  they  could 
have  to  say.  I  was  a  little  bit  curious  to 
know  how  they  could  make  out  that  beer 
was  no  good  for  a  body.  The  first  man  that 
addressed  the  meeting  was  a  tailor.   I  thought 


2M 


LONDON  LdBOUS  AND  THE  LONDON  J'OOIi. 


it  might  do  veir  well  for  him ;  but  then,  says 
I,  if  you  had  the  weight  (;i'  238lbs.  of  co^s 
on  jour  backf  znj  lud,  you  cuubhi't  do  it 
•without  alo  or  bi>er.  I  thtiught  thin  ]icrc,  be- 
cause I  was  taught  to  believe  I  couldn't  do 
without  it.  I  cared  uot  what  any  mun  said 
about  beer,  I  bohcvcd  it  was  life  itself.  After 
tJic  tailor  a  coolportor  got  up  to  speuk.  Then 
I  began  to  listen  more  attentive]^'.  The  man 
Maid  ho  once  had  a  happy  home  and  a  liappy 
wifSe,  cver}'thing  the  heart  could  wish  fur,  but 
through  the  intoxicating  drinks  he  had  been 
robbed  of  everytliing.  The  man  pictured  the 
drunkard^  home  so  faithfully,  tliat  tlie  arrowy 
of  conviction  stuck  fast  in  my  heart,  and  my 
conscience  said,  Thou  ail  a  drunkard,  too ! 
The  coalporter  said  his  home  had  been  made 
happy  through  the  principle  of  total  absti- 
nence. I  was  determined  to  iry  it  from  that 
hoar.  My  home  was  as  mLierable  as  it  pos- 
sibly could  be,  and  I  knowed  intoxicating 
drink  was  the  cause  on  it.  I  signed  the 
pledge  that  niglit  alter  tlie  coalporter  was 
done  speaking,  but  was  many  mouths  before 
I  was  thoroughly  convinced  I  was  doing  right 
in  abstaining  altogctlier.  I  kept  thinking  on 
it  after  going  home  of  a  night,  tired  and  fa- 
tigued with  my  hard  work,  some  times  scarcely 
able  to  get  up-stairs  through  being  so  over- 
wrought ;  and  not  being  quite  satislied  about 
it,  I  took  everj'  opitortunity  to  hear  lectures 
upon  the  subject.  I  heard  one  on  the  pro. 
pcrties  of  intoxicating  drinks,  wluch  quite 
convinced  mo  that  I  hod  been  labouring  under 
a  delusion.  The  gentleman  aualyned  tlie  beer 
in  my  presence,  and  I  saw  that  in  a  pint  of  it 
there  was  14  ozs.  of  water  tliat  I  had  been 
paying  ^d,  for,  1  oz.  of  alcohol,  and  1  oz.  of 
what  they  call  nutritious  matter,  but  which  is 
the  filthiest  stufT  man  ever  set  eyes  upon.  It 
looked  more  like  cobblers'  wax  than  anything 
olso.  It  was  what  tlie  lecturer  C4dli>d  the — ^resi- 
dyum,  I  tliiuk  was  the  name  he  gave  it.  The 
alcohol  is  what  stunulatos  u  man,  und  makes 
him  feci  as  if  he  coidd  currv'  two  sucks  of  cool 
while  it  huits,  but  afterwords  comes  the  de- 
pression ;  tliat's  what  the  coolporters  Cidl  the 
'  blues.'  And  then  lie  feds  that  lie  can  do  no 
.work  at  all,  and  he  citlier  goes  home  and  puts 
another  man  on  in  his  })luce,  or  else  he  goes 
and  works  it  off  with  mon*  ilrinU.  You  s(?e, 
where  wo  coalporters  have  been  mistalctm  is 
believing  alcohol  was  nutriment,  and  in  fim- 
oying  that  a  stimulant  was  strength.  Alcohol 
is  nothing  strengthening  to  the  body — indeed, 
it  hardens  the  food  in  the  stomach,  and  so 
iiiuders  digestion.  .You  con  si*e  as  much  any 
iia^  if  you  go  into  the  hospitals,  and  look  at 
the  different  parts  of  animals  presened  hi 
spirits.  The  strangtli  that  alcohol  gives  is 
unnatural  and  false.  It's  food  only  that  can 
give  real  strength  to  tlie  frame.  I  have  done 
more  work  since  I've  been  a  teetotaler  in  my 
eight  years  than  I  did  in  my  ten  or  twelve 
years  before.  I  have  felt  stronger.  I  don't 
81^  that  I  do  my  work  better,  but  Uiis  I  will 


say,  without  any  fear  of  contradiction,  that 
I  do  my  work  with  more  ease  to  myself,  and 
with  more  satisikction  to  my  employer,  siuco 
1  have   given    over   intoxicating    drinks.    I 
scarcely  know  what  thirst  is.    Lefore  I  took 
the  pledge  I  was  always  diy,  and  Ihe  mere 
shadow  of  tlie  ])otboy  was  quite   sufficient 
to  convince  me  that  t  wanted  something.    I 
certainly  haven't  felt  weaker  since  I  left  off 
mult  liquor.    I  have  eaten  more  and  drank 
less.    I  live  as  well  now  as  any  of  the  pub- 
licans do,  and  who  has  a  better  right  to  do  so 
than  the  man  who  works?     I  have  backed  as 
many  as  sixty  tons  in  a  day  since  I  took  the 
pledge,  and  have  done  it  without  any  intoxi- 
ciUiug  drink,  with  perfect  ease  to  myself,  and 
walked  five  miles  to  a  temperance  meeting 
afterwords.    But  before  I  became  a  teetotaler, 
after  the  same  amount  of  work,  I  should 
scarcely  have  been  able  to  crawl  home;  I 
should  have  "been  certain  to  have  lost  tlie 
next  day's  work  at  least :  but  now  I  can  back 
that  quantity  of  coals  week  after  week  without 
losing  a  day.    I've  got  a  Canuly  ol  six  diildren 
under  twelve  years  of  age.    lUjr  wife's  a  tee- 
totaler, and  has  suckled  four  children  upon 
Uie  principle  of  total  absUnenee.   Teetotalism 
has  made  my  home  guite  happy,  and  #bat  I 
get  goes  twiee  as  far.    Where  I  work  now, 
four  out  of  five  of  us  are  teetotalers.    I  am 
quite  satisfied  that  tlie  heaneat  wodc  that  a 
man  can  possibly  do  may  be  done  4rithout  a 
drop  of  fermented  liquor.    I  si^  so  from  my 
own   experience.      All   kind  of  intoxicating 
drinks  is  quite  a  delusion.    They  are  the  oause 
of  the  working  man's  wages  being  lowered. 
Masters  can  get  the  men  who  drink  at  (heir 
own  price.    If  it  wasn't  for  the  money  si>ent 
ill  liquor  we  should  have  funds  to  fall  back 
upon,  and  then  we  could  stand  out  against 
any  reduction  that  the  masters  might  waut  to 
put  upon  us,  and  could  command  a  fair  day's 
wages  for  a  fair  day's  work :  but  as  it  isy  the 
nien  are  all  beggars,  and  must  take  what  the 
master  offers  them.    The  backing  of  coals 
out  of  the  liolds  of  ships  is  man-killing  work. 
It's  scandalous  that  men  shoidd  be  allowed  to 
force  tlioir  fellow-men  to   do  such  labour. 
The  calves  of  a  man's  leg  is  as  hard  as  a  bit 
of  board  after  that  there  straining  work ;  they 
honlly  know  how  to  turn  out  of  bed  of  a 
morning  after  they  have  been  at  that  for  a 
day.    I  never  worked  below  bridge,  thank 
God!   and  I  hope  I  never  shall.     I've  not 
wanted  for  a  day's  work  since  I've  been  a 
teetotaler.    Men  can  back  out  of  a  ship's  hold 
better  without  liquor  than  with  it.    iVo  tee- 
totalers can  do  the  work  better — ^that  is,  with 
more  ease  to   ourselves-^tlian  the  drinking 
men.    Many  teetotalers  have  backed  coals 
out  of  the  hold,  and  I  have  heard  them  ssjf 
over  and  over  again  that  they  did  their  work 
with  more  comfort  and  ease  tlian  they  did 
when  tliey  drank  intoxicating  drink.    Coal- 
backing  irom  the  ship's  hold  is  the  haidest 
work  that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  do. 


ZONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOXDON  POOR. 


257 


Going  up  a  ladder  16  feet  high  Trith  238  lbs. 
weight  on  a  man's  back  is  sufficient  to  kill 
any  one;  indeed,  it  does  kill  the  men  in  a 
few  yaan,  they're  soon  old  men  at  that  work : 
and  I  do  Bi^  that  the  nmsters  below  bridge 
ahonld  be  stopped  going  on  as  they're  doing 
now.  And  -what  for?  "Why,  to  put  the  money 
th«(y  save  by  it  into  their  own  pockets,  for 
the  public  ain't  no  better  off,  the  coals  is  just 
as  dear.  Then  the  whippcrs  and  lightermen 
are  all  thrown  out  of  work  by  it ;  and  what's 
more,  the  lives  of  the  backers  are  shortened 
many  years— we  reckon  at  least  ten  years." 

**I  wish  to  say  this  much,"  said  the  other 
teetotaler:  **lt's  a  practice  with  some  of  the 
coal-merchants  to  iMiy  their  men  in  public- 
bonsea,  and  this  is  the  chief  cause  of  a 
great  portion  of  the  wages  being  spent  in 
drink.  I  once  worked  for  a  master  upon 
Bankside  as  paid  his  men  at  a  public-house, 
and  1  worked  a  week  there,  which  yearned 
me  QS$,  and  some  odd  halfpence.  'VV^hen  I 
went  on  Saturday  night  the  publican  asked 
me  what  I  was  come  for.  In  reply,  I  said 
*  I'm  come  to  aettle.'  He  said, '  You're  already 
setCed  with,'  meaning  T  had  nothing  to  taku. 
I  had  drinked  all  my  lot  away,  he  said,  with 
the  exoeption  of  5s.  I  had  boiTowcd  during 
the  week.  Then  I  told  him  to  look  back,  and 
Wd  find  Pd  something  due  to  me.  He  c(id 
so,  and  said  there  was  a  halfpenny.  I  had 
nothing  to  take  home  to  my  wife  and  two 
children.  I  asked  tlie  publican  to  lend  me  a 
few  ahillinga,  saying  my  young  un's  had  no- 
thing to  eat.  His  reply  was,  *■  That's  nothing 
to  me,  that's  your  business.'  After  tliat  1 
made  it  my  business.  "While  I  stood  at  the 
bar  in  came  the  tliree  teetotalers,  and  picked 
up  the  28j»,  each  that  was  coming  to  them, 
■nd  I  thought  how  much  better  they  was  off 
than  me.  The  publican  stopped  all  my  money 
for  drink  that  I  knowod  I'd  not  had,  nnd  yet 
I  couldn't  help  myself,  'cause  he  had  the 
pa>ing  on  me.  Then  somi'thing  came  over 
me  as  I  stood  there,  and  I  snid,  *  From  this  I 
night,  with  the  help  of  God,  I'll  never  taste  of  ] 
another  drop  of  intoxicating  hqu^rs.'  That's 
ten  years  ago  the  25th  of  last  August,  and 
Ivo  kept  my  pledge  ever  since,  thank  God  I 
That  publican  has  )>een  the  making  of  me.  The 
master  what  discharged  rae'beforo  for  getting 
drunk,  when  he  heard  that  I  was  sober  sent 
for  me  back  again.  But  before  that,  the  three 
teetotalers  who  was  a  working  along  with  me 
was  discharged  V»y  their  master,  to  oldige  the 

Sublican  who  stopped  my  money.     The  pul>-  , 
mn,  you  see,  had  his  coals  from  the  wlmrf.  j 
He  was  a  *braHs-phite  cortl-merclmnt'  as  well  ■ 
fts  a  publican,  and  had  private  customei-s  of  | 
Ms  own.     He  threatened    to   take  his  work 
away  from  the  wharf  if  the  three  teetotalers 
Wasn't  discharged ;  and  sure  enough  tlie  master 
did  dischaiige  them,  sooner  tlian  lose  so  good 
a  customer.    Many  of  the  masters  now  are 
growing  favourable  to  teetotalisni.     I  can  say 
thatTve  done  more  on  the  principle  of  tottd 


abstinence  than  ever  I  done  before.  I'm  better 
in  health,  I've  no  trembling  when  I  goes  to 
my  work  of  a  morning ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
I'm  ready  to  meet  it.  I'm  hapjiier  at  home. 
We  never  has  no  angry  words  now,"  said  the 
man,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  strong 
emphasis  on  the  no*.  "  My  children  never 
runs  away  from  me  as  they  used  to  before ; 
they  come  and  embrace  mo  more.  My  money 
now  goes  for  eatables  and  clothes,  what  I  and 
my  children  once  was  deprived  on  through 
my  intemperate  habits.  And  I  bless  God  and 
the  publican  that  made  me  a  teetotaler — ^that 
I  do  sincorel}' — every  night  as  I  go  to  bed. 
And  as  for  men  t«:)  hold  out  that  they  can't  do 
their  work  without  it,  I'm  prepared  to  prove 
tliat  we  have  done  more  work  without  it  than 
ever  we  have  done  or  could  do  with  it." 

I  have  been  requested  by  the  coalwhippers 
to  publish  the  following  expression  of  gra- 
tituile  on  their  part  towards  the  Government 
for  the  establishment  of  the  Coalwhippers' 
Office  :— 

*'  The  change  that  the  Legislature  has  pro- 
duced in  us,  by  putting  an  end  to  the  thraldom 
of  the  publican  by  the  institution  of  this  office, 
we  wisli  it  to  be  generally  known  that  we  and 
our  wives  and  children  are  very  thankful 
for." 

I  shall  now  conclude  with  the  follo\ving 
estimate  of  the  number  of  the  hands,  ships, 
&c.  engaged  in  the  coal  trade  in  London. 

There  arc  about  400  wharfs,  I  am  informed, 
from  Wapping  to  Chelsea,  as  well  as  those  on 
the  City-canal.  A  large  wharf  will  keep  about 
50  horses,  0  waggons,  and  4  caits ;  aud  it 
will  employ  constantly  from  3  to  4  gongs  of 
5  men.  Besides  these,  there  will  be  0  wag- 
goners, I  cart-cai-raan,  and  about  2  trouncers 
— in  all,  from  24  to  tiU  men.  A  small  wharf 
will  employ  1  gang  of  .">  men,  about  10  horses, 
3  waggons,  and  1  cart,  3  waggoners,  1  trouncer, 
and  1  cart-camian.  At  the  time  of  the  strike, 
sixteen  years  ago,  there  wore  more  than  3000 
coalporters,  I  am  told,  in  London.  It  is  sup- 
posed that  there  is  an  average  of  IJ  gang,  or 
tth(»ut  7  men  employed  in  each  wharf;  or,  in 
all.  UWO  coalport*.Ts  in  constant  employment, 
and  about  200  and  odd  men  out  of  worlc 
There  are  in  the  trade  about  4  waggons  and  1 
cart  to  each  wharf,  or  1  (iOO  waggons  and  400 
carts,  having  5^00  horses;  to  these  there 
would  b(;  about  3  waggoners  and  1  cart-carman 
upon  an  average  to  tatih  wharf,  or  IGOO  in  all. 
Each  wharf  would  occui)y  about  2  trouncers, 
or  000  in  the  whole. 

Hence  the  btaii:;tic3  of  the  coal  ti'ade  will 

be  as  follows : — 

No. 

Ships 2,177 

Seamen 21,000 

Tons   of  coal   entering  the   Tort  of 

London  each  year      •        .        3,418,140 
Coolmeters         ....  370 


J^38 


Coalwliippcrs     . 

Coalportc'rs 

Coaliactors 

Coalmcrchants 

Coaldealers 

Coal  waggons     . 

Horses  for  ditto 

Waggoners 

Trimmers 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


No. 

2,000 

3,000 

2.'i 

502 

205 
1,(J00 
5.200 
1,000 

800 


I  continue  my  inquirj'  into  tlie  state  of  the 
coal -labourers  of  the  metropolis. 

Tlio  coalheavers,  properly  so  called,  are  now 
no  longer  known  in  the  trade.  The  class  of 
coallicavt.'rs,  according  to  the  vulgar  accepta- 
tion of  the  word,  is  dinded  into  coalwhippers, 
or  those  wlio  wliip  up  or  lift  the  coals  rapidly 
from  the  hold,  and  the  coalbackers,  or  those 
who  cariy  them  on  their  backs  to  the  wharf, 
cither  from  the  hold  of  the^ship  moored  along, 
side  the  wharf,  or  from  the  lighter  into  which 
the  coals  have  been  whipped  from  the  collier 
moored  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  or  "  Pool." 
Formerly  the  coals  were  delivered  from  the 
holds  of  the  ships  by  the  labourers  shovelling 
them  on  to  a  series  of  stages,  raised  one 
above  the  other  till  they  ultimately  reached 
the  deck.  One  or  two  men  were  on  each 
stage,  and  hove  the  coals  up  to  the  stage  im- 
mediately above  them.  The  laboui-ers  en- 
gaged  in  this  process  were  termed  **coal- 
hcavci-s."  But  now  the  coals  arc  deliveretl  at 
once  from  the  hold  by  means  of  a  sudden 
jerk,  which  "  whips  "  tliem  on  deck.  This 
is  the  process  of  coiJwhipping,  and  it  is  per- 
formed chiefly  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  to 
fill  the **  room's*'  of  the  barges  that  carry  the 
coals  from  the  ship  to  the  wharf.  Cools  ore 
occasionally  delivered  immediately  from  the 
sliip  on  to  the  wliarf  by  means  of  the  process 
of  **  coalbacking,"  as  it  is  called.  This  con- 
sists in  the  socks  being  filled  in  the  hold,  and 
then  carried  on  the  men's  backs  up  a  ladder 
fVom  the  liold,  along  jilanks  from  the  ship  to 
the  wharf.  By  this  means,  it  will  be  easily 
understood  that  the  ordinary  processes  of 
whipping  and  lightering  are  avoided.  By  the 
process  of  coalwhipping,  the  ship  is  delivered 
in  the  middle  of  the  river,  or  the  "  Pool  "  as  it 
is  called,  and  the  coals  are  lightered,  or  car- 
ried to  the  wharf,  by  means  of  barges,  whence 
they  are  transported  to  the  wharf  by  the  pro- 
cess of  backing.  But  when  the  coals  are 
backed  out  of  the  ship  itself  on  to  the  wharf, 
the  two  preliminary  processes  are  done  away 
with.  The  ship  is  moored  alongside,  and  the 
coals  ai"e  delivered  directly  from  tlie  ships  to 
the  premises  of  the  wharfinger.  By  this 
means  the  wharfingers,  or  coalmerchants, 
below  bridge,  are  enabled  to  have  their  coals 
delivered  at  a  cheaper  price  than  those  above 
bridge,  who  must  receive  the  cargoes  hy  means 
of  the  barges.  I  am  assured  that  the  c(dliers, 
in  being  moored  alongside  the  wharfs,  receive 
considerable  damage,  and  strain  their  timbers 


£30     7    6 

Expense  of  delivering  a  Ship  of  300  ions  bif  tli» 
process  of  Coalbacking, 

For  backing  a  ship  of  360  tons 
directly  from  the  ship  to  the 
whorf £16  n    G 

By  the  above  account  it  will  be  seen,  that  if 
a  collier  of  300  tons  is  delivered  in  the  Pool, 
the  expense  is  30/.  7s.  0</.,  but  if  delivered  at 
the  wharf-side  the  expense  is  10/.  17*.  6</.,  the 
difference  between  the  two  processes  being 
13/.  lOs.  Hence,  if  the  consumer  were  the 
gainer,  the  coals  should  be  delivered  below 
bridge  dd.  a  ton  cheaper  than  they  are  above 
bridge.  The  nine  coalwhippei's  ordinarily  en- 
gaged in  the  whipping  of  the  coals  would  have 
gained  1/.  Ox.  8rf.  each  man  if  they  had  not 
been  "  backed''  out  of  the  ship;  but  as  the 
coals  delivered  by  backing  below  bridge  are 
not  cheaper,  and  the  whippers  have  not  re- 


scverely  from  the  swell  of  the  steamboats 
passing  to  and  fro.  Again,  the  proceas  of 
coalbacking  appears  to  be  of  so  extremely 
laborious  a  nature  that  the  health,  and  indeed 
the  lives,  of  the  men  are  both  greatly  injured 
by  it.  Moreover,  th e  bcnefi  t  remains  solely  with 
the  merchant,  and  not  with  theconsumer,forthe 
price  of  the  coals  delivered  below  bridge  is  the 
same  as  those  delivered  above.  The  expense 
of  delivering  the  ship  is  always  borne  by  the 
shipowner.  This  is,  at  present,  8d.  per  ton, 
and  was  originally  intended  to  be  given  to  the 
whippers.  But  Uie  merchant,  by  the  pnocess 
of  backing,  has  discovered  the  means  of  avoid- 
ing this  process ;  and  so  he  puts  the  money  ! 
which  was  originally  paid  by  the  shipowner 
for  whipping  Uio  cools  into  his  own  pockety 
for  the  consumer  is  not  a  commensurate 
gainer.  Since  the  merchant  below  bridge 
charges  the  same  price  to  the  public  for  ms 
coals  as  the  merchant  above,  it  is  clear  that 
he  alone  is  benefited  at  the  expense  of  the 
public,  the  coalwhippers,  and  even  the  coal- 
bockoi-s  themselves;  for  on  inquiry  among 
this  latter  class,  I  find  that  they  obiect  as  ! 
much  as  the  whippers  to  the  delivery  of  a  ship  | 
fVom  the  hold,  the  mounting  of  the  ladders  j 
from  the  hold  being  of  a  most  laborious  and 
ii^urious  notui-o.  I  hove  been  supplied  by  a 
gentleman  who  is  intimately  acquainted  with  i 
the  expenses  of  the  two  processes  with  the  foU  I 
lowing  comparative  account : — 

Expenses  ofdeliuering  a  Ship  ©/"OOO  torn  hy  ih§ 
process  of  Coalwhipping, 

For  whipping  300  tons  at  Qd,  per    £    ».    d, 
ton 12    0    0 

Lighterman's  wages  for  1  week  en- 
gaged in  lightering  the  said  360 
tons  from  ship  to  wharf     .         .      1  10    0 

Expenses  of  backing  the  said  coals 
from  craft  to  whai-f  at  ll\d.  per 
ton 10  17    a 


•rjH  LOKDON  L4Ji^^ 


Coalwliippcrs 

Coulporten 

Coallucton 

Coalmerahap 

Coaldealeiv 

Coal  wBffg* 

Hones  S" 

Waggon' 

Trimmf 

lor 

coal 
T 
no 
e 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


:ib\) 


c.'iv<il  any  money,  it  follows  that  the  12/. 
whieli  has  been  ])ai{l  by  the  t»liipowner  to  thu 
iuen:Iiunt  for  die  expense  of  whipping  has 
le«ii  |»ocki'teil  by  ihe  merchant,  and  the  ox- 
P'>n.«e  of  li};htcrin^,  1/.  ](!«.,  tuived  by  him; 
uiakini;  a  total  protit  of  13/.  lOs.,  nut  to  men- 
tii>ii  the  ci»Kt  of  wear  and  tear,  and  interest  of 
capital  sunk  in  barges.  This  sum  of  money 
is  uiudo  at  the  expense  of  the  eoolbackerK 
tlienittelves,  who  are  seldom  able  1o  continue 
the  labour  (so  extreme  is  it )  for  luore  than 
lwent\  years  at  the  out^de,  the  avorapo  dura- 
tion of  iliB  labuurL'rs  being  only  twelve  years. 
After  this  period,  the  men,  from  ha\iug  b«*eu 
overHtrninetl  by  their  'violent  exertion,  are  un- 
able to  purane  any  other  calling ;  and  yet  the 
merchants.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Iiavc  not  even 
enconnig^.^  tliem  to  form  either  a  benetit 
society,  a  Mupenmnutttion  fund,  or  a  Bchool  for 
their  cliildren. 

Wishing  to  i)crfect  tlie  inquiry,  I  thought  it 
better  to  see  one  of  the  seamen  engaged  in 
the  trade.  Acoordingly,  I  went  off  to  bome  of 
the  coUien  lying  in  Mill  Hole,  and  fonnd  an 
intelligent  man,  ready  to  give  me  the  inform- 
ation I  BoughL  His  statement  was,  that  he 
hftd  been  to  sea  between  twenty-six  and  twenty. 
seven  years  bhogethcr.  **  Out  of  that  time," 
he  said,  **I've  had  nine  or  ten  years'  expe- 
rience at  the  eoal-traile.  I've  been  to  the 
EflBt  Indies  and  ^Vest  Indies,  and  served  my 
apprenticeship  in  a  whaler.  I  have  been  to 
the  Mediterranean,  and  to  several  ports  of 
Faooe.  I  tliink  that,  take  tlie  general  run, 
Ihe  liYiug  and  treatment  of  the  men  in  the 
voal-teade  is  better  than  in  fmy  other  going. 
It's  difficult  to  tell  how  many  ships  I've  Insen 
iii«  and  how  many  owners  I've  sen-ed  under. 
I  have  been  in  the  same  ship  for  three  or  four 
years,  and  I  have  been  only  one  voyage  in  one 
ship.  Ton  see,  wc  are  obliged  to  study  oiu- 
own  interest  as  much  as  we  can.  Of  com-se 
the  masters  won't  do  it  for  us.  Sj)eaking 
generally,  of  the  ditferent  ships  and  different 
ownem  I've  served  under,  I  think  the  men  are 
generally  well  served.  I  have  been  in  some 
that  have  been  very  badly  victualled:  the 
small  stores  in  particular,  such  as  tea,  sugar, 
and  coffee,  have  been  very  bad.  They,  in 
general,  nip  ns  very  short.  There  is  a  i-egular 
allowance  lixed  by  Act  of  Parliament ;  but  it's 
t9o  little  for  a  man  to  go  by.  Some  owners 
go  strictly  by  tlie  Act,  and  some  give  more ; 
but  I  don't  know  one  that  gives  imder.  In- 
dited, as  a  general  xiUe.  I  think  the  men  in  the 
trade  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  The  only 
tiling  is,  the  wages  arc  generally  entail ;  and 
the  ships  are  badly  manned.  In  bad  weatlier 
there  is  not  en«jngh  hands  to  take  the  sail  ofi 
her,  or  else  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  accidents 
as  there  ore.  The  average  tonnage  of  a 
coal-ship  is  from  60  up  to  about  2r)0  tons. 
There  are  sometimes  large  ships;  but  they 
<^me  seldom,  and  When  tliev  du,  they  earn- 
l>ut  part  coal  cargo.  They  only  load  a  portion 
with  coals  Uiat  they  may  be  able  to  come  across 


the  bar-harbours  in  the  nortli.  If  they  wero 
loaded  altogether  with  coals,  they  coidfln't  got 
over  the  bar:  they  would  draw  too  much 
water.  For  a  ship  of  about  from  lUO  to  l.'JO 
tons,  the  usual  complement  is  gonerally 
from  tive  to  six  hands,  boys,  captain,  and 
men  all  included  togetlior.  There  might  bo 
two  men  bulbre  the  mast — a  master,  a  mate, 
and  a  boy.  This  is  sadly  too  little.  A  ship 
of  this  sort  shouldn't,  to  my  mind,  have  less 
than  se\'on  hands :  that  is  the  loast  to  be  side. 
In  rough  weatlier,  you  sec,  perhaps  the  ship 
is  letting  water :  the  master  takes  the  *  helium/ 
one  hand,  in  general,  stops  on  deck  to  work 
the  pumps,  and  three  goes  aloft.  Most  likely 
one  of  the  boys  has  only  been  to  sea  one  or 
two  voyages;  and  if  there's  six  hands  to 
such  a  ship,  two  of  them  is  sure  to  be 
*  green -boys,' just  fresh  from  the  shore,  and  of 
little  or  no  use  to  us.  IVe  haven't  help 
enough  to  get  the  sail  off  the  yards  in  time, — 
there's  no  one  on  deck  looking  out, — it  may 
be  thick  weather^ — and,  of  course,  it's  pro- 
perly dangerous.  About  half  the  accidents  at 
Kea  occur  from  the  shii>s  being  biuUy  manned. 
The  ships  generally,  throughout  the  coal- 
trade,  have  one  hand  in  six  too  little.  The 
colliers,  mostly,  carry  double  their  registered 
tonnage.  A  ship  of  250  tons  carrying  000,  will 
have  ten  hondi^  when  she  ought  to  have  twelve 
or  thirteen ;  and  out  of  the  ten  that  she  does 
have,  perhaps  four  of  them  is  boys.  All  sailors 
in  the  cool-trade  are  paid  by  tlie  voyoffc.  They 
\'wry  from  3/.  10s.  up  to  4i.  for  able-bodied 
seamen.  The  ships  from  the  same  port  in 
the  north  give  all  alike  for  a  London  joiume}'. 
In  the  height  of  summer,  the  wages  is  from 
<*)/.  &s.  to  «')/.  1«M.;  and  in  the  winter  they  are 
4/.  Them's  the  liighest  wages  given  this 
winter.  The  wages  are  increased  in  the  winter, 
because  the  work's  harder  and  the  weather's 
colder.  Some  of  the  ships  Jay  up,  and  there's 
a  greater  demand  for  those  that  are  in  tlio 
trade.  It's  true  tliat  the  seamen  of  those  that 
are  laying  up  are  out  of  employ ;  but  I  can't 
siiy  why  it  is  that  the  wages  don't  come  down 
in  consequence.  All  I  know  is  tliey  go  up  in 
the  winter.  This  is  sadly  too  little  pay,  this  4/. 
a  journey.  Probably,  in  the  winter,  a  nnui  may 
make  only  two  journeys  in  four  months;  and  if 
he's  got  a  wife  and  family,  his  expenses  is  going 
on  at  home  all  the  wliile.  The  voyage  I  consider 
to  last  from  the  time  of  sailing  from  the  north 
])ort,  to  the  time  of  entering  the  north  p«)rt 
again.  The  averagi'  time  of  coming  from  the 
nortli  port  to  Loudon  is  from  ten  to  eleven 
days.  Smnetimes  the  passage  has  been  done 
in  six :  but  I'm  speaking  of  tlio  ovom«f»:.  "Wo 
arc  generally  about  twenty-two  days  at  sea, 
making  the  voyage  from  the  north  and  back. 
The  rt'St  of  the  time  we  artj  discharging  cargo, 
or  l}"ing  idle  in  tlie  I'ooL  On  making  the  port 
of  London,  we  have  to  remain  in  '  tlie  Section ' 
till  the  cargo  is  sold.  *  The  Section '  is  be- 
tween Woolwich  and  Gravoseud.  I  have  re- 
mained there  as  much  as  live  weeks.    I  have 


200 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


been  tliorc,  too,  only  ono  market-day — that  is, 
three  days.  It  is  very  seldom  this  occurs. 
The  average  time  that  we  remain  in  *  the  Sec- 
tion '  is  from  two  to  tliree  weeks.  The  cause 
of  this  delay  arises  from  the  factors  not  dis- 
posing of  the  coals,  in  order  to  keep  up  the 
prices.  If  a  largo  fleet  comes,  the  factors  will 
not  sell  immediately,  because  the  prices  would 
go  down  ;  so  we  are  kept  in  *  the  Section,*  for 
their  convenience,  without  no  more  wages. 
'When  tlie  cargo  is  sold  we  drop  down  into  the 
Pool;  and  there  we  remain  about  two  days 
more  than  we  ought,  for  want  of  a  meter. 
We  are  often  kept,  also,  a  day  over  the  day  of 
delivery.  This  wo  call  a  *  balk  day.'  The 
OTSTicrs  of  the  ship  receive  a  certain  compen- 
sation for  everj'  one  of  these  balk  days. 
This  is  expressed  in  the  charter-party,  or 
ship's  contract.  The  whippers  and  meters, 
too,  receive  a  certain  sum  for  tliese  bolk  days, 
tlie  same  as  if  they  were  working ;  but  the 
seamen  of  tlio  colUei-s  are  the  only  parties 
who  receive  nothing.  The  delay  arises  en- 
tirely through  the  merchant,  and  he  ought  to 
pay  us  fur  it.  The  coal-trade  is  the  only  trade 
that  pays  by  the  voytijje  ;  all  others  paying  by 
tlie  month  :  nnd  the  seamen  feel  it  as  u  great 
^'lievonce,  this  detention  not  being  paid  for. 
\iiYy  often,  while  I  have  been  lajing  in  *  the  Sec- 
tion,' because  the  conlfoctor  would  not  sell,  other 
seanu'H  that  ent«.T(id  the  port  of  London  with 
mo  have  made  another  voyage  and  been  back 
again,  wliilst  I  was  stopping  idle ;  and  been 
been  ill.  lO.i.,  or  4/.,  the  better  for  it.  Four  or 
live  yciirs  since  tlie  voyage  was  1/.  or  2/.  better 
paid  for.  I  have  had,  myself,  as  much  as  C/. 
the  voyage,  and  been  detained  much  less. 
Within  the  lost  tlireo  years  our  wages  have 
deen.*ased  30  per  cent,  whilst  the  demand  for 
coals  and  for  colliers  lias  increased  consider- 
ably. I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  supply 
and  domimd ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  a  very 
queer  thing  tliat,  whilst  tliere's  a  greater  quan- 
tity  of  coals  sold,  ond  more  coUiers  employ- 
ed, we  poor  soiuneii  should  be  paid  woi-se. 
In  all  the  ships  that  I  have  been  in,  I've  gene- 
rally been  pretty  well  fed;  but  I  have  been 
aboard  some  shij>s,  nnd  heard  of  a  great  many 
more,  wliere  the  food  is  very  bad,  and  the  men 
are  very  badly  usetl.  On  tins  passage,  the 
general  rule  is  to  feed  the  men  upon  salt 
meat.  The  pork  they  in  genend  use  is  Ken- 
tucky, Russian,  Irish,  and,  indeed,  a  mixture 
of  all  nations.  Any  kind  of  oflid  goes  aboard 
some  ships ;  but  the  one  I'm  on  now  there's 
as  good  meat  as  ever  went  aboard ;  aye,  and 
plenty  of  it — no  stint." 

A  basketman,  who  was  present  whilst  I 
was  taking  the  above  statement,  told  me  that 
the  foreman  of  the  coalwliippers  had  more 
chances  of  judging  of  the  state  of  the  pro- 
Tisions  supplied  to  the  colliers  than  the  men 
had  themselves ;  for  the  basketmen  delivered 
many  different  ships,  and  it  was  the  general 
rule  for  them  to  get  their  dinner  aboard, 
among  the  sailors.      The    basketman    here 


referred  to  told  me  that  he  had  been  a  batcher, 
and  was  consequently  well  able  to  judge  of  the 
quality  of  the  meat.  '*  I  have  no  hesitatum,** 
said  he,  ^  in  stating,  that  one  half  the  meat 
supplied  to  the  seamen  is  unfit  for  human 
consumption.  I  speak  of  the  pork  in  parti- 
cular. Frequently  the  men  throw  it  over- 
board to  get  it  out  of  the  way.  Many  a  time 
when  Tve  been  dining  with  the  men  I  wouldn't 
touch  it  It  fairly  and  regularly  atinks  as  they 
takes  it  out  of  the  coppers." 

The  Coalmetebs. 

I  NOW  come  to  the  class  called  Coalmeters. 
These,  though  belonging  to  the  class  of 
<(  clerks,"  rather  than  labourers,  still  form  so 
important  a  link  in  the  chain,  that  I  think  it 
best  to  give  a  description  of  theii*  duty  here. 

The  coalmeters  weigh  the  coals  on  board 
ship.    They  are  employed  by  a  committee  of 
coalfactors  and  coahnerchants — nine  factors 
and  nine  merchants  forming  such  committee. 
The  committee  is  elected  by  the  trade.    They 
go  out  every  year,  and  consequently  two  new 
members  are  elected  annually.     They  have 
the  entire  patronage  of  the  meter's  office.   Ko 
person  can  be  an  otlicial   coalmeter  without 
being  appointed  by  tlie  coal-committee.   Thoe 
were  formerly  several  bye-meters,  chosen  by 
tlie  merchants  from  among  their  own  men,  as 
they  pleased.    This  practice  has  been  greatly 
diminished  since  April  last.    The  office  of  the 
coalmeter  is  to  weigh  out  the  ship's  cargO|  as 
a  middle -man  between  the  factor  and  the 
merchant    The  cai-go  is  consigned  by  the  pit- 
owner  or    tlie   shipowner  to   the  coalfactor. 
The  number  of  coalfai'tors  is  about  twenty- 
five.    These  men  dispose  of  all  the  coals  that 
are  sold  in  London.      As  soon  as  the  fihip 
arrives  at  Gravesend,  her  papers  are  trans- 
mitted to  an  office  appointed  for  that  purpose, 
and  the  factor  tlien    proceeds  to  the  Cool 
Exchange  to  sell  them.    Here  the  mci chants 
and  the  factors  assemble  tliree  times  a-week. 
The  purchasers   are  divided  into   lai^  and 
small  buyers.     Large  buyers  consist  of  the 
higher  class  coalmerchants,   and    they   will 
sometimes  buy  as  many  as  three  or  four  tlioa- 
sand  tons  in  a-day.    The  small  buyers  only 
purchase  by  multiples  of  seven  —  either  four- 
teen, twenty-one,  or  twenty-eight  tons,  as  they 
please.    The  rule  of  tlie  mai-ket  is,  that  the 
buyers  pay  one  half  of  the  purchase-moucj 
the  first  market-day  after  the  ship  is  cleared, 
and  for  the  remainder  a  bill  at  six  weeks  is 
given.    After  the  ship  is  sold  she  is  admitted 
from  the  Section  into  the  Pool,  and  a  meter  ix 
appointed  to  her  from  the  coalmeter's  olfice. 
Tliis  office  is  maintained  by  the  committee  of 
factors  and  merchants,  and  the  masters  ap- 
pointed by  them  are  registered  there.  Accordisg 
as  a  fresh  ship  is  sold,  the  next  meter  in  rotation 
is  sent  down  to  her.    There  are  in  all  1 70  officinl 
meters,  divided  into  three  classes,  called  respec- 
tively "placemen,"  "  extra  men,"  and  "  supema- 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


261 


meraries."   The  placeman  has  the  preference  of 

the  work.    If  there  is  more  than  the  phicemau 

am  do  the  extra  man  takes  it,  and  if  both 

classes  are  occupied  then  the  supemumerar}' 

steps  in.     Shoold  the  earnings  of  the  latter 

dass  not  amount  to  2ht.  weekly,  that  sum  is 

made  up  to  them.     Before  "breaking  bulk," 

that  i%  before  beginning  to  work  the  cargo  of 

the  ship,  the  City  dues  must,  under  a  penalty, 

be  iMiid  by  the  factor.    Those  amount  to  1«.  Id, 

per  ton.     The  1*.  goes  to  the  City,  and  the  Id. 

to  the  Govomment.     Formerly  the  whole  of 

the  due*  went  to  the  City,  but  witliin  a  short 

period  the  odd  Id.  has  been  claimed  by  Go- 

Temment.     The  coal  duos  form  one  of  tlie 

principal  revenues  of  the  city.    The  dues  are 

collected  by  the  clerk  of  the  Coal  Exchange. 

All  tlie  harbour  dues  and  light  dues  are  paid 

by  the  shipowner.    After  the  City  dues  have 

been  paid,  tlie  meter  receives  his  papers  and 

gnes  on  board  to  deliver  the  cargo,  and  see  that 

each  buyer  registcri>d  on  the  paper  gets  his 

proper  complement    The  meter's  hours  of 

attendance  are  from  seven  to  four  in  winter, 

and  from   seven   to  five  in   summer.      The 

meter  has  to  wait  on  board  the  ship  imtil  such 

time  as  the  purchasers  send  craft  to  receive 

their  coals.     He  then  weiglis  tliem  previously 

to  their  delivery  into  the  barge.     There  are 

eight  weighs  to  the  ton.     The  rate  of  payment 

to  the  meter  is  l\d.  per  ton,  and  the  merchant 

is  compelled  to  deliver  the  cargo  at  the  rate  of 

forty-nine  tons  per  diiy,  making  the  meter's 

wages  amount  to  0«.  \\d.  per  day.     If  there 

is  a  necesMity  or  demand  for  more  coals,  we 

can  do  double  that  amount  of  work.     On  the 

diortest  day  in  the  year  we  can  do  ninety.eight 

tons.*    One  whom  I  saw  said,  **  I  myself  have 

done  112  tons  to-day.    That  would  make  my 

earnings  to-day  1 5#.,  but  as  I  did  nothing  on 

Satozday,  of  course  that  reduces  them  one 

half:" 

Upon  an  average,  a  place -meter  is  employed 
about  five  days  in  tlie  week.  An  extra  meter 
is  employed  about  four  days  in  the  week,  and 
a  sapemumerary  about  luilf  his  time,  but  ho 
has  alwaj'S  his  25«.  weekly  secured  to  him, 
irhether  employed  or  not.  Two  pounds  a- 
wei-k  would  be  a  very  fair  average  for  the 
wages  of  a  place-meter,  since  the  reduction 
on  the  1st  of  April.  Many  declare  they  don't 
earn  3(^.  a-week,  but  many  do  more.  The 
extra  man  gets  very  nearly  the  same  money 
u  the  place-man,  under  tlio  present  arrange- 
ment. The  supernumerary  generally  makes 
his  90t.  weekly.  As  the  system  at  present 
stands,  the  earnings  of  the  meters  generally 
are  not  so  much  as  those  of  superior  mechanics. 
It  is  an  office  requiring  interest  to  obtain  it : 
a  man  must  be  of  known  integrity;  thousands 
and  thousands  of  pounds  of  property  pass 
through  his  hands,  and  he  is  the  man  ap- 
pomted  to  see  justice  between  factor  and 
merchant.  Before  the  Act  directing  all  coals 
to  be  sold  by  weight,  the  meter  measured 
them  in  a  Tat,  holding  a  quarter  of  a  chaldron. 


In  those  days  a  first-class  meter  could  reckon 
upon  an  income  of  from  400/.  to  500/.  a-year, 
and  the  lowest  salary  was  not  under  MOO/,  per 
annum.  The  meter's  ofHce  was  then  entirely 
a  city  appointment,  and  none  but  those  of  con- 
siderable inlluenco  could  obtain  it.  This 
system  was  altered  eighteen  years  ago,  when 
the  meter's  ofHcc  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  a 
committee  of  coalfactors  and  coalinerchants. 
Immediately  after  this  timo  the  saljudes  de- 
creased. The  committee  first  aj^reed  to  pay 
the  meters  at  the  rat<'  of  'id,  por  ton,  under- 
taking that  that  sum  should  priMhice  the 
place-meter  an  income  of  120/.  Ono  gentle- 
man assured  mo  that  ho  never  exceeded  114/., 
but  then  he  was  one  of  the  juiiii)r-<.  Under 
the  old  system  the  meters  were  paid  at  a  rate 
that  would  have  been  equivuh-nt  to  •\d.  a  icm. 
under  the  pres^mt  one.  In  the  year  1831  the 
salar}'  was  reduced  to  2c/.,  and  on  the  1st  of 
April  in  the  pres»'nt  year,  tlie  payment  has 
again  been  cut  down  to  \\d.  i)er  ton.  Besides 
this,  the  certificate  money,  which  was  2.i.  per 
ship,  and  generally  anmunted  to  3«>#.  per 
quarter,  was  entirely  disallowed,  making  the 
total  last  reduction  of  their  wages  amount  to 
full  30  per  cent.  No  con'c^iJoncLing  reduction 
has  token  place  in  the  price  of  coals  to  the 
consumer.  At  the  same  time  the  price  of 
whipping  has  been  reduced  \d.  per  ton,  so 
that,  within  the  last  year,  the  combined  fac- 
tors  and  merchants  have  lowered  the  price  of 
delivery  \\d.  per  ton,  and  they  (the  merchants 
and  factors)  have  Ix.'en  the  sole  gainers  tliero- 
by.  This  has  been  done,  too,  while  the  de- 
mand for  coals  has  been  increasing  everj'  yeor. 
Now,  according  to  the  returns  of  the  clerk 
of  the  Coal  Kxcliange,  there  were  3,418,340 
tons  of  coals  deliveivd  in  the  \iOTt  of  Lon- 
don in  the  year  1848,  and  assuming  the 
amount  to  have  rj-moined  the  same  in  the 
present  year,  it  follows  that  the  factors  and 
merchants  have  gained  no  less  than  21,304/. 
12«.  Orf.  per  annum,  and  that  out  of  the  earn- 
ings of  the  meters  and  the  whippers. 

The  coalwhippers,  already  di.'scribed,  whip 
the  coals  by  means  of  a  basket  and  tackle  from 
the  hold  to  the  deck  of  the  ship.  The  coal- 
meters  weigh  the  coals  when  so  whipped 
from  the  hold,  pre\iously  to  their  being  de- 
livered into  the  barge  alongside.  The  **  coal- 
backer"  properly  carries  the  coals  in  sacks 
upon  his  back  from  the  barges,  when  they 
have  reached  the  premises  of  the  coal-mer- 
chants, on  to  the  wharfs. 

I  will  now  proceed  to  speak  of 

TilE  C0AIJ>0RTEIlS. 

CoALPOBTEBS  aro  employed  in  filling  the 
waggons  of  the  merchants  at  their  respective 
wharfs,  and  in  conveying  and  delivering  the 
coal  at  the  residence  of  the  customers.  Their 
distinguishing  dress  is  a  fautail  hat,  and  an 
outer  garment — half  smock-frock  and  half 
jacket — ^heavy  and  black  with  coal  dust :  this 


262 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


f?nrm(>nt  is  oft«*n  left  open  at  llie  hivnst,  «vspp. 
cinliy,  1  am  ti tld,  on  a  >loii(]ny,  when  tbc  pnrter 
gt^uerally  Iimh  a  clean  Hliiit  to  display.  The  nar- 
rative I  frivo.  Avill  shoi^  how  tiie  lahonr  of  tliese 
men  is  dividcfl.  The  men  themselves  have 
many  terms  fur  the  same  employment.  The 
man  who  drives  tlie  waggon  I  heanl  styled 
inditi'erently,  the  "  waggoner,"  *•  carman,"  or 
*' shooter."  The  man  who  accompanies  him 
to  aid  in  the  delivt-iy  of  the  coals  was  da- 
Bcrihed  to  me  as  the  "  trimmer,"  **  troimcer," 
or  **  pidl  hack."  There  are  also  the  "  nnirfs  " 
and  the  "  sifters,"  of  w)iom  a  deseripcion  will 
be  given  presently.  The  coalportera  form  a 
mile  class ;  not,  perhaps,  from  their  manners 
being  ruder  tlian  those  of  other  classes  of 
lab( Miners,  whose  labour  cannot  be  specified 
under  the  descriptii)n  of  '*  skilled,"  (it  is,  in- 
deed, hut  tlie  exertion  df  animal  strength — the 
work  of  thow  and  mnsde).  hut  ftova.  their 
bein^'  less  «ylueat<Ml.  I  was  informed  that  not 
one  muu  iu  six — thi^  manager  in  a  very  hirge 
house  in  the  coal-ti-mle  estimateil  it  at  but  one 
in  eifjrht— could  niail  or  write,  however  imper- 
fectly. As  a  body,  they  have  no  fellowship  or 
"  union "  innong  thems«'lves,  no  general  sick 
fund,  no  oi*gnnizati(>n  in  rules  for  Iheir  guid- 
ance as  an  importimt  branch  (numerically)  of 
on  impoi-tant  traiiic ;  indeed,  as  it  was  do 
Bcri))ed  to  ine  by  one  of  the  class,  "  no 
nothing."  The  conlporLers  thus  present  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  coalwhippers,  who, 
out  of  means  not  excelling  tlioso  of  tlio  port- 
ci-s,  have  done  so  much  for  the  sick  among 
them,  and  for  the  instruction  of  their  chihln-u. 
The  number  of  men  belonging  to  tlie  l^cneftt 
SiH'iety  of  Coahvhippers  is  4-"J0  ;  and  tiien?  are 
about  200  coalwliippers  belonging  to  nnotJier 
society,  that  was  instituted  beforo  the  new 
office.  There;  arc  200  more  in  connexion  with 
other  offices.  Thero  were  l.*30  sick  men  re- 
lieved by  the  Coalwhippers'  Society  last  year. 
There  wore  14  deaths  out  of  tlin  4.S0  members. 
Each  sick  man  receives  1()«.  a- week,  and  on 
dentil  then;  is  a  pa\nnent  of  bL  a  man,  ami  *U, 
iu  the  case  of  a  wife.  The  amount  of  sub- 
scription to  tho  fund  is  .3</.  per  week  under 
forty  years  of  age.  Ad.  to  fifty,  5rf.  to  sixty,  and 
above  that,  0(/.  On  accoimt  of  the  want  of  any 
organization  among  tho  coalporters,  it  is  not 
easy  to  get  at  their  numbers  with  accuracy. 
No  apprenticeship  is  necessary  fitr  tlio  coal- 
porter,  no  instruction  even ;  so  ^ng  as  ho  can 
handle  a  shovel,  or  liA;  a  sack  of  coals  with 
tolerable  celerity,  he  is  perfect  in  his  calling. 
ThecuncuiTent  ti'Stimony  of  tho  best-informed 
parties,  gave  mo  the  number  of  the  porters 
(exclusive  of  those  known  as  sifters,  scurfs, 
or  od<l  men, )  as  1500  ;  that  is,  1500  employed 
thus :  in  large  establishments  on  *'  the  water- 
side,"  fire  mea  are  employed  as  backers  and 
fillers — two  to  fill  the  sacks,  and  three  to 
carry  them  on  their  bocks  from,  the  barge  to 
the  waggon,  (in  smaller  establishments  tliere 
are  only  two  to  cany).  There  are  two  mors 
then  employed  to  conduct  the  load  of  ooal  to 


the  residence  of  the  inirchaser—- the  iraggoner 
(or  carman),  and  the  trimmer  (ny  txonnoer). 
Of  tliese  the  waggoner  is  considered  th» 
picked  man,  for  he  is  expected  to  be  able  to 
vmta  his  name.  Sometimes  he  can  ^Nviter 
nothing  else,  and  more  frequently  not  even  so- 
much,,  carrying  his  name  on  the  custmner'e 
ticket  ready  written  ;  ami  he  hoA  the  case  of 
the  horses  tis  driver,  and  freqnently  as  groem. 

At  one  time,  when  their  eamingK  ipere  eon- 
siiierahle,  til esH  coalporters  spent  lanre  mmw 
in  ilrink.  Now  their  meaue  are  limited,  and 
their  drunkennefie  is  not  in  excesa.  The  mea^ 
as  I  have  said.  ar&  ill-infhrme(L  They  haT» 
all  a  pre-eonceived  notion  that  beer  sometimes 
in  large  quaiititi<>s  (one  porter  said  he  limited 
himself  to  a  pint  on  hour,  when  ot  work),  ia 
necessary  to  tliem  "for  snpporL"  Even  if 
facta  were  brought  conclosively  .to  bear  npon 
the  subject  to  prove  that  so  much  bepr,  or 
any  allowance  of  h(H>r,  was  injurious,  it  would, 
1  think,  be  diflicult  to  convince  the  porters,  for 
an  ignomnt  man  will  not  part  with  a  pre- 
conceived notion.  I  heard  from  one  man,, 
more  intelligent  than  his  fellows,  that  a  tem- 
perance lecturer  oiico  wi*nt  among  a  hoily  of 
the  cimlporters  >ind  t^dkud  about  '^alonhol" 
and  '*  fennentutirm,"  and  tho  like,  until  he 
was  pi*onouncod  either  nnid  or  a  Frenchman. 

The  question  arises,  Why  is  this  ignorance 
allowed  to  continue,  as  a  reproach  to  the  men, 
to  their  emplt»yers,  and  to  the  community? 
Of  tho  kindness  of  masters  to  the  men,  of  dis- 
couragcmcbt  of  drunkenness,  of  pi^rauasiona 
to  the  men  tt)  care  for  tlie  education  of  their 
childn'u,  I  hiul  tlio  gratification  of  hearing 
fivqueutly.  liut  of  any  attempt  to  establish 
schools  for  the  general  instruction  of  the  cnal- 
port^'rs'  childivn.  of  any  talk  of  almshousee 
ffir  tlie  recepticm  of  the  worn-out  labourer,  of 
any  other  provision  for  his  old  age,  whiehi  ia 
always  preniature  through  hard  work,^-of  any 
movement  fur  tlie  amelioration  of  this  claat,  I 
did  not  hear.  Rudo  a.s  these  porters  may  be, 
machines  as  they  may  be  accounteil,  tliey  ase 
tho  means  of  wt.*alth  to  tht-ir  employers,  and 
desen'e  ai  least  some  care  and  regard  on  their 
part. 

Tho  way  in  which  the  bnigea  an  nnladen 
to  fill  the  waggons  is  tho  same  in  tlie  rivers 
as  iu  the  canals.  Two  men  standing  in  the 
barge  fill  the  socks,  and  tliree  (or  two;  cany 
them  along  planks,  if  tlie  barge  be  not  moored 
close  ashore  to  the  waggon,  which  ia  placed  as 
near  the  water  as  possible.  In  the  canals* 
this  work  is  carried  on  most  regulariy,  as  the 
water  is  not  infiu<>nced  by  the  tide,  and  the 
work  coo  go  on  all  day  long.  I  will  describe^ 
therefore,  what  I  saw  in  the  City  Basio^ 
Regent's  Canal.  This  canal  has  been  opoud 
about  twenty  years.  It  commenoea  at  the 
Grand  Jimctinn  at  Paddington;  and  fhUfe  into 
the  Thames  above  the  latnafaouae  Doek.  Its 
course  is  circuitous,  and  in  it  are  two  tunnel* 
— one  at  Islingt<m,  three-qoarters  ct  a  niil« 
long ;  the  other  at  the  Hamw  Bead  a.qiiait«r 


LONDOS  LABOVR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


2(13 


of  a  mile  long.  If  a  merchant  in  the  Begent'fl 
Oxnal  has  iturchased  the  cargo  of  u  eollier, 
finch  cargo  ia  whipped  into  the  barge.  For 
the  conilucting  of  Lhia  ladun  barge  to  the 
Limehonse  La&in  of  the  canal,  tlie  meii^hant 
haa  to  employ  licensed  li(;htermon,  meiubei's 
of  the  Waterman's  Ck>mi»any,  as  none  eliMi 
m  privileged  to  work  on  tlie  river.  Tlie 
canal  attained,  the  barge  is  taken  into  char^'e 
by  two  men,  who,  not  Ix-iiig  regular  "  water- 
men,? eontlne  their  luboura  to  the  caaal. 
Theee  men  (a  steerer  and  a  driver)  convey 
the  barge^ — sappoM*  to  tlie  City  UaKin,  Isling- 
toOr  whSehf  OS  it  IB  about  midway,  gives  a  cri- 
tenoa  at  to  the  charge  and  the  time  when 
Qfclit*r  diatanoea  are  concerned.  They  go  back 
with  aa  empty  barge.  Each  of  theiie  barge- 
men haa  2s,  a  ba^  for  conveyance  to  the 
City  Basin.  The  conveyance  of  tlie  loaded 
baiiia  occupiea  three  hours,  sixty -four  tuns  of 
coal  being  an  average  car>,'r).  Two  barges 
a-day,  in  tine  weather,  can  be  thus  conducted, 
giviiii;  a  weekly  earning  to  oai'h  uiun  in  full 
work  of  2iU.  Thia  is  subjnrt  to  coHimltics  and 
deductions,  but  it  in  nut  iny  proscnt  inteu- 
liun  to  give  the  condition  "f  these  biU*geiii<.'ii. 
I  reserve  this  for  a  future  iiud  more  litting 
occasion.  In  frosty  weather,  when  the  ici*  has 
tauaed  many  delays,  as  much  as  0«.  a-bur<;e 
per  man  has  been  jioid ;  and,  I  was  told,  hard- 
<'amed  money,  too.  A  boi-ge  nt  such  times 
hos  not  been  got  into  the  City  Hnsiu  in  less 
than  forty-eight  hours.  The  crowded  st;ite  of 
the  canal  at  the  whaifs  at  this  {\\\\k\  df  the 
Tear,  gives  it  the  axipeiiraiice  of  a  onnvded 
tharoughfiirc,  there  l>eiiig  but  juht  room  for 
one  vesael  to  get  along. 

From  the  statement  with  which  I  was 
lavonred  by  a  house  cuit}  Liif ;  on  a  \  eiy  exteii- 
hive  bnidness,  it  appeai-s  that  tin*  average 
(■imings  of  the  men  in  thi*ir  oiuploy  was,  tlie 
year  through,  upwards  of  'i^s.  1  i-ive  the 
paymenta  of  twelve  men  n^gulnrly  euiployed 
as  the  criterion  of  their  eaniin'^'s,  on  tlie  best 
paid  description  of  coalporters'  labour,  for 
tbiir  weeks  at  the  busies:  time : — 


December  :22 
15 

November  17 


i!v2l  5  5 
21  17  :i 
li-J  10    1 


This  gives  an  average  of  more  thau  1/.  WU,  \ 
per  man   a-week    fur    this  pori(Ml ;    but  the ! 
*^ThiipHff  of  trade  in  the  sumuuT,  when  coals  ■. 
an  in  smaller  demand,  n.ilucr-s  the  average  tu  ; 
the  amount  I  have  stated.    In  the  two  weeks 
omitted,  in    the  above    stutenuMit,  riz.  those 
ending   December   1st  and  November  24th, 
fourteen  men  had  to  be  employed,  on  account 
of  the  briskness  of  trade.    Their  joint  eoni- 
ings  weve  301. 1'U,  Hd,  one  week,  and  3:J/.  O^i.  7</. 
the  other..  By  this  firm  t.'uch  waggoner  is  paid 
U  a-week,  and  (U.  extra  if  he  "  do  "  100  tons ; 
thtt  ia,  6j.  between  him  and   tlie    trimmer. 
I'or  avefj  ton  above  lOO  carried  out  by  their 
imiL  trimmer.  Id,  extra   is    paid. 


and  sometimes  1:J()  are  carried  out,  but 
only  at  a  ))iLsy  time ;  142  haver  been  carried 
out,  but  tliut  (^nly  was  remembered  as  the 
f^reatest  amount  iit  tlie  wliarf  iii  question, 
l^or  each  waggun  sent  out,  the  waggnner  ami 
the  trimmer  together  reoi-lvo  -id,  lor  *•  bi^er 
money "  from  their  employ <.>rs.  They  fre- 
queutly  receive  money  (if  nut  drink )  li-om  the 
customers,  and  so  Uie  average  of  Ui^ss.  and  up- 
wanLf  is  iniule  up.  I  saw  two  waggoners 
fully  employed,  and  they  fully  corroborated 
this  statement.  Such  payment,  however,  ia 
not  the  rule.  ]Many  give  the  waggoner  2l«. 
a^week,  and  employ  him  in  doing  wliotevur 
work  may  be  rei^uired.  A  waggoner  at  what 
he  called  **pix>r  work,"  three  or  four  days 
luweek,  t^tld  mo  he  earned  about  13<.  on  the 
average. 

The  scurfs  are  looked  upou  as,  in  many 
respects,  the  ret\ise  of  the  trade.  They  uve 
the  men  olwaj-s  hanging  about  the  wharfs, 
waiting  for  any  "  odd  job."  They  are  gene- 
rally coolportei-s  who  caimot  be  trusted  with 
full  and  ri'iruhu*  work,  who  wero  de^cribed  to 
me  as  •*  toii;^uey,  or  dnmken,"  anxious  to  gi.-t 
a  job  just  to  supply  any  pressing  need,  eitlier 
fur  drink  or  meat,  and  careless  of  other  eoii- 
sequeuces.  Among  them,  however,  are  eoal- 
porti^rs  seeking  employment,  some  willi  ^oud 
L'haifirUTs.  Tliese  seurfs,  with  the  sitters, 
number,  I  uudei*staud.  more  tliau  TiOt) ;  thus 
altogether  making,  wiih  tlio  cotdhackers  and 
other  classes  of  coalporters,  a  body  of  more 
than  -201 KJ. 

1  now(M)mu  tothe  following  statement, mode 
by  a  geutlemiiii  who  for  moi-e  than  thirty  years 
has  betii  familiar  with  all  matters  connected 
with  the  cual-merehantN'  tra<le.  "1  cannot 
say,'  he  began.  **that  iIh;  condition  of  the  coid- 
porter  ( not  referring  t(»  his  e:u'niiigs,  but  to 
his  mund  and  intellect uid  improvement)  is 
much  amended  now,  for  he  is  about  tlie  biuuo 
sr»rt  of  mi'U  thai  ho  wjjs  ihiity  yours  ago. 
There  mny  lie,  and  1  hav(i  no  doubt  Lh,  a  greaWr 
degi-ee  of  sobriety,  but  1  fear  chiefly  on  account 
of  the  men's  eaniin«;s  brin;?  now  smaller,  and 
their  havuit^  b.'ss  nnans  at  their  CA>mmand« 
Thirty-tive  \«"ais  aj:o,  before  the  general  peace, 
labourers  were  sciiiie,  and  the  coidporters  then 
liad  fidl  Olid  ready  employment,  earning  from 
•2/.  to  '61.  a-week.  1  have  heai*d  a  coali>orter 
say  that  one  week  he  earned  5/. ;  indeed,  I 
liave  heard  st  veral  say  so.  AlYer  the  peace, 
the  supply  of  labour  for  the  coal-trade  greatly 
increased,  and  thu  ciailporters'  camuigs  fell 
gradually.  The  men  emph)yod  in  a  gJKul 
establishment  thii'ty  years  ago,  judging  IVom 
the  ])a>-ments  in  unr  own  establishment  as  a 
fair  criterion,  were  in  the  receipt  of  nearly  U/. 
a-week  on  the  average.  At  that  time  cool  was 
delivered  by  the  chaMron.  A  chaldron  was 
composed  of  12  sacks  containing  3(1  bushels, 
and  weighing  about  25  cwL  ^a  ton  and  a. 
(iuarter).  For  the  himling  of  the  waggons  a 
gang  of  four  men,  called  *  HUers,'  was,  and  is, 
employed.    They  were  paid  It.  Ad.  per  chal- 


2(31 


LOXVOX  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


<lron  ;  that  is,  4</.  per  man.  This  was  for 
inrasurinji:  tlie  coal,  putting  it  into  sacks,  and 
l)iitting  the  swks  into  the  waggon.  The  men 
in  this  gang  had  nothing  to  do  with  tho  con- 
voyance  of  the  coal  to  the  customers.  For  that 
puq)oso  two  other  men  wore  employed;  a 
*  waggoner,'  and  a  man  known  as  a  *  trimmer,'  or 
'  trDunccr,'  who  accompanied  the  waggoner,  and 
aided  liim  in  carrying  the  sacks  from  the 
wnggcm  to  the  customers'  coal-cellor,  and  in 
aniingiiig  the  coal  wht»n  deliv«'r«»d,  so  as  pro- 
perly to  assort  tlie  hnmll  with  the  large,  or 
indeed  making  any  arrangement  \nth  them 
required  by  the  purchaser.  Tho  waggoner  and 
the  trimmer  were  paid  I5.  .'W.  each  p«.-r  clialdron 
for  deliver}',  but  when  the  coal  had  to  bo  carried 
up  or  down-stairs  any  distance,  their  charge 
was  an  extra  shilling — '2s.  '6d.  Many  of  tlio 
nu-n  have  at  tliat  time,  when  work  was  brisk, 
filled  and  drlivrred  tifteen  chaldrons  day  by 
day,  provMed  the  ilistance  for  d»'livery  was  not 
veiy  iiu:.  Drink  was  sometim<'S  given  by  tin? 
cusiomoi's  to  the  waggoner  and  trimmer  who 
had  charge  of  the  cotd  sent  to  their  houses — 
IK'rhaps  gf nendly  giv»n ;  and  I  believe  it  was 
always  asked  for,  unless  it  happened  to  be 
given  without  asking.  At  that  time  I  did  not 
know  one  tet'totidt-r ;  I  do  not  know  one  per- 
Bonally  among  those  parties  now.  Some  took 
the  pledge,  but  I  believe  none  kept  it.  In  this 
cstabli^hment  wo  discourage  drunkenness  all 
that  we  possibly  can.  In  1H32,  wages  having 
varied  from  the  time  of  tho  peace  imtil  then, 
a  great  chongo  took  i)lace.  Previous  to  that 
time  a  reduction  of  -id.  per  ton  had  been  made 
in  tlio  payment  of  the  men  who  filled  the 
waggons  (tho  fillers),  but  not  in  tlmt  of  th 
waggoner  or  the  tiimmer.  The  change  I 
xdludc  to  was  that  established  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment, providing  for  the  sale  of  all  coal  by  the 
meix'hant  being  by  weight  instead  of  by  mea- 
sure. This  change,  it  was  believed,  would 
benefit  the  public,  by  ensuring  them  tho  full 
quantity  for  which  they  borgiuned.  I  think  it 
has  Innefited  them.  Coid  was,  mider  the 
former  system,  measured  by  tho  bushel,  and 
there  were  frequently  objtN'tions  as  to  the  way 
in  which  the  bushel  was  filled.  Some  dealers 
were  accused  of  packing  the  measure,  so  as  to 
block  it  up  with  lai-ge  pit?ces  of  coal,  preventing 
the  full  space  being  filled  with  the  coal.  The 
then  Act  provided  that  the  bushel  measure 
should  be  heaped  up  with  the  coal  so  as  to 
form  a  cone  six  inches  above  the  rim  of  the 
measure.  When  the  new  Act  came  into  opera- 
tion tho  coalportei-s  were  paid  10c/.  a-ton 
among  the  gang  of  four  fillers,  and  the  same 
to  the  waggoner  and  trimmer.  Before  two 
years  tliis  become  reduced  generally  to  dd.  The 
gang  could  load  twenty-fivo  tons  a-day  without 
extra  toil ;  forty  tons,  and  perhaps  more,  have 
been  loaded  by  a  gang :  but  such  labour  con- 
tinned  would  exhaust  strong  men.  With  extra 
work  there  was  always  extm  drink,  fur  the  men 
fancy  that  their  work  requires  beer  *  for  support.' 
^ly  opinion  is  that  a  moderate  ollowauce  of 


good  molt  liquor,  soy  tliree  pints  n-dav  \rhen 
work  is  going  on  all  day,  is  of  advantage  to  A 
coalporter.  In  the  winter  tliey  fancy  it  neces- 
sary to  drink  gin  to  warm  them.  At  one  time 
all  the  men  drank  more  than  now.  I  estimate 
the  averoge  earnings  of  a  conlporler  ftiUj 
employed  now  at  1/.  a- week.  There  are  fiur 
more  employed  at  present  than  when  I  first 
knew  the  trade,  and  the  titulc  itself  has  been 
greatly  extemled  by  tlie  new  wharfs  on  the 
Regent's  Canal,  and  up  and  down  the  river." 

I  liad  heard  fnnn  so  many  quarters  that 
"beer"  was  a  necessity  of  the  coal-lAboarers* 
work,  that  finding  the  coalwhix>pers  the  most 
intelligent  of  the  whole  class,  I  thought  it  best 
to  call  the  men  t<iget]ier,  and  to  take  their 
oi)inion  generally  on  the  subject.  Accordingly 
I  returned  to  the  basketmen's  waiting-room 
at  tho  coalwhippers'  oflic^,  and,  as  before,  it 
was  soon  crowded.  There  were  eighty  inrescnt 
Wishing  to  know  whether  the  oocdbacker's 
statement  already  given,  that  the  drinking 
of  beer  was  a  necessity  of  hard  labom*, 
was  a  correct  one,  I  put  tho  question  to  the 
men  there  assembled:  "Is  the  drinking  of 
fermented  liquors  necessary  for  peifomiing 
hard  work  ?  How  many  present  beUeve  that 
you  can  work  without  beer  ?"  Those  who  were 
of  opinion  that  it  was  necessary  for  the  per- 
formance of  their  labour,  were  n^qnested  to 
hold  up  their  hands,  nnd  four  out  of  the  eighty 
did  so. 

A  basketman  who  had  been  woiking  at  the 
business  for  foiu"  years,  and  for  two  of  those 
years  had  been  a  whipper,  and  so  doing  the 
heaviest  labour,  said  that  in  the  course  ot  the 
(lay  ho  had   been   one  of  a  gang  who  had 
delivered  as  many  as  189  tons.     For  this  he 
had  i*equircd  no  drink  at  all ;  cocoa  was  all  he 
had  token.    Three  men  in  tlie  room  had  like- 
wise done  without  beer  at  the  heaviest  woA. 
One  was  a  coolwhipper,  and  had  abstained  for 
six  years.    Some  cUfierence  of  opinion  seemed 
to  exist  as  to  the  number  in  the  trade  that 
worked  witlmut  beer.    Some  said  250,  others 
not  15U.    One  man  stated  that  it  was  impos- 
siblo  to  do  without  malt  liquor.    *'  One  shiJimg 
a  day  properly  spent  in  drink  would  prolong 
life  full  ten  years,"  be  soid.    This  was  received 
with  applause.     Many  present  declared  that 
they  had  tried  to  do  without  beer,  and  had 
ii:\jiu*cd  themselves  greatly'  by  the   attempt 
Out  of  tho  eighty  present,  fourteen  had  tned 
tectotalism,  and  liod  thrown  it  up  after  a  time 
on  account  of  its  injuring  tlieir  health.    One 
man,  on  the  other  hand,  said  ho  had  ^yen  the 
total- abstinence  principle  a  fair  trial  for  aeven 
months,  and  hod  never  found  himself  in  aneh 
good  health  before.    Another  man  stated,  that 
to  do  a  day's  work  of  ninety-eight  tarns,  three 
pints  of  beer  were  requisite.    All  but  three 
believed  this.    Tho  tlirco  pints  wore  declared   1 
to  be  requisite  in  winter  time,  and  four  pints,    | 
or  two  pots,  were  considered  to  be  not  too    > 
much  in   a  hot  summer's  day.    Before  the   1 
present  office  was  instituted,  each  man,  they   : 

J 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  I'OUiL 


liOj 


told  me,  drank  half-a>piiit  of  gin  and  six  pots 
of  beer  daily.  That  was  the  average — ^many 
draiik  more.  Then  they  could  not  do  their 
work  80  well;  they  were  weaker  from  not 
having  so  mnch  food.  The  money  went  for 
drink  instead  of  meat  They  were  always 
qnarrelling  on  board  a  ship.  Drunken  men 
eoold  never  agree.  A  portion  of  beer  is  good, 
bnt  too  much  is  worse  than  none  at  alL"  Tliis 
was  the  unanimous  declaration. 

Since  this  meeting  I  have  been  at  consider- 
able pains  to  collect  a  large  amount  of  o-ideiico 
in  connexion  with  this  most  important  ques- 
tion. The  opinion  of  the  most  intelligent  of 
the  class  seems  to  be,  thntno  kind  of  fermented 
drink  is  necessary  for  the  performance  of  the 
hardest  labour;  but  I  have  sought  for  and 
obtained  the  sentiments  of  all  classes,  temper- 
ate and  intemperate,  with  the  view  of  fairly 
discussing  the  subject.  These  statements  I 
must  reserve  till  my  next  letter.  At  present 
I  shall  conclude  with  the  following  stor}-  of  the 
suffoiinga  of  the  wife  of  one  of  the' intem- 
perate class : — 

**  I  have  been  married  nineteen  or  twenty 
jeazs.  I  was  married  at  Teiitou,  in  Oxford- 
shire. We  came  to  Londou  fifteen  years  ago. 
My  husband  first  workerl  as  a  sa^\7er.  For  eleven 
years,  he  was  in  the  cool-trade.  "  He  was  in  all 
sorts  of  work,  and  for  tlie  last  six  months  he 
was  a  •  scnrl'  "What  he  eame<l  nil  the  time  I 
'  never  knew.  He  gave  me  what  he  liked,  somc- 
\  times  nothing  at  tdl.  In  May  last  he  only  gftv(> 
me  2m,  ^d.  for  the  whole  monlli,  for  myself  and 
two  children.  I  buried  four  children.  I  can't 
tell  how  we  lived  then,  I  can't  express  wliat 
we*ve  suffered,  all  through  drink.  He  gave  me 
trenty  years  of  misc-ry  through  drink.  [This 
Yss  repeated  four  or  five  times.]  Some  days  tliat 
May  we  had  neither  bit  nor  sup ;  the  water 
Tis  too  bad  to  drink  cold,  and  I  hod  to  live  on 
Yiter  put  through  a  few  leaves  in  the  teapot — 
dd  liraves.  Poor  people,  you  know,  sir,  helps 
poor  people ;  and  but  for  the  poor  neighbouns 
we  might  have  been  found  dead  some  day.  He 
cared  nothing.  Many  a  time  I  have  gone 
without  bread  to  give  it  to  tlie  children.  Was 
he  ever  kind  to  them,  do  you  say,  sir?  No ; 
Ihey  trembled  when  they  heard  his  stop ;  they 
were  afraid  of  thoir  very  lives,  he  knocked 
them  about  so;  drink  made  him  a  savage; 
drink  took  \he  father  out  of  him."  This  was 
Mid  with  a  flush  and  a  rapid  tone,  in  strong 
contrast  witli  tlie  poor  woman's  generally  sub- 
dued demeanour.  She  resumed: — "Twenty 
miserable  years  through  drink!  I've  often 
gone  to  bring  him  from  the  public-house,  but 
he  seldom  would  come.  He  would  abuse  me, 
and  would  drink  more  because  I'd  gone  for 
lum.  rve  often  whispered  to  him  that  his 
children  was  starving :  but  I  durstn't  say  that 
aloud  when  his  mates  was  by.  We  seldom  had 
» fire.  He  often  beat  me.  I've  9«.  in  pawn 
pow.  Since  wo  came  to  Loudon  I've  lost  20/. 
in  the  pawnshop.'* 
This  man  had  died  a  fortnight  before,  hav- 


ing ruptured  a  blood-vessel.  He  lay  ill  six 
days.  The  parish  doctor  attended  him.  His 
comrades  •*  gathered "  for  his  biuial,  but  the 
widow  hod  still  somo  funeral  expenses  to  pay 
by  instalments.  The  room  she  and  the 
cidldren  occupied  wus  the  same  as  in  tlie 
husband's  lifetime.  There  jyas  about  tlie  room 
a  cold  damp  smoU,  arising  from  l):id  ventila- 
tion and  the  chilliness  of  the  weatlier.  Two 
wretched  beds  almost  filled  the  jilace.  No 
article  was  worth  a  penny,  uor  could  a  penny 
have  been  obtained  nt  u  sale  or  a  pawnshop. 
The  w^oman  was  cleanly  clail,  but  looked  sailly 
pinched,  miserable,  and  foebb;.  She  earns  a 
little  as  a  washerwoman,  imd  did  earn  it 
while  her  husband  lived.  She  bears  an  excel- 
lent character.  Her  repetition  of  the  words, 
^^  twenty  years  oj  misery  through  drink,"  was 
very  intiful.  I  njfrained  from  a  prolonged 
questioning,  as  it  seenie<l  to  excite  her  in  her 
weak  state. 


BALLAST-MEN. 

HA^^^•o  finishe«l  with  the  ditFerent  classes 
of  coal-labourers  in  Lomlou  —  the  whippers, 
backers,  pull-backs,  trimnit.'rs,  and  wag^jners 
— I  purpose  now  deidiiij^  witli  the  ballast-meUi 
including  the  ballast-Kcttei-s,  the  ballast-light- 
ermen, and  the  ballast-heavers  of  the  metro- 
polis. My  reason  for  posing  from  the  coal  to 
the  ballast -labourers  is,  because  the  latter 
class  of  the  wt)rk-|ieoi)le  arc  suffering  under 
the  same  iniquitous  ai)d  peniieious  system  of 
emplo\-ment  as  that  from  which  the  coal- 
labourers  have  recently  been  emancipated, 
and  the  transition  will  sene  to  show  not  only 
the  present  condition  of  the  one  class  of  men, 
but  the  past  state  (»f  the  other. 

After  treating  of  the  ballast-labourers,  I 
purpose  inquiring  into  the  condition  and  in- 
come of  the  stevedores,  or  men  engaged  in  the 
stowing  or  unstowing  of  vessels ;  and  of  the 
lumpers  and  riggers,  or  those  enga^jed  in  the 
rigging  and  unrigging  of  them.  It  is  then 
my  intention  to  pass  to  the  com  labourers, 
such  as  the  corn-porters,  corn-runners,  and 
tuniers,  touching  incidentally  upon  the  com- 
metcrs.  After  tliis,  I  mean  to  devote  my  at- 
tention to  the  timber-labourers  engaged  at  the 
different  timber-docks  —  as,  for  instance,  the 
Commercial,  the  Grand  Surrey,  and  the  East 
Country  Docks.  Then,  in  due  coiu^e,  I  shall 
come  to  the  whaii'-labourors  and  porters,  or 
men  engaged  at  the  dill'ercnt  wliarfs  in  l/m- 
don;  thence  I  shall  digress  to  the  bargemen 
and  lightermen,  or  men  engaged  in  the  transit 
of  the  different  cargoes  from  the  ships  to 
their  several  points  of  destination  up  or  down 
the  river;  and  finally,  I  shall  tr.at  of  the 
watermen,  the  steamboat-men,  and  pit^r-men, 
or  those  engaged  in  the  transit  of  passenvrers 
along  the  Thames.  These,  with  the  dock- 
labourers,  of  whom  I  have  before  tnated,  will, 
I  believe,  exhaust  tho   subject  of  the  long- 


'Miii 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


shore  laboforen ;  moA  ibe  n^ole  frill,  I  trust, 
form,  when  campleted,  sncli  a  body  of  fkets 
and  mformaticai,  in  connexion  with  this  par- 
tionlar  brandi  of  labour,  as  has  never  before 
been  oolleoted.  I  am  happy  to  nay,  that,  with 
■ome  few  exoeptionB,  i  have  received  from  the 
different  official  gentlemen  not  only  every  cour- 
tegy  and  consideration,  but  all  the  assistance 
and  co-operation  that  it  lay  in  tlieir  power  to 
afford  me.  Eveiy  cla«is  seems  to  look  upon 
the  present  inquiry  as  an  important  under- 
taking, and  all,  save  tlie  Clerk  of  the  Coal 
£xcliaDge  and  the  Dcpnty-Superintendcnt  of 
the  London  Docks,  liave  shown  themselves 
not  only  willing,  but  anxious,  to  lend  a  hand 
towards  expediting  the  result 

Before  quitting  the  subject  of  the  coal- 
market,  let  nie  endeavour  t(i  arrive  ai  an  esti- 
mate as  to  the  amount  of  wealth  annually 
brought  into  the  iK>rt  of  London  by  means  of 
tlio  colliers,  and  to  set  forth,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  proportion  in  which  it  is  distributed.  I 
have  alremly  given  some  statistics,  which, 
notwithstanding  the  objections  of  a  coal: 
merchant,  who,  in  a  letter  to  a  jounial, 
stated  that  I  had  reckoned  the  number  of 
ships  at  twice  the  real  quantity,  were  ob- 
tained  from,  such  sources,  and,  I  may  add, 
with  so  much  core  and  caution,  as  to  render 
them  the  most  accurate  information  capable 
of  being  procured  at  present  on  the  BubjeoL 
The  Btatistica  of  the  number  of  tons  of  coals 
brought  into  the  port  of  London  in  the  year 
1848,  the  number  of  vessels  employed,  of  the 
voyages  made  by  those  vessels  cSollootively, 
and  of  the  seamen  engaged  in  the  traffic,  were 
furnished  by  the  Clerk  of  the  Coal  Exchange 
at  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  new  build- 
ing. Had  the  coal-merchant,  therefore,  made 
it  his  duty  to  devote  the  same  time  and  care 
to  the  investigation  of  the  truth  of  my  state- 
ments that  I  have  to  the  collection  of  them,  he 
wonld  not  only  have  avoided  committing  the 
wry  errors  he  condemns,  but  would  hove  dis- 
played a  more  comprehensive  knowledge  of 
his  business. 

In  1846  there  were  imported  into  the  Loo- 
don  coal  market  8418,840  tons  of  coal.  These 
were  sold  to  the  public  at  an  average  rate  all 
the  year  round  of  22s.  Qi.  a  ton.  Hence  the 
sum  expended  in  the  metropolis  for  coal  in 
that  year  was  8,845,682/.  10s. 

There  are  21,600  seamen  en. 
gaged  in  the  coal  trade,  and 
getting  on  an  average  8/.  10s. 
per  man  per  voyage.  Each 
of  these  men  makes  between 
4  and  6  voyages  in  the 
course  of  the  year.  Henee 
the  average  earnings  of  each 
man  per  year  wUl  be  16/.  18s., 
exclusive  of  his  keep ;  calcu- 
lating that  at  5s.  per  week, 
or  18/.  per  year,  we  have 
28/.  18s.  for  the  expense  of 


each  of  the  seamen  emploTed. 
Henee,  as  there  are  21*600 
sailors  in  the  coal  trade,  the 
total  yearly  cost  wonld  be     .  j6024,M 

There  are  170  ocsl-meters,  earn- 
ing,  on  an  average,  2/.  per 
week,  or  104/.  per  year  each 
man.  This  would  make  the 
total  sum  paid  in  the  year  to 
the  cool-meters    .        .        •       17^8i( 

There  are  2000  coal-whippers, 
earning  15s.  l^d.  each  per 
week,  or  8U/.  6s.  M.  per  man. 
Henoe  the  total  sum  paid  in 
the  course  of  lost  year  to  the 
coal-whippers  was         .        .        78,0IM 

There  are  8000  coal -porters 
earning,  on  an  average,  1/. 
per  week,  or  52/.  per  year  per 
man,  so  that  they  receive  on- 
nually ldG,O0( 

Hence  the  total  amount  paid 

per  yenr  to  the  working-men 
engaged  in  bringing  and  de- 
liv(>ring  coals  in  the  London 
market  is     ...        •  i£d76,57C 

The  aroa  of  all  the  coal-fields  nf  Great  B] 
has  been  roughly  estimated  at  0000  si 
niile^  The  produce  is  supposed  to  be  4 
32,000,000  tons  annually,  of  which  10,00 
tons  are  consumed  in  the  iron-works,  6,50* 
tons  are  shipped  coastwise,  2,500,000  tan 
exported  to  foreign  countries,  and  11,00 
tons  distributed  inland  for  miscellaneom 
poses.  Near  upon  4,000,000  tons  were  hn 
to  London  by  ^ps  and  otherwise  in  the 
1848,  and  it  is  computed  that  about  < 
part  of  this,  or  500,000  tons,  were 
by  the  gas-works. 

The  price  of  coals  as  quoted  in  tine  Lo 
market  is  the  price  np  to  the  time  whei 
coals  are  whipped  from  the  ships  to  the 
chants'  barges.  It  indndes,  Ist.  the  val 
the  coals ;  2d.  the  expense  of  transit  ftm 
pit  to  the  ship;  8d.  the  fireight  of  the  st 
London ;  4th.  the  Thames'  dues ;  and  Stl 
whipping.  The  difference  between  the  m 
price  and  that  paid  by  the  consumer  is : 
up  of  the  expense  incurred  by  the  ooal 
chant  for  bugcs,  wbarfiB,  waggons,  k< 
wages,  coal-porters,  &&,  to  his  profit  and 
In  1886  the  exiienses  inetirred  by  the 
chant  from  the  time  he  bought  a  shq^-lo 
coals  to  the  deposition  of  them  in  the  « 
of  his  customers  amounted,  on  an  avera 
was  said,  to  7s.  a  ton.  These  expenses 
prise  conumssion,  lighterage,  porfceoige, 
age,  shooting,  metagu,  market -dues, 
metage,  and  other  items.  At  the  present 
the  expenses  must  be  considerably  low« 
wages  of  the  labourers  and  the  meters  h 
been  lowered  full  50  per  cent,  thoiij^  tli 
mand  for  and  consumption  of  coal  ha 
creased  at  nearly  the  same  rate;  indeei 
law  of  the  coal-market  appears  to  be,  tl 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TUE  LONDON  ^OOR, 


267 


proportion  as  the  demand  for  the  articlo  rises, 
so  do  the  wages  of  the  men  engaged  in  the 
supply  of  it  ikil. 

As  the  ballast-heavers  are  under  the  thral. 
dom  of  the  same  demoralising  and  oppressive 
system  as  Uiat  which  the  coal-whippers  re- 
cently suffered  under,  it  may  be  as  weU,  before 
going  further,  to  lay  before  the  reader  the  fol- 
lowing concise  account  of  the  terms  on  which 
the  latter  were  engaged  before  the  Coal-whip- 
pers^ Office  was  established. 

Until  the  last  fi*w  years  the  coal-whippers 
suffered  themselves  to  be  duped  in  an  extra- 
ordinary way  by  publicans  and  petty  shop- 
keepers on  shore.  The  custom  was,  for  the 
captain  of  a  cotd-ship,  when  he  required  a  cargo 
to  be  whipped,  to  apply  to  one  of  these  publi- 
caus  for  a  gang ;  and  a  gang  was  accordingly 
sent  from  the  public-house.  There  was  no 
professed  or  pre-juranged  deduction  from  the 
pxice  paid  for  the  work ;  the  captain  paid  the 
publican,  and  the  publican  paid  the  coal- 
whippers  ;  but  the  middleman  had  his  profit 
another  way.  The  coal-whipper  was  expected 
to  come  to  the  public-house  in  the  morning ; 
to  drink  while  waiting  for  work,  to  take  drink 
with  him  to  the  ship,  to  drink  again  when  the 
day's  work  was  over,  and  to  linger  about  and 
in  the  public-house  until  almost  beJ-time  be- 
fore his  day's  wages  were  paid.  The  conse- 
qoence  was,  that  an  enormous  ratio  of  his 
earnings  went  every  week  to  the  publican. 
The  publicans  were  wont  to  di\'ide  their  de- 
pendants, into  two  classes  —  the  constant  men 
and  the  stragglers,  of  whom  the  former  were 
first  served  whenever  a  cargo  was  to  be 
whipped;  in  return  for  this  they  were  ex- 
pect^ to  spend  almost  the  whole  of  their 
spare  time  in  the  public-house,  and  even  to 
take  up  their  lodgings  there.. 

The  captains  preferred  applying  to  the 
publicans  to  engaging  the  men  themselves, 
becatise  it  saved  them  trouble;  and  because 
(as  was  pretty  well  understood)  the  publi- 
cans  curried  favour  with  them  by  indirect 
means;  grocers  and  small  shopkeepers  did 
the  same,  and  the  coal-whippers  had  then  to 
bay  bad  and  dear  groceries  instead  of  bad  and 
dear  beer  and  gin.  Tho  Legislature  tried  by 
varions  means  to  protect  the  coal-whippers, 
bat  the  publicans  contrived  means  to  evade 
the  law.  At  IcngUi,  in  J  843,  an  Act  was 
passed,  which  has  placed  tho  coal-whippers 
in  a  far  more  advantageous  position. 

The  transition  from  coal-labour  to  ballast- 
labour  in  gradual  and  easy,  and  would  be  even 
if  the  labourers  were  not  kindred  in  suffering. 

The  coal -ships,  when  discharged  by  the 
wMppers,  must  get  back  to  the  north ;  and  as 
there  are  not  cargoes  onongh  from  London  to 
freight  them,  tliey  must  take  in  ballast  to 
make  the  ships  heavy  enough  to  sail  in  safety. 
This  ballast  is  chiefly  ballast  or  sand,  dredgotl 
op  fnMD  the  bed  of  the  Thames  at  and  near 
Woolwich  Reach.  The  Trinity  House  takes 
upon  itself  this  duty.    The  ci^tain,  when  he 


requires  to  sail,  applies  to  the  Ballast  Office, 
and  the  required  weight  of  ballast  is  sent  to 
the  ship  in  lighters  belonging  to  the  Trinity 
House,  the  captain  paying  so  much  a  ton  for 
it.  About  80  tons  on  an  average  are  required 
for  each  vessel,  and  the  quantity  thus  sup- 
plied by  the  Trinity  House  is  about  10,000 
tons  per  week.  Some  of  the  ships  are  bal- 
lasted with  chalk  taken  from  Purfleet;  all 
ballast  taken  from  higher  up  the  river  than 
tliat  point  must  be  supplied  by  the  Trinity 
House.  When  the  ship  reaches  the  Tyne,  the 
ballast  is  of  no  further  use,  but  it  must  not  be 
emptied  into  that  river ;  it  has,  therefore,  to 
be  deposited  on  the  banks,  where  huge  mounds 
are  now  collected  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
high. 

New  places  on  the  banks  of  the  river  have 
to  bo  discovered  for  this  deposit  as  the  ballast 
mounds  keep  increasing,  for  it  must  be  recol- 
lected that  the  vessels  leave  these  ports — no 
matter  for  what  destination  —  with  coal,  and 
may  return  in  ballast.  Indeed  a  railway  has 
been  formed  from  the  vicinity  of  South  Shields 
to  a  waste  place  on  the  sea- shore,  hard  by  the 
mouth  of  tie  Tyne,  where  the  ballast  may  be 
conveyed  at  small  cost,  its  further  aecumula-  I 
tion  on  the  river  bank  being  found  an  incum- 
brance. "It  is  really  something  more  than  a 
metaphor,"  it  has  been  said,  *'  to  designate 
this  a  transfer  of  the  bed  of  the  Thames  to  the 
banks  of  the  Tyne.'*  We  may  add  as  another 
characteristic,  that  some  of  the  older  ballast 
mounds  are  overgrown  with  herbage.  As  the 
vessels  from  foreign  ports  returning  to  the 
coal-ports  in  ballast,  have  not  unfrequontly  to 
tako  soil  on  board  for  ballast,  in  which  roots 
and  seeds  are  contained,  some  of  there 
struggle  into  vegetation,  so  that  Italian  flowers 
not  un frequently  attempt  to  bloom  in  Durham, 
Yorkshire,  or  Nortliumberland,  while  some 
have  sur>'ived  the  climate  and  have  spread 
around ;  and  tlms  it  is  that  botanists  trace  the 
history  of  plants  which  are  called  indigenous 
to  the  ballast-hills. 

Before  treating  of  the  ballast  labourers 
themselves  I  shaU  give  a  brief  history  of  the 
ballast  laws. 

Ships  are  teohuically  said  to  be  in  ballast 
when  they  sail  without  a  cargo,  having  on 
board  only  the  stores  and  otlier  articles  requi- 
site for  the  use  of  the  vessel  and  crew,  as  well 
as  of  any  passengers  who  may  be  proceeding 
with  her  upon  tlie  voyage.  In  favour  of  vessels 
thus  circumstanced  it  is  usual  to  dispense  with 
many  formalities  at  the  custom-houses  of  the 
ports,  and  to  remit  the  payment  of  the  dues 
and  charges  levied  upon  ships  having  cargoes 
on  board.  A  foreign  vessel  proceeding  from 
a  British  port  may  take  chalk  on  board  as 
ballast.  Regulations  have  at  various  times 
been  made  in  different  ports  and  countries, 
determining  the  modes  in  which  ships  may 
be  supplied  with  ballast,  and  in  what  manner 
they  may  discharge  the  same,  such  regulations 
being  necessary  to  prevent  injury  to  harbours. 


No.  LXX. 


268 


LOSDON  LABOUR  AM)  THE  LOSDON  POOR. 


Chnrles  T.  published  a  proclamation  in  1636, 
ordoring  that  none  shall  bay  any  ballast  ont 
of  the  river  Thames  but  a  person  appointed 
by  him  for  that  purpose.  And  this  appoint- 
ment was  sold  fr»r  the  king's  profit.  Since 
then  the  soil  of  the  river  Thames  has  been 
vested  in  the  corporation  of  the  Trinity  House, 
and  a  fine  of  10/.  may  be  recovered  for  every 
ton  of  ballast  taken  out  of  the  river  without 
the  authority  of  the  corporation.  Ships  may 
take  on  hoirA  land-ballast  ftrom  any  quarries 
or  pits  east  of  Woolwich  by  paying  ld»  per  ton 
to  the  Trinity  House.  For  river-ballast  the 
corporation  are  authorised  by  Act  of  Parliament 
to  make  other  charges.  The  receipts  of  the 
Trinity  House  from  tliis  source  were  33,001/.  in 
the  year  1840,  and  their  expenses  were  31,622/., 
leaving  a  clear  profit  of  1960/.  The  ballast 
of  all  ships  or  vessels  coming  into  the  Thames 
must  bo  unladen  into  a  lighter,  and  if  any 
ballast  be  thrown  into  the  river  the  master  of 
the  vessel  whence  it  is  thrown  is  liable  to  a 
fine  of  20/.  Some  such  regulation  is  usually 
enforced  at  every  port. 

Before  proceeding  fVirther  with  my  present 
subject,  it  is  proper  that  I  should  express  my 
acknowledgments  of  the  ready  courtesy  with 
which  the  official  information  necessary  for 
the  full  elucidation  of  my  subject  was  supplied 
to  me  by  the  Secretary  of  the  principal  Ballast 
Office  at  Trinitv  House,  Tower  Hill.  I  have 
always  observed,  that  when  the  heads  of  a  de- 
partment willingly  supply  information  to  go 
before  the  public,  I  find  in  the  further  course 
of  my  investigations  that  under  such  depart- 
ments the  clamis  of  the  labourer  are  not  only 
acknowledged  but  practically  allowed.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  official  gentlemen  neglect  (which 
is  to  revise)  to  supply  the  returns  and  other 
information,  it  is  because  the  inquiir  is  un- 
palatable to  them,  as  the  public  may  find  that 
in  their  departments  the  fair  claims  of  the 
labourers  are  not  allowed.  Were  the  poor 
baUast-heavers  taken  under  the  protection  of 
the  corporation  of  the  Trinity  House  (some- 
thing in  the  same  way  that  Parliament  has 
placed  the  coal-whippers  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  a  board  of  commissioners)  the  good 
done  would  be  great  indeed,  and  the  ii^uiy 
would  be  none :  for  it  cannot  be  called  an  in- 
juiy  to  prevent  a  publican  forcing  a  man  to 
buy  and  swallow  bad  drink. 

By  charter  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in  the  86th 
year  of  her  reign,  the  lastage  and  ballastage, 
and  office  of  lastage  and  ballastage,  of  all  ships 
and  other  yessels  betwixt  the  bridge  of  the 
city  of  London  and  the  main  sea,  I  am  informed 
by  the  Secretary  of  the  Trinity  Company,  was 
granted  to  the  Master  Wardens  and  Assistants 
of  the  Trinity  House  of  Deptford  Strond. 
This  was  renewed,  and  the  gravel,  sand,  and 
soil  of  the  river  Thames  granted  to  the  said 
master  wardens,  &c.  for  the  ballasting  of  ships 
and  vessels  in  the  15th  year  of  Charles  11.,  and 
again  in  the  17th  year  of  the  reign  of  that 
monarch.    This  last-named  charter  remains 


in  force,  and  has  been  confirmed  by  Acts  of 
Parliament  at  different  times ;  by  which  Acts 
also  various  regulations  in  relation  to  the 
conduct  of  the  ballast  service,  the  control  of 
the  persons  employed  therein,  and  the  prices 
of  the  ballast  supplied,  have  been  established. 
The  Act  now  in  force  is  the  6th  and  7th  Vict 
cap.  07. 

The  number  of  men  employed  in  lighters 
as  ballast-getters,  or  in  barges  conveying  it 
from  the  dredgers,  is  245,  who  are  paid  by  the 
ton  raised. 

The  number  of  yessels  entered  for  bfdlast 
in  the  year  1848  was  : 

Colliers  ....    6,480 

British  merchant  vessels       .    3,600 
Aliens  ....     1,054 

Total  vessels  .  11,224 

The  total  quantity  of  ballast  supplied  to 
shipping  in  the  year  1848  was  615,610  tons,  or 
thereabouts ;  such  ballast  being  gravel  raised 
from  the  bed  of  the  river  Thames  and  delivered 
alongside  of  vessels,  either  lying  in  the  difierent 
docks  or  being  afloat  in  the  stream  between 
London-bridge  and  Woolwidi. 

The  number  of  vessels  employed  in  this 
service  is  60,  viz : — 

Men. 
3  steam  dredging-yessels,  having 

8  men  in  each       ...      24 

43  lighters,  having  4  men  in  each  .    172 

0  lighters,  haring  0  men  in  each  •      45 

14  baizes,  having  2  men  in  each    .      2S 

60  Total  269 

The  ballast  is  delivered  into  the  vessels  finom 
the  lighters  and  barges  by  men  called  ballast- 
heavers,  who  are  employed  by  the  vessel,  and 
are  not  in  the  service  of  the  Trinity  House. 

I  now  oome  to  the  nature  of  the  ballast 
labour  itself.  This  is  divisible  into  three 
classes:  that  performed  by  the  baUast-get- 
ters,  or  those  who  are  engaged  in  raising: 
it  from  the  bed  of  the  Thames;  by  the 
ballast-lighters,  or  those  who  are  engaged 
in  carrying  it  frt>m  the  getters  to  the  sliips 
requiring  it;  and  by  the  ballast-heavers,  or 
those  who  are  engaged  in  putting  it  on  board 
of  such  ships.  The  first  and  second  of  these 
classes  have,  according  to  their  own  aceount, 
**  nothing  to  complain  of,"  being  employed  by 
gentlemen  who,  judging  by  the  wanton  neg- 
lect of  labouring  men  by  their  masters,  so 
general  in  London,  certamly  exhibit  a  most 
extraordinary  consideration  and  regard  for 
their  work-people;  and  the  change  from  the 
indifference  and  callousness  of  the  ooal- 
merchants  to  the  kindness  of  the  corporation 
of  the  Trinity  House  is  most  gratifyinff.  The 
ballast-heavers  constitute  an  entirely  different 
class.  They  hare  every  one,  to  ft  man,  deep 
and  atrocious  wrongs  to  complain  of,  such  as 
I  am  sure  are  unknown,  and  which,  when  once 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


200 


made  public,  will  at  once  demand  some 
remedy. 

I  must,  however,  first  deal  with 
The  Ballast-Getters. 

0¥  these  there  are  two  sub-classes,  viz.  those 
engaged  iu  obtaining  the  ballast  by  steam 
power,  and  those  who  still  procure  it  as  of  old 
by  muscular  power. 

Of  seven  dredging-engines  employed  in  the 
ooUeoting  of  ballast  from  the   bed   of  the 
Thames   there  are  three,  the  Hercules,  the 
Goliath,  and  the  Samson.     These   are  now 
stationed  respectively  in  Barking  Reach,  Half 
Beach  near  Dagenham,  and  the   bottom  of 
Half-way  Beach  oflf  Bainham.    Most  persons 
who  have  proceeded  up  or  down  the  Thames 
will  havo  perceived  black  unshapely  masses, 
with  no  visible  indications  that  they  may  be 
classed  with  steam-vessels  except  a  chimney 
and  smoke.    These  are  the  dredging- vessels ; 
they   are   of  about  200  tons  burden.     The 
engines  of  the  Hercules  and  the  Samson  are 
of  20-horse  power, — those  of  the  Goliath  are 
25.    When  the  process  of  dredging  is  carried 
on,  thQ  use  of  the  dredging-vessel  is  obvious 
to  any  spectator ;  but  I  believe  that  most  per- 
sons imagine  the  object  to  be  merely  to  deepen 
the  tiver  by  removing  inequalities  in  its  bed, 
and  so   to  render   its   navigation  easier  by 
equalizing  its  depth,  and  in  some   degrees 
checking  the  power  of  cross-currents,    Few 
are  aware  that  an  ulterior  object  is  gained. 
I  visited  one  of  these  steam-dredgers,  and  was 
Tciy  courteously  shown  over  it.     The  first 
feeling  was  an  impression  of  the  order,  regu- 
larity, and  trimness  that  prevailed.    In  the 
engineers'    department,  too,    there    was    an 
aspect,  as  well  as  a  feeling,  of  extreme  e^nug- 
ncss,  the  more  perceptible  both  to  the  eye  and 
the  body  from  its  contrast  with  the  intense 
cold  on  the  muddy  river  outside,  then  running 
down  in  very  strong  ebb.    In  the  engineers' 
department  there  was  more  than  cleanliness ; 
there  was  a  brightness  about  the  brass-handles 
attached  to  the  machinery,  and,  indeed,  about 
every  portion  of  the  apparatus  at  all  suscepti- 
ble of  brightness,  which  indicated  a  constant 
and  systematic  attention  by  well-skilled  hands. 
Each  dredger  carries  eight  men,  the  master 
{called  the  captain,  commonly  enough,  on  the 
river),  two  engineers,  an  engineer's  assistant, 
two  legsmen  (who  attend  to  the  ladders),  and 
three  men  for  general  purposes.     They  ore 
all  called   engine-men.     The  master  of  the 
<hiedger  I  ^'isited  had  the  weather-beaten  look 
of  the  experienced  seaman,  and  the  quiet  way 
of  talking   of  past  voyages  which  is   found 
generally   in   men  who   have  really   sei-ved, 
whether  in   the   merchant   service   or   royal 
Jisvy.     He  resided  on  board  the  dredger  with 
bis  wife  and  family,  the  principal  cabin  being 
a  very  comfortable  parlour.    All  the  men  live 
OQ  board,  having  their  turns  for  visit  to  the 
shore  from  Saturday  morning,  noon,  or  evening 


(as  their  business  permits),  to  Monday  morn- 
ing. Their  sleeping-places  are  admirable  for 
cleanliness.  All  the  dredgers  are  imder  the 
control  of  the  corporation  of  the  Trinity  House. 
They  are,  as  it  was  worded  to  me,  as  strong 
as  wood  and  iron  can  make  them.  But  for 
secure  anchorage  these  dredgers  would  soon  go 
adrift.  Colliers  beating  up  or  down  occasionally 
run  against  the  dredgers :  this  happens  mostly 
in  light  winds,  when  the  masters  of  these 
colliers  are  afraid  to  let  go  their  anchors. 
The  machinery  consists  of  a  steam-engine  and 
spur-gcar  for  directing  the  buckets.  The 
application  of  the  steam-power  I  need  not 
minutely  describe,  as  it  does  not  differ  from 
other  applications  where  motion  has  to  be 
conmiunicated.  It  is  connected  with  strong 
iron  beams,  having  cogged  and  connected 
wheels,  which  when  put  into  operation  givo 
upward  and  downward  motion  to  the  buckets. 
These  buckets  are  placed  on  ladders  as  they 
are  called,  one  on  each  side  the  vessel.  These 
ladders  (or  shafts)  consist  of  three  heavy 
beams  of  wood,  firmly  bolted  together  and  fitted 
with  friction -wheels.  To  each  ladder  29 
buckets  are  attached,  each  bucket  holding  2^ 
cwt.  of  gravel.  Each  bucket  is  attached  by 
joints  to  the  next,  and  a  series  of  holes  peimits 
the  water  drawn  up  with  the  deposit  to  ooze 
out.  When  tlio  bucket  touches  the  bottom  of 
the  river  it  dips,  as  it  is  called.  A  rotary 
motion  being  communicated,  the  construction 
ensures  the  buckets  being  brought  up  fiat  on 
the  ladder  imtil  a  due  height  is  attained,  when 
the  rotary  (or  circular)  motion  again  comes 
into  play,  and  the  contents  of  the  bucket  are 
emptied  into  a  lighter  moored  alongside,  and 
the  empty  bucket  is  driven  down  to  be  refilled. 
The  contents  so  dra\vn  up  are  disposed  of  for 
ballast,  which  is  the  ulterior  purpose  I  havo 
alluded  to.  Upon  an  average  the  buckets 
revolve  once  in  two  minutes.  That  time,  how- 
ever, varies,  from  the  nature  of  the  bed  of  the 
river.  The  Goliath  and  the  Samson  being 
fitted  up  with  marine  engines  drive  the  fastest. 
The  three  vessels  have  for  the  last  year  worked 
within  a  circle  of  a  mile.  The  quantity  of 
ballast  raised  depends  upon  the  demand,  as 
well  as  upon  the  character  of  the  deposit  at 
the  bottom  of  tlie  river.  Between  900  and 
1000  tons  have  been  raised  in  7^  hours,  some- 
times in  a  like  period  less  than  300  tons  have 
been  raised.  The  dredger  I  was  on  board  of 
has  taken  in  a  year  from  180,000  to  190,000 
tons.  A  stratum  of  mud  2  J  feet  had  been 
raised,  then  3  feet  of  gravel,  and  a  chalk  bottom 
was  anticipated.  In  some  places  15  feet  have 
been  so  cleared  away  to  a  chulk  bottom.  In 
others  15  feet  have  been  so  worked  off^,  and  no 
bottom  but  gravel  reached.  The  gravel  lies 
in  shoals.  Sometimes  the  dredgers  come  to 
hard  conglomerate  gravel,  as  compact  as  a 
rock.  No  fossils  have  been  found.  In  a  few 
places  a  clay  bottom  has  been  met  with.  The 
men  in  the  dredgers  are  paid  according  to  the 
number  of  tons  raised,  the  proceeds  being 


270 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


duly  apportioned.  They  work  as  frequently  by 
night  as  by  day,  their  labour  depending  upon 
the  time  when  an  order  for  a  supply  of  baUast 
is  receiyed.  Each  lighter  holds  60  tons  of 
ballast  The  dredgers  above  bridge  are  the 
property  of  individuals  working  with  the  con- 
currence of  the  civic  corporation  of  London. 
Those  below  bridge  are,  as  I  have  said,  under 
the  control  of  the  corporation  of  the  Trinity 
House.  The  Hercules  was  the  first  Trinity 
House  dredger  worked  by  steam.  Private 
individuals,  however,  employed  steam  sooner 
than  the  Trinity  House  authorities  to  draw  up 
materials  to  mix  with  lime  for  building  pur- 
poses. The  first  Trinity  House  steam-dredger 
was  started  in  1827. 

I  had  some  conversation  with  a  man  em- 
ployed  on  one  of  the  steam- dredgers.  He 
described  the  process  carried  on  Uiere  as  I 
have  given  it,  estimating  the  tons  of  ballast 
raised  at  about  4000  a- week.  He  expressed  a 
sense  of  his  good  fortune  in  having  the  em- 
ployment he  had;  he  was  well  used,  and 
wouldn't  like  to  change.  He  declined  stating 
his  earnings  (otherwise  than  that  he  had  his 
fair  share)  until  he  saw  his  master,  and  of 
course  I  did  not  press  him  further  on  the 
subject 

The  ballast-getters  are  men  employed  in 
raising  ballast  from  the  bed  of  the  river  by 
bodily  labour.  The  apparatus  by  which  this 
is  effected  consists  of  a  long  staff  or  pole,  about 
thirty.flve  feet  in  length.  At  the  end  of  this 
is  an  iron  "  spoon"  or  ring,  underneath  which 
is  a  leathern  bag  holding  about  20  cwt.  The 
ballast  is  raised  on  board  the  working-lighters 
by  means  of  this  spoon.  The  working-lighters 
carry  six  hands:  that  is,  a  staflkman  whose  duty 
it  is  to  attend  to  the  staff;  a  bagman,  who 
empties  the  bag  ;  a  chainsman,  who  hauls  at 
the  chain ;  a  heelsman,  who  lets  go  the  pall  of 
the  winch ;  and  two  trimmers,  who  trim  the 
ballast  in  the  lighter  as  fast  as  it  comes  in. 
Previous  to  the  men  getting  at  work,  the  staffs- 
man  takes  hold  of  the  spoon  to  feel  whereabout 
the  ballast-bed  lies.  'When  this  is  found,  he 
puts  down  liis  "  sets,"  as  it  is  termed, — that  is 
to  say,  he  drives  the  iron-tipped  spars  that  he 
has  with  him  in  the  lighter  into  the  ground, 
so  as  to  steady  the  craft.  This  done,  the  staffs- 
man  seizes  hold  of  the  middle  of  the  staff, 
while  the  bargeman  takes  the  bag  and  the 
chainsman  the  chain,  which  is  fastened  to  the 
iron  ring  or  spoon ;  the  staff  is  thus  thrown 
overboard  into  the  water,  about  midway  of  the 
lighter,  and  the  tide  carries  the  spoon  down 
towards  the  st^m.  The  staffsman  then  fastens 
the  staff  to  the  lighter  by  means  of  the  gaff- 
string  or  rope  attached  to  the  side  of  the  vessel. 
At  tlie  same  time  the  men  go  forward  to  heave 
at  the  winch,  roimd  the  roll  of  which  the  chain 
attached  to  the  spoon  itself  is  wound.  All  the 
men,  with  the  exception  of  the  staffsman,  then 
heave  away,  and  so  drag  the  spoon  along  tlie 
bed  of  the  river.  "When  the  staffsman  feels 
that  the  bag  is  full,  he  leaves  go  of  the  gaff- 


string  and  goes  forward  to  heave  with  the  men 
as  well.  Immediately  the  gaff  string  is  undone 
tlie  top  part  of  the  staff  falls  back  on  an  oar 
that  projects  from  the  after  part  of  the  vessel, 
and  the  bag  is  then  raised  by  means  of  the 
winch  and  chain  to  the  level  of  the  gunwale 
of  the  craft ;  then  the  bagsman  hauls  it  in  and 
empties  it  into  the  lighter,  while  the  two  trim, 
mers  spread  the  ballast  discharged.  The 
spoon  can  only  be  worked  when  the  tide  is 
nearly  down,  because  the  water  would  be  too 
deep  for  the  set  to  bring  tho  craft  steady.  To 
hoist  the  20  cwt  of  ballast  in  the  bag  will 
require  the  whole  force  of  the  six  men ;  and 
none  but  the  very  strongest  are  of  use.  The 
ballast-getters  are  all  very  powerful  men ;  they 
are  mostly  very  tall,  big-boned,  and  muscular. 
Many  of  them  are  upwards  of  six  feet  high, 
and  have  backs  two  feet  broad.  **  I  lifted  seven 
half-hundredweights  with  one  of  my  hands," 
said  one  whom  I  saw.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty- 
nine  years  of  age,  and  stood  half  an  inch  over 
six  feet,  while  another  was  six  feet  two  inches. 
They  were  indeed  extraordinarily  fine  specimens 
of  the  English  labourer,  making  our  boasted 
Life-guardsman  apx>ear  almost  weak  and  effe- 
minate in  companson  with  them.  Before  the 
steam  dredging-engines  were  introduced,  I  am 
informed  the  ballast-getters  were  even  bigger 
and  heavier  men  than  they  are  now.  The 
ballast-getters  seldom  or  never  fish  up  any- 
thing besides  ballast.  Four  or  five  years  back 
they  were  lucky  enough  to  haul  up  a  box  of 
silver  plate;  but  they  consider  a  bit  of  old 
iron  or  a  bit  of  copper  very  good  luck  now. 
The  six  men  generally  raise  six^  tons  eighteen 
feet  high  in  the  course  of  the  tide,  which  is  at 
tho  rate  of  23,4001bs.  each  man  in  three  hoars : 
this  makes  the  quantity  raised  per  hour  by 
each  man  upwards  of  7400  lbs.  The  price 
paid  is  8(f.  per  ton,  or  2/.  for  sixty  tons ;  this 
is  shared  equally  among  five  of  the  men,  who 
receive  8«.  a-piece  as  their  proportion,  aiid  out 
of  this  they  pay  3«.  firf.  a  tide  to  the  stem- 
trimmer,  whom  they  employ — tho  Trinity  Com- 
pany allowing  only  five  nion  and  the  ballast- 
getters  engaging  the  sixth  man  themselves. 
Upon  an  average  the  ballast-getters  do  about 
three  loads  in  the  week  throughout  the  year, 
— this,  deducting  the  money  paid  to  the  sixth 
man,  makes  the  earnings  of  each  ballast-getter 
come  to  about  22«.  throughout  the  year.  The 
staffsman  is  allowed  20/.  a-year  to  keep  the 
craft  in  gear.  The  ballast-getters  usually  work 
above  the  dredging-engines,  mostly  about  Wool- 
wich ;  there  the  cleanest  ballast  is  to  be  got 
The  Trinity  Company  they  speak  most  highly 
of;  indeed  the  corporation  are  universally 
spoken  of  as  excellent  masters :  the  men  say 
they  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  They  get 
their  money  on  every  Friday  night,  and  have 
no  call  to  spend  a  farthing  of  £beir  earnings 
otherwise  than  as  they  please.  They  only 
wish,  they  add,  that  the  bidlast-heavers  were 
as  weU  off.  "  It  would  be  a  good  job  if  they 
was,  poor  men,"  say  one  and  all. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


871 


The  second  class  of  ballast-labourers  are  | 

The  BALULST-LiaBTSBlCEN. 

These  are  men  engaged  by  the  Trinity  Com. 
pany  to  carry  the  ballast  in  the  company's 
barges  and  lighters  from  the  steam  dredging- 
engines  to  the  ship's  side.    The  corporation 
has  fifty-two  lighters    and  fourteen  barges, 
all  sixty-ton  craft.    Each  lighter  carries  four 
men,  and  there  are  two  men  in  each  barge ; 
80   that   altogether  108  lightermen  and  28 
bargemen  are  employed  in  bringing  the  bal- 
last from  the  engines.    These  men  aro  not 
required  to  have  a  license  from  the  Water- 
man's Company,  like  other  lightermen  and 
bargemen  on  Uio  Thames,  and  that  is  one 
of  file  reasons  for  my  dealing  with  them  at 
present.    They  form  a  class  of  labourers  by 
themsehres,  and  I  treat  of  them  here  because 
it  appears  the  fittest  i>laoc  for  a  statement  of 
their  condition   and  earnings.     Besides  the 
lightermen  and  bargemen  engaged  in  carrying 
the  ballast  from  the  steam  dredging-mncbines, 
there  are  others  employed  on  board  what  are 
called  the  working-lighters ;  these  are  vessels 
in  which  ballast  is  got  up  from  the  bed  of  the 
river  by  muscular  labour.    There  aro  ten  of 
these  working- lighters,  and  six  men  engaged 
in  each,  or  in  all  sixty  men  employed  in  raising 
bsllast  by  such  means.  There  are  three  steam 
dredging- engines  employing  each  eight  men, 
or  twenty-four  in  all ;  so  that  there  are  alto- 
ffeiher  220  labouring  men  engaged  in  the  bal- 
last service  of  the  Trinity  Company.    Each  of 
the  carrying  lighters  has  a  stafilsman  or  master 
tnd  three  men.    The  hghters  all  carry  sixty 
tons  of  baUast,  and  make  upon  an  average 
between  three  and  four  voyages  a-week,  or 
about  seven  in  the  fortnight.     There  is  no 
place  of  deposit  for  the  ballast  brought  up  the 
HTcr  from  the  engines ;  it  is  left  in  the  lighter 
until  required.    The  ballast  chiefly  consist^s  of 
gravel ;  indeed  the  ships  will  mostly  refuse 
tnytbing  else.      When  there  is   a  plentiful 
•npply  of  ballast  they  will  refuse  clay  in  par- 
ticular.    Clayey  ballast  is  what  is  termed  bad 
ballast.     Upon   an   average  there  are  thirty 
loads,  or  1800  tons  of  ballast,  brought  up  by 
tile  Ughters  every  day  from  the  engines.    In 
the   course  of  tho  vear  there  are  between 
6SO,000  and  O00,000'tons  of  ballast  supplied 
by  the  three  steam  dredging-machines.  **  It  is 
about  three-and-twenty  years  since  the  steam 
dredging-engine  first  came  out,**  said  the  party 
irho  gave  me  the  above  information.    "For 
the  last  twenty  years  I  should  think  the  com- 
pany have  been  raising  about  500,000  tons  of 
gravel  from  the  bed  of  tho  river.  Thirty  years 
ago  I  thought  the  ballast  would  soon  be  out, 
but  there  appears  to  be  little  or  no  difference ; 
and  yet  the  shoals  do  not  fill  up  again  after 
being  once  taken  away.    In  Barking  Beach 
I  am  sure  there  is  six  feet  more  water  now 
than  there  was  thirty  years  ago ;  there  was  at 
that  time  ft  large  shoal  in  thai  part  of  the  river, 


called  Barking  Shelf;  it  was  certainly  a  mile 
long  and  half  a  mile  wide.  The  vessels  would 
ground  upon  it  long  before  low  water.  At 
some  tides  it  used  to  strip  dry,  and  at  low 
tide  generally  there  was  about  six  foot  of  water 
over  it.  That  part  of  the  river  is  now  the 
deepest  about  Barking,  and  as  deep  as  the  best 
of  places  in  the  Thames.  When  I  first  came 
to  London  we  were  prevented  from  getting  the 
ballast  from  anywhere  else  than  Barking,  on 
accoimt  of  the  great  shoals  there;  but  now 
the  great  ballast-bed  is  between  four  and  five 
miles  lower  down.  The  river  has  been  very 
nearly  cleared  of  shoals  by  the  dredging-cn- 
gines,  from  Limehouso  Reach  to  the  bottom 
of  Half  Reach.  The  only  shoal  in  Uie  way  of 
the  narigation  below  the  Pool  is  what  is  called 
Woolwich  Shelf:  there  is  indeed  another  shoal, 
but  this  consists  of  stiflf  clay  or  conglomerate, 
and  the  engines  cannot  work  through  it.  The 
men  on  board  the  carrying-lighters  are  paid 
5«/.  a-ton  for  bringing  the  ballast  from  the 
dredging-engines  to  the  ships ;  this  is  equally 
dirided  among  the  four  men.  The  stafi'sman, 
in  addition  to  his  fourth  share,  receives  10/. 
a-year  for  his  extra  duties ;  but  out  of  this  ho 
has  to  buy  oars  for  the  boat  and  lighter,  locks, 
fenders,  and  shovels.  Upon  an  average  the 
cost  of  these  will  be  about  30*.  a-ycar.  Each 
man's  share  of  the  sixty-ton  load  is  6s.  3d. ; 
and  there  aro  about  seven  loads  brought  up 
by  each  lighter  in  the  fortnight.  Some  weeks 
the  men  can  earn  as  much  as  d7«.,  but  at  others 
they  cannot  get  more  than  12*.  Crf.  "  I  did 
myself  only  two  load  last  week,"  said  my  in- 
form  ant  ""When  there  is  httle  or  no  *  vent,' 
as  we  call  it,  for  the  ballast — that  is,  but  a 
slight  demand  for  it — wo  have  but  little  work. 
Upon  an  average,  each  lighterman  makes  from 
21a.  to  225.  a-week.  At  the  time  of  the  strike 
among  the  pitmen  in  the  North,  the  lighter- 
men, generally,  only  did  about  two  load  a-week 
throughout  the  year;  but  then  the  following 
year  we  had  as  much  as  we  could  do.  The 
Trinity  Company,  whom  I  serve,  and  have 
served  for  thirty  years,  are  excellent  masters 
to  us  when  we  are  sick  or  well.  The  corpora- 
tion of  the  Trinity  House  allow  the  married 
lightermen  in  their  service  10*.  and  tho  single 
ones  7».  6rf.  a-week,  as  long  as  they  are  ill.  I 
have  known  the  allowance  given  to  men  for 
two  years,  and  for  this  we  pay  nothing  to 
any  benefit  society  or  provident  fund.  If  wo 
belong  to  any  such  society  wo  have  our  sick 
money  from  them  independent  of  that.  The 
superannuation  money  is  now  C/.  a-ycar ;  but 
I  understand,"  continued  the  man, ''  that  the 
company  intend  increasing  it  next  Tuesday. 
Some  of  the  old  men  were  ordered  np  to  tho 
house  a  little  while  ago,  and  were  asked  what 
they  could  live  comfortably  upon,  and  one  of 
the  gentlemen  there  promised  them  that  no 
more  of  us  should  go  to  tho  workhouse.  They 
do  not  provide  any  school  for  our  children  ;  a 
I  great  many  of  the  lightermen  neither  read  nor 
I  write.    I  never  heard  any  talk  of  the  company 


270 


LONDON  JLABOUR  AND  THS  LOJf^' 


,/^OR. 


dul J  apportioned.  They  woric  u  finei, 

night  as  hy  day,  their  labonr  dependinff 

the  time  when  on  ordflr  for  %  supply  c^ 

is  receiTed.     Each  lighter  hold" 

hallast.    The  dredgen  abov 

property  of  indiTidnils  work '  ■^g^ 

currence  of  Ae  dyic  corf  $i®f/w^^  *»  **»«  Trinity  House  Tor  the  quanuiy 

Those  lielow  hndge  an,  ^^J^/ Deeded.    If  tlie  ship  belong  to  the  merchant 


,1  dllo^nd  by  the  owners.     The 

;^'5iii]pa  discharge  all  their  cargo 

-•^/  take  in  any  ballast.    The  cranky- 

'*^hips  form  the  exception,  and  begin 

about  thi-ee- 

requirea  bal- 

I  agents  or  ser\'aut8 


- .  '-*>iif  *"*  ballast  when  they  are  i 
.J^^^LtA  iUschaiged.  When  a  sliip  : 
^^i^it  the  owner  or  one  of  his  agent 


the  control  of  the  corr 

House.    The  Hereu^ 

House  dredger  wr 

individuals,  howe' 

thui  the  Trinity "  A'^Ji^^i^.%'j  bi.ve 

have 
niar 


"^mmm  were  get- 


^^^onlerio 


f^'^rat  XUtLAST-HKlTEHS. 


orj 


^ 


^  nr«5ent  give  but  a  general  de- 


.SJ,  individual  instances  of  opprea- 
hjive  sought  out  I  must  reserve  for 


itfi  ^JmI  I^«»  ^'**®'*  ^  ™***  heartily  hope 

^fts'^'^blication  of  tlie  iniquity  of  which 

1^  ^'^L^  {eWo'vi^  are  tlio  victims,  will  be  at 

l^j^iunental  in  putting  an  end  to  a  most 

li<«^'~Ullricked  plan  for  tlie  degradation  and 

W^fJIjiagtion  of  our  ft-llow- creatures.    The 

^  I  have  to  tell  are  such  as  must  rou^ 

•^Jiy  heart  not  positively  indurated  by  the  love 

'T^Jin.    I  must,  however,  be  here  caatent, 

^  J  said  before,  with  merely  describing  the 

flvstem. 

Tlio  duty  of  the  ballast-hoaycr  is  to  heave 
jnio  the  liolds  of  the  ship  the  ballsKt  brought 
olongsiilo  tho  vessel  by  the  Trinity-lightors 
flora  tho  dn>dging-enginos.  Tho  ships  tako 
in  ballast  either  in  the  docks  or  in  tbe  Pool. 
When  the  sliip  is  cranky-built,  and  cannot 
stand  steady  after  a  portion  of  her  cni>:o  has 
been  discharged,  she  u<*nally  takes  in  what  is 
calleil  shiftinj?  or  stillV-ning  ballast.  The 
ballast  is  said  to  stillcn  a  cranky  vessel, 
because  it  has  tho  effect  of  making'  her  Ann 
or  steoily  in  the  water.  The  quantity  of 
ballast  required  by  cranky  vessels  rteiiendi* 
upon  the  build  of  the  ships.  Sixty  terns  of 
cargo  will  stiffi-n  the  most  cranky  veRS*.^l.  I 
am  informed  by  those  who  have  been  all  their 
lives  at  the  business,  thot  they  never  knew  a 
vessel,  however  cranky,  but  what  fiO  ^lTla' 
weight  wouhl  stiffen  her.  Some  vcs^jels  are 
so  stiff.built,  that  they  can  discharge  tho 
whole  of  their  cargo  without  taking  in  ruiy 
ballast  at  nil.  'J'hese  are  generally  ^at^iot- 
tomed  vessels,  whereas  cranky  vessi-la  art? 
built  sharp  towards  the  keel.  The  collitTs 
are  mostly  flat-bott<.^me<l  vessels,  and  could  in 
calm  weother  return  to  tho  north  uitlimit 
either  ballast  or  cargo  in  them.     Thus,  how 


service,  and  is  lying  in  any  of  the  docks,  the 
owner  has  to  pay  1«.  Id,  per  ton  to  the  Triuity 
Company  for  the  ballast  supplied:  but  if  the 
merchant  vessel  bo  lying  in  the  Pool,  then 
the  price  is  1«.  3<<.  per  ton,  aud  if  the  vessel 
be  a  collier,  the  price  is  Is.  per  ton.     On  ap- 
plication being  made  at  the  liallast  Office,  the 
parly  is  supplied  with  a  bill,  specifying  the 
name  and  situation  of  the  vessel,  tlie  quantity 
of  ballast  required  for  her,  and  the  imce  that 
bus  b(M)n  paid  for  it.     Tho  bill  is  then  taken 
to  tJif3  Ruler's  Office,  where  it  is  entered  iu  a 
book,  imd  tlie  ship  suppHed  with  the  ballast, 
according  to  tho  place  Uiat  she  has  on  the 
books.    If  tho  weather  is  rough,  a  ship  has 
often  to  remain  tliree  or  four  days  witliout  re- 
ceiving the  ballast  she  wants.    The  apphi^tion 
for  ballast  is  seldom  made  directly  from  the 
captain  or  shipowner  himself.      There  are 
parties  living  in  the  ueighbuurhood  of  ^Vap- 
ping  and  liatcliffo  who  undeitake,  for  a  certain 
sum  per  score  of  tons,  to  have  the  requisite 
quantity  of  ballast  put  aboard  the  ship.    These 
parties  are  generally  either  publicans,  grocers, 
butchers,  lodging-house  keepers  or  watermen, 
and  they  have  a  number  of  labourers  dealing 
witii  tliem  whom  they  employ  to  heave  the 
ballast  on  board.     The  publicans,  butchers, 
grocer$i,    or    lodging-house-keepers,  are    Uie 
ballast -contractors,  and    they    only  employ 
tliose  parties  who  are    customei'S    at   their 
houses.     It  is  the  owner  or  captain  of  the 
vessel  who  contracts  with  these  **  truckmen " 
for  the  ballasting  of  the  ship  at  a  certain  ])nce 
per  score  of  tons,  and  the  tnickmen  for  that 
sum  undertake  not  only  to  procure  tlie  ballast 
from    the   Trinity  Company,  and    save    tlie 
owner  or  captain  all  the  trouble  of  so  duing, 
but  also  to  carry  it  from  the  Trinity-lighters  ou 
board  the  ship.     The  reason  of  the  publirons, 
grocers,  butchers,  or  lodging -house-keepens 
undertaking  tho  job  is  to  increase  the  custuin 
at  iheir  shops,  for  they  make  it  a  rule  to  em- 
ploy no  heavers  but  those  who  purchase  their 
gcKid^  frc»m  them.     The  price  paid  to  the>e 
truck)!  I  en  varies  considerably.    Their  principal 
prfifit,  however,  is  maile  out  of  the  labourers 
tU^y  employ.    The  highest  price  paid  to  ihe 
contniLtoi's  for  putting  the  ballast  on  boanl 
C!>llii.'rii  (exclusive  of  the  cost  of  the  ballast 
itst'lf )  is  10«.  per  score  tons.   Many  contractors 
charg*?  less  than  this — ^not  a  few  indeed  under- 
take to  do  it  for  l)».,  and  there  are  one  or  two 
who  will  do  it  for  8*.  tho  score.     But  these,  T 
nm  infc.nned,  "  are  men  who  are  trjing  to  get 
ihe  work  away  from  the  other  contractors." 
The  highest  price  paid  to  tho  contractors  for 


i 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


278 


ballasting  smftll  merchant  vessels  is  Vit,  per 
Bcore  as  well.  For  large  vessels  the  price  varies 
according  to  their  size,  and,  consequently, 
the  number  of  heavers  required  to  put  the 
ballast  on  board.  The  lowest  price  paid  per 
score  to  the  contractors  for  small  merchant 
vessels  is  10*.  Eight  or  nine  years  ago  the 
price  for  ballasting  small  merchant  vessels 
was  much  higher.  Then  the  highest  price 
paid  to  the  contrtu>.tor  was  1&«.  Since  that 
time  the  prices  both  for  merchant  vessels  and 
colliers  have  been  continually  falUng.  This, 
I  am  told,  arises  from  the  number  of  contrac- 
tors increasing,  and  their  continual  endeavours 
to  onderwork  one  another.  Before  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  Coal-whippers'  Office,  the  con- 
tractors for  ballast  were  solely  pubUcans ;  and 
they  not  only  undertook  to  put  ballast  on 
boi^  but  to  deliver  the  coals  from  the  ships 
as  well.  At  this  time  the  publicans  engaged 
in  the  business  made  rapid  and  large  fortunes, 
and  soon  became  shipowners  themselves,  but 
alter  the  institution  of  the  Coal-whippers'  Office, 
the  business  of  the  publicans,  who  had  before 
been  the  contractors,  declined.  Since  that 
period  the  contracts  for  ballasting  ships  have 
been  undertaken  by  butchers  and  grocers,  as 
well  as  publicans,  and  the  number  of  these 
has  increased  every  year,  and  according  as 
the  number  of  the  contractors  has  increased, 
so  have  the  prices  decreased,  for  each  one  is 
awdona  to  undersell  the  other.  In  order  to 
do  this,  the  contractors  have  sought  every- 
where for  fresh  hands,  and  the  lodging-house- 
keepers  in  particular  have  introduced  labour- 
ing men  firom  the  country,  who  will  do  the 
work  at  a  less  price  than  those  who  have  been 
legnlarly  brought  up  to  the  business :  and  I 
am  credibly  informed,  that  whereas  nine  or  ten 
years  ago  every  ballast-heaver  was  known  to 
his  mates,  now  the  strangers  have  increased 
to  such  an  extent  that  at  least  two-thirds  of 
the  body  are  unacquainted  with  the  rest. 
There  is  treble  the  number  of  hands  at  the 
work  now,  I  am  told,  to  what  there  was  but  a 
few  years  back.  The  prices  paid  by  the  con- 
tractors to  the  ballast-heavers  are  very  little 
below  what  the  owners  pay  to  them,  indeed 
some  of  the  publicans  pay  the  heavers  the 
same  price  that  they  themselves  receive,  and 
make  their  profit  solely  out  of  the  beer  and 
spirits  supplied  to  the  workmen.  The  butchers 
and  grocers  generally  pay  the  men  ^d.  and 
some  1».  in  the  score  less  than  they  them- 
selves get ;  but,  like  the  publican,  their  chief 
profit  is  made  out  of  the  goods  they  supply. 
The  lodging-house-keepers  seldom  contract 
for  the  work.  They  are  generdly  foremen 
employed  by  the  publican,  butcher,  or  grocer 
eontiucting,  and  they  make  it  a  rule  that  the 
ballast-heavers  whom  they  hire  shall  lodge 
at  their  boose,  as  well  as  procure  their  beer, 
meat,  or  grocery,  as  the  case  may  be,  from  the 
shop  of  the  contractor  by  whom  they  are  em- 
ployed. All  the  English  ships  that  enter  the 
port  of  London  are  supplied  with  ballast  in 


this  manner.  The  owners  always  make  it  a 
rule  to  contract  with  some  pubhcan,  butcher, 
grocer,  or  lodging-house-keeper  for  the  ballast- 
ing of  their  vessels,  and  it  is  impossible  for 
the  ballast-heaver  to  obtain  emplo}ment  at 
his  calling  but  by  dealing  at  the  shops  of 
some  or  other  of  these  parties.  According  to 
the  Government  returns  there  were  170  bal- 
last-heavers in  the  metropolis  in  1841,  and  I 
am  assured  that  there  are  more  than  double 
that  number  at  present,  or  nearly  400  labourers 
engaged  in  the  business.  There  are  now  27 
publicans  who  make  a  regular  business  of 
contracting  for  the  supply  of  ballast.  Besides 
these  there  are  four  butchers,  the  same  num- 
ber of  grocers,  and  as  many  lodging-house 
keepers.  Further  than  this,  there  is  a  fore- 
man attached  to  each  of  the  public-houses,  or 
butchers*  or  grocers'  shops,  and  these  foremen 
are  mostly  lodging,  house -keepers  as  well» 
The  foremen  in  general  have  the  engagement 
of  the  heavers,  and  the  first  hands  they  employ 
are  those  who  lodge  at  their  houses:  these 
hands  are  expected  also  to  deal  with  the  con- 
tractor  under  whose  foreman  they  serve.  The 
heavers  generally,  therefore,  are  obliged  to 
lodge  at  the  house  of  some  foreman,  and  to 
obtain  their  meat,  beer,  and  grocery  from  the 
difierent  ballast- contractors,  in  order  to  obtain 
work ;  indeed,  with  the  exception  of  clothing, 
the  heaver  is  compelled  to  obtain  almost  eveiy 
article  he  consumes  through  the  medium  of 
some  contractor.  The  greater  the  number  of 
contractors  tlie  heaver  deals  with,  the  greater 
is  his  chance  of  work.  The  rule  with  each 
of  the  contractors  is  to  give  credit  to  the 
hands  they  employ,  and  those  who  are  the- 
most  in  debt  with  them  have  the  preference- 
in  labour.  The  butchers  and  grocers  gene- 
rally charge  Id.  per  lb.  extra  for  everything 
they  sell  to  the  heavers,  and  the  publicans 
make  it  up  in  adulteration.  Each  of  the- 
publicans,  butchers,  and  grocers,  who  make  a 
rule  of  contracting  for  the  supply  of  ballast, 
has,  on  an  average,  two  gangs  of  men  dealing 
at  his  house,  and  if  he  have  more  ships  to 
supply  than  his  regular  hands  are  capable  of 
doing,  then  he  sends  the  foreman  to  either  of 
the  places  of  call  where  the  unemployed  men 
wait  for  hire  throughout  the  day.  Each  ship 
requires  from  four  to  six  heavers  to  put  the 
ballast  on  board,  and  the  men  generedly  ship 
about  50  tons  in  the  course  of  the  day.  They 
often  do  as  much  as  100  tons,  and  sometimes 
only  20  in  the  day.  The  heavers  are  divided 
into  constant  and  casualty  men. 

**  The  constant  men  are  the  first  gang  work- 
ing  out  of  the  public-house,  or  butchers '  or 
grocers'  shops.  The  constant  men  with  the 
publicans  arc  those  that  are  the  best  customers. 
"  If  they  didn't  drink,"  said  my  informant, 
"  they'd  be  thought  of  very  little  use.  These 
constant  men  make  three  times  as  much  as 
tlie  casualty  men,  or,  in  other  words,  they  have 
three  times  as  much  to  drink.  Generally, 
one-fifth  part  of  what  the  publican'ii  constant 


274 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


men  earn  is  spent  in  drink.  The*  casualty 
men  are  those  frho  belong  to  no  regular 
houses ;  but  these,  if  taken  on  by  a  publican, 
are  expected  to  spend  the  same  amount  in 
drink  as  the  constant  men.  There  are  no 
ballast-heavers  who  are  teetotalers.  *'  Indeed 
it  would  be  madness,"  says  my  informant, 
'*for  a  man  to  tliink  of  it^  fbr  to  sign  the 
l)ledge  would  be  entirely  to  deprive  himself 
and  his  family  of  bread." 

To  complete  the  different  classes  of  ballast- 
labourers,  I  will  coiiclode  with  the  statement 
of  a  casualty  man : — 

**  I  am  about  57/'  (said  my  informant,  who 
was  G  feet  high,  and  looked  like  a  man  far 
older  than  07,)  ^and  have  been  85  years  a 
ballast-heaver,  with  the  exception  of  seven  or 
eight  years,  when  I  had  the  care  of  some  horses 
used  in  coal-waggons.  When  I  first  knew 
the  trade,  earnings  was  good.  I  might  clear 
my  1^.  a-week.  On  that  I  brought  up  four 
sons  and  one  daughter— all  now  married.  At 
that  time,  I  mean  when  I  first  worked  at 
ballast- heaving,  the  men  were  not  so  much 
employed  by  publicans  and  other  tradesmen. 
A  gang  of  men  could  then  get  work  on  their 
own  account,  a  good  deal  easier  than  they  can 
get  it  now  through  the  tradesmen  who  supply 
the  ballast.  As  the  trade  got  more  and  more 
into  the  hands  of  the  publicans  and  such -like, 
it  grew  worse  and  worse  for  such  as  me.  We 
earned  leas,  and  were  not  anything  like  to  call 
fVee  men.  Instead  of  my  1^  I  had  to  stir 
myself  to  make  15«.  or  as  low  as  12s.  a-week. 
Lately  I  have  been  what  is  called  a  casualty 
man.  There's  constant  men  and  casualties. 
Each  publican  has  a  foreman  to  look  out,  and 
get  men,  and  see  after  them.  These  foremen 
•—all  of  them  that  I  know  of — keeps  lodgers, 
charging  them  2s.  ^d.  or  ds.  a-week  for  a  room 
they  could  get  but  for  this  tie,  for  2<. — ay, 
that  tliey  could.  Suppose  now  a  publican 
has  a  ship  to  supply  with  ballast,  he  acquaints 
his  foreman,  and  the  foreman  calls  on  his 
lodgers,  and  sets  them  to  work.  These  are 
the  constant  men.  They  have  always  the  first 
turn  out  of  the  house.  If  they  return  from 
work  at  4,  and  there's  another  job  at  5,  they 
get  it.  That's  interest  you  see,  sir.  The 
more  such  men  earn  Uiis  way,  the  more 
they're  expected  to  spend  with  the  publican. 
It'tt  only  bad  stuff  they  have  to  drink  at  a  fhll 
price.  It's  only  when  all  the  constant  men 
are  at  work,  and  a  job  must  be  done  at  once, 
that  me,  and  such  as  me,  can  get  work.  If  I 
hear  of  a  chance  of  a  job  I  call  on  the  fore- 
man. If  I  have  money,  why,  I  must  drink 
myself,  and  treat  the  foreman  with  a  drop  of 
gin,  or  what  he  fancies.  If  I  haven't  the 
money,  I  have  the  worse  chance  fur  a  job. 
Suppose  I  get  a  job  and  earn  0«.  out  of  60 
tons  of  ballast ;  out  of  that  6ii.  I  may  have  4s., 
or,  at  most,  4s.  (Sd.  to  take  home  with  me,  after 
paying  for  what  I  must  drink  at  the  publican's 
— what  Tm  forced  to  spend.  Casualty  men 
have  sad  trouble  to  get  any  work.    Those  that 


belong  to  the  houses  have  all  the  call.  Last 
week  I  was  on  the  look-out  every  day,  and 
couldn't  get  a  single  job,  nor  earn  a  aingld 
fkrthing.  Last  night  I  had  to  get  a  bite  of 
supper  at  my  son's,  and  a  bite  of  bieakfbst 
this  morning  as  well,  and  I  had  to  borrow  a 
pair  of  shoes  to  como  out  in.  The  best  week's 
work  I've  had  this  winter  was  1 6s.  I  had  five 
days  in  one  ship.  Por  that  five  days  I  was 
entitled,  I  fancy,  to  20t.,  or  may  be  2If.,  eo 
that  the  difference  between  that  and  the  Ifts. 
went  for  drink.  I  only  wanted  a  pint  of  beer 
now  and  then  at  my  work — ^two  or  thjwe  %  diqr. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  we  don't  get  drink  at  our 
work  so  much  as  at  the  public-house  we're 
employed  from.  If  we  want  to  go  home,  aame 
of  the  constant  men  want  to  haTe  more  and 
more,  and  so  the  money  goes.  Other  weeks 
I  have  carried  home  lOt.,  6s.,  Os.,  and  many  a 
week  nothing,  living  as  I  oonld.  It  would  be 
a  deal  better  for  poor  men,  like  me,  if  trades- 
men had  nothin|^  to  do  wiUi  ballast  work.  If 
the  men  that  did  the  work  were  paid  1^  the 
gentlemen  what  wants  the  ballast,  there  might 
then  be  a  living  for  a  poor  man.  As  it  is,  it's  a 
veiy  bad,  hateftd  system,  and  makes  people 
badly  o£  A  ballast-man  may  ait  in  a  tap-room, 
wet,  and  cold,  and  hongiy,  (Tve  felt  it  many  a 
time,)  and  be  forced  to  drmk  bad  ata£E;  wait- 
ing to  be  paid.  It  always  happens,  unless 
they're  about  shutting  up,  that  we  have  to 
wait.  We  have  no  sick-ftmd  or  benefit  sooieties. 
I  declare  to  you,  that  if  anything  hi^pened  to 
me — if  I  was  sick — I  have  nothing  to  call  my 
own  but  what  I*ve  on ;  and  not  all  Uiat,  as  I've 
told  you — and  there's  nothing  but  the  pariah  to 
look  to.  (Here  the  man  somewhat  ahiuldered./ 
I  pay  2s.  a-week  rent. 

^  Then  again,  sir,  there's  the  basket-men 
at  the  docks — all  the  docks.  TheyYe  as  bad 
to  the  poor  man  as  the  publican,  or  worse. 
The  way  they  do  is  this.  They're  not  in  aqy 
trade,  and  they  make  it  their  business  to  go 
on  board  ships — foreign  ships— American 
generally.  In  better  times,  twenty  or  twenty 
five  years  ago,  there  used  to  be  Is.,  and  aa 
high  as  Is.  td,  paid  for  a  ton  from  such  ships 
to  a  gang  of  six  ballast-men.  I've  earned  six, 
seven,  and  eight  shillings  o-day  myself  then. 
We  heaved  the  ballast  out  of  the  lighters  with 
our  shovels  on  to  a  stage,  and  firom  that  it  was 
heaved  into  the  hold.  Two  men  worked  in 
the  lighter,  two  on  the  stage,  and  two  in  the 
hold  of  the  vessel.  The  basket-men  manage 
to  fill  the  hold  now  by  beaming  the  ballast  up 
firom  the  lighter  in  baskets  by  means  of  a 
windlass.  The  basket-man  contracts  with  the 
captain,  and  then  puts  us  poor  men  at  the 
lowest  rate  he  can  get ;  he  picks  them  up  any- 
where, anything  in  the  shape  of  men.  For 
every  half-crown  he  pays  these  men  he'll  gefc 
9s.  for  himself,  and  more.  An  American  liner 
may  require  300  tons  of  ballast,  and,  m^yba^ 
a  captain  will  give  a  basket-man  8^  a-lon  z 
that  would  be  101.  The  basket-man.  empkiys 
six  men,  and  he  makes  another.    He  never 


LONDON  LABOUR  AM)  THE  LONDON  POOH, 


275 


trorka  liimself — never — not  a  blow  :  but  ho  < 
goc3  swaggering  about  the  ship  when  his  men  I 
are  at  work,  and  he's  on  the  look-out  in  tlic 
streets  at  other  times.  For  the  10/.  he'll  get 
ior  the  300  tonn,  he'll  pay  his  men  each  2s.  (id. 
for  GO  tons,  that  is  3/.  155.,  and  so  there's 
6/.  5«.  profit  for  him.  Isn't  that  a  ehamc', 
when  so  many  poor  men  have  to  go  without 
dinner  or  breakfast?  There's  five  basket-men 
to  my  knowledge.  They  are  making  money 
all  oat  of  i>oor  men  that  can't  help  themselves. 
The  poor  sutfers  for  all." 

In  order  to  assure  myself  of  the  intensity 
of  the  labour  of  ballast-heaving,  of  which  I 
heard  statements  on  all  sides,  I  visited  a  gang 
of  men  at  work,  ballasting  a  collier  in  the  Pool. 
My  engagements  prevented  my  doing  this 
iiDtil  about  six  in  the  evening.  There  was 
a  Tery  dense  fog  on  the  river,  and  all  along 
its  banks;  so  thick  was  it,  indeed,  that  the 
water,  which  washed  the  steps  where  I  took 
a  boat,  could  not  be  distinguished,  even  with 
the  hcli>  of  the  adjacent  Ughts.  I  soon, 
however,  attained  the  ballast-hghter  I  sought 
The  ballast-heavers  had  established  them- 
selves  alongside  a  collier,  to  be  filled  with 
48  tons  of  ballast,  jnst  before  I  reached  them, 
8o  that  I  observed  all  their  operations.  Their 
first  step  was  to  tie  pieces  of  old  soil,  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind,  round  their  shoes,  ankles, 
and  hair  np  their  legs,  to  prevent  the  gravel 
falling  into  their  shoes,  and  so  rendering 
their  tread  painful.  This  was  rapidly  done ; 
and  the  men  set  to  work  with  the  quiet  ear- 
nestness of  those  who  are  working  for  the 
morrow's  meal,  and  who  know  that  they  must 
work  hard.  Two  men  stood  in  the  gravel 
(the  ballast)  in  the  lighter;  the  other  two 
stood  on  •*  a  stage,"  as  it  is  called,  which  is 
but  a  boarding  placed  on  the  partition-beams 
of  the  hghter.  The  men  on  Uiis  stage,  cold 
as  the  night  was,  threw  off  their  jackets,  and 
worked  in  their  shirts,  their  labour  being  not 
merely  hard,  but  rapid.  As  one  man  struck 
his  shovel  into  the  ballast  thrown  upon  the 
stage,  the  other  hove  his  shovelful  through  a 
small  porthole  in  the  vessel's  side,  so  that 
the  work  went  on  as  continuously  and  as 
<liiickly  as  the  circumstances  could  possibly 
admit.  Rarely  was  a  word  spoken,  and  no- 
thbg  was  heard  hut  an  occassional  gurgle  of 
the  water,  and  the  plunging  of  tlie  shovel  into 
the  gravel  on  the  stage  by  one  heaver,  fol- 
lowed instantaneously  by  the  rattling  of  the 
Btones  in  the  hold  shot  from  the  shovel  of  the 
other.  In  the  hold  the  ballast  is  arranged  by 
the  ship's  company.  The  throwing  of  the 
ballast  through  the  porthole  was  done  with 
I  •*  nice  precision.  A  tarpaulin  was  fixed  to 
I  prevent  any  of  the  ballast  that  might  not  be 
I  flung  through  the  porthole  being  wasted  by 
I  falhng  into  the  river,  and  all  that  struck 
I  pQerely  the  bounds  of  the  porthole  fell  back 
I  into  the  lighter ;  but  das  was  the  merest  trifle. 
I  The  men  pitched  the  stuff  through  most  dex- 
terously.     The  porthole  might  be  six  fett 


t 


above  the  stage  from  which  they  hove  the 
ballast ;  the  men  in  the  lighter  have  an  ave- 
rage heave  of  six  feet  on  to  Uie  stage.  The 
two  men  on  the  stage  and  the  two  on  the 
lighter  fill  and  discharge  tlieir  shovels  twelve 
times  in  a  minute;  that  is,  one  shovelful  is 
shot  by  each  man  in  every  alternate  five  se- 
conds; so  that  every  one  of  the  four  men 
engaged  at  the  work  flings  the  height  of 
30  feet  every  minute,  or  2160  feet  in  an  hour; 
and  in  that  time,  according  to  the  concurrent 
computation  of  the  heavers,  Uie  four  men  may 
easily  fling  in  10  tons,  or  5600  lbs.  a  man. 
The  men  work  with  the  help  of  large  lanterns, 
being  employed  mostly  by  night. 

I  shall  now  state  the  sentiments  of  the  men 
generally,  and  then  individually,  upon  the 
subject  of  their  grievances. 

To  be  certain  as  to  the  earnings  of  the  men, 
to  see  their  condition,  and  to  hear  from  a 
large  number  of  them  their  own  statements 
as  to  the  hardships  they  sufiered,  and  the 
sums  they  gained,  I  met  two  bodies  of  the 
ballast-heavers,  assembled  without  pre.ar- 
rangement.  At  one  station  50  were  present, 
at  the  other  30.  The  men  were  chiefly  clad 
in  coarse,  strong  jackets;  some  of  them 
merely  waistcoats,  with  strong,  blue  flannel 
sleeves,  and  coarse  trowsers,  tluck  with  ac- 
cumulated grease  from  long  wear.  They 
had,  notwithstanding  their  privations,  gene- 
rally a  hardy  look.  There  was  nothing 
squaUd  in  their  appearance,  as  in  that  of 
men  who  have  to  support  life  on  similar 
earnings  with  in-door  employment.  Their 
manners  were  quiet,  and  far  from  coarse. 
At  the  first  meeting  50  were  present.  One 
man  said,  **  Well,  I  think  I  am  the  oldest 
man  at  present,  and  I  don't  get  above  5«. 
a- week;  but  that's  because  I'm  an  old  man, 
and  cannot  work  with  the  young  ones."  Upon 
an  average  the  common  men  earned  lOf. 
a-week  the  year  through,  and  took  home  6s. 
I  inquired,  ^  Are  you  all  compelled  to  spend 
a  great  part  of  all  you  earn  in  drink  with  the 
publican  ?  "  The  answer  was  simultaneously, 
'*  All  of  us— all — all ! "  Of  the  remainder  of 
their  earnings,  after  the  drink  deductions,  the 
men  were  all  satisfied  they  spent  so  mueh, 
that  many  only  took  2s,  Qd.  a-wcek  home  to 
their  wives  and  families  on  an  average.  Last 
week  two  earned  20«.,  the  publican  tdring  10#. 
from  each.  Three  earned  15«. ;  one  of  these 
took  Is.  6d.  home,  the  other  3«.,  both  working 
for  publicans;  the  third,  who  worked  for  a 
grocer,  took  home  13«.;  the  other  2s.  being 
sx>ent  in  tea  and  sugar,  he  being  a  single  man. 
Three  earned  10». ;  one,  worlong  for  a  pub- 
lican, carried  home  65.,  the  diflerence  going 
in  compulsory  drink;  another  45.,  and  an- 
other 5«.  Six  did  one  load  of  ballast,  receir- 
iug  7s.  Qd.  each  for  it;  one  took  home  U,  lid, ; 
another  6s.  Od,  (a  private  job) ;  anotlier,  who 
did  a  load  for  5«.  3<^.,  took  home  2s.  Sd. ;  the 
other  two  took  home  5j.  each.  One  man  earned 
d«.,  and  took  it  all  home,  having  worked  at  a 


370 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


private  job  for  a  foreigner.  Fifteen  earned 
nothing  in  the  course  of  the  last  week.  For 
the  last  fortnight  nine  had  earned  nothing. 
There  were  nine  present  that  had  earned 
something  in  the  last  three  weeks.  **  The 
fortnight  before  Ghristraas,"  said  one,  **  I 
didn't  earn  5s.  all  that  fortnight.**  **  Nor  I,  nor 
I,**  said  several  others.  On  being  asked,  **  Are 
von  compelled  to  spend  half  of  yonr  earnings 
in  drink?"  there  was  a  general  cry  of, 
**  More  than  that,  sir;  more  than  that.**  I 
asked  if  men  were  forced  to  become  drunkards 
under  this  system;  there  was  a  general  ciy 
of,  *<  We  are ;  and  blackguards,  too."  Seven- 
teen were  married  men.  Of  tJiem,  3  had  no 
children ;  3  had  one  child ;  4  had  2  children ; 
2  had  3 ;  3  had  4 ;  one  had  0 ;  one  had  6. 
The  men  all  said,  that  to  get  away  firom  the 
publican  would  be  *'  a  new  life  to  them — 
all  to  their  benefit — no  force  to  waste  money 
in  drink — and  the  only  thing  that  would  do 
them  good."  Many  threw  away  the  drink 
they  had  from  the  publicans,  it  was  so  bad ; 
they  drank  Thames  water  rather.  They  were 
all  satisfied  **  they  earned  10s.  a-week  the  year 
through,  spending  of  that  sum  what  they  mutt 
spend,  and  what  they  were  induced  to  spend, 
ffom  5s.  to  7s.  Oi.  a-week."  <*  Another  thing/* 
they  said,  *'  if  you  get  a  job,  the  publican  will 
advance  Is. — ^now  and  then  he  may.  They  hate 
to  give  money ;  there's  tmst  for  as  much  grog 
as  you  like."  All  hailed  with  delight  the 
least  possible  chance  of  being  freed  from  the 
publican.  One  man  said  he  was  compelled 
often  enough  to  pawn  something  of  his  own  or 
his  wife's  to  go  and  spend  it  at  the  public, 
house,  or  he  would  have  no  chance  of  a  job. 
All  declare  **  such  a  system  never  was  known 
to  have  been  carried  on  fbr  years."  Many 
said,  **  We  shall  be  discharged  if  they  know 
we  have  told  you  the  truth."  They  stated 
that  the  ballast-heavers  numbered  between 
300  and  400.  There  were  OO  craft,  each  re- 
quiring 4  heavers ;  and  many  men  were  idle 
when  all  the  others  were  at  work.  Thirty  were 
present  when  I  counted  the  other  meeting. 
A  man  said  there  might  be  three  times  that 
number  looking  for  work  then,  and  as  many 
at  work  belonging  to  that  station  alone.  In 
1841  the  census  returns  showed  that  there 
were  170  ballast-heavers ;  the  men  assembled 
declared  that  their  numbers  had  more  nearly 
trebled  than  doubled  since  then.  Within  the 
last  two  or  three  years  many  new  hands  had 
got  to  work,  on  account  of  the  distress  in  Ire- 
land. The  men  agreed  with  the  others  I  had 
seen  that  they  earned,  one  week  with  another, 
10s.,  taking  home  but  5s.  at  the  outside,  and 
often  only  2s.  6<^  In  answer  to  my  questions 
they  said,  the  winter  is  the  best  season ;  the 
trade  is  veiy  slack  in  summer.  Earnings  in 
winter  are  pretty  well  double  what  they  are  in 
summer.  Many  agricultural  labourers  work 
among  the  heavers  in  winter,  when  they  can- 
not be  employed  on  Uie  land.  Of  this  body 
all  said  they  were  sober  men  till  they  took  to 


ballast-heaving,  and  would  like  to  become  sober 
men  again.  (A  general  a.ssent)  Three  of 
the  men  had  tiJcen  the  pledge  before  becoming 
ballast-heavers,  and  were  obliged  to  break  it 
to  get  work.  They  had  to  drink  five  pots  of 
beer,  they  declared,  where,  if  they  were  free 
men,  they  would  only  drink  one.  When  asked  if 
the  present  system  made  drunkards,  they  an- 
swered with  one  voice,  **  All ;  eveiy  ballast- 
heaver  in  it."  Twenty  were  married  men. 
All  their  wives  and  children  suffered  (this  was 
affirmed  generally  with  a  loud  murmur),  and 
often  had  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  while  their 
husbands  had  but  the  drink.  It  was  com- 
puted (with  general  concurrence)  that  150 
ballast-heavers  paid  foremen  for  lodgings,  not 
half  of  them  ever  seeing  the  bed  they  paid  for. 
About  twelve  years  ago  they  could  earn  twice 
or  three  times  as  much  as  they  can  now ;  but 
prices  were  higher  (12s.  per  score,  for  what  is 
now  8s.),  and  the  men  were  far  less  nume- 
rous. The  following  is  a  precise  statement 
of  the  sums  to  which  each  ballast-heaver  pre- 
sent was  entitled,  followed  by  the  amoant  he 
had  carried  home  the  week  before,  after  pig- 
ment of  his  compulsory  drinkings,  and  of  vhift 
he  might  be  induced  to  drink  at  the  house  of 
his  employer  while  waiting  to  be  paid  >— 


Earned.              i 

TookhonMk 

£0  12 

0 

JBO    7    0 

0    7 

0 

0    3    6 

0  15 

0 

0    0    0 

0  12 

0 

0    6    0 

0  13 

0 

0    4    0 

0  11 

0 

0    5    0 

0    5 

0 

0    2    0 

0    8 

0 

0    5    0 

0    9 

6 

0    5    0 

1    0 

0 

0  10    0 

0  12 

0 

0    8    0 

1    0 

0 

0    0    0 

0  12 

0 

0    4    0 

0  15 

0 

0    0    0 

0  15 

0 

0    8    6 

0  16 

0 

0    0    0 

0  15 

0 

0    5    0 

Nothing 

Nothing 

ff 

n 

n 

*i 

n 

»» 

0  12 

0 

0    2    6 

0    0 

0 

0    5    0 

1    0 

0 

0    4    6 

1    0 

0 

0  10    0 

0  10 

0 

0    3    0 

0  10 

0 

0    5    0 

0  12 

0 

0    9    6 

0    8 

0 

0    3    5 

0  14 

0 

6     9    0 

jei6  13    0 


£7    7    0 


This  statement  shows,  out  of  lis.  l}rf.  earn- 
ings, a  receipt  of  less  than  5s.  a-week. 

According  to  the  returns  of  the  Trinity 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


«77 


House,  there  were  015,619  tons  of  ballast  put 
on  board  1 1,234  ships  in  the  jear  1848.  The 
bollRst-heavers  are  paid  at  the  rate  of  (Sd.  per 
ton  for  shovelling  the  ballast  out  of  the  Trinity 
Company's  lighters  into  the  holds  of  vessels. 
Hence,  the  total  earnings  of  the  ballast-heavers 
in  that  year  were  15,390/.  95.  G(/.  And  calcu- 
lating two-thirds  (the  men  say  they  always  get 
rid  of  a  half^  and  often  three -fourths,  of  their 
earnings  in  drink)  of  this  sum  to  have  been 
spent  in  liquor,  it  follows  that  as  much  as 
10,200/.  0«.  id,  went  to  the  pubhcan,  and  only 
5,130/.  3s.  2d.  to  the  labouring  men.  Accord- 
ing to  this  estimate  of  their  gross  earnings,  if 
we  calculate  the  body  of  the  ballast-heavers 
fts  numbering  350  men,  the  average  wages  of 
the  class  are  about  16s.  6J.  per  week  each 
man;  or  if  we  reckon  the  class  at  400,  then 
the  average  wages  of  each  person  would  be 
about  14s.  0^.  per  week.  From  all  I  can  learn 
this  appears  to  be  about  the  truth — the  earn- 
ings of  the  men  being  about  Ids.  a-week,  and 
their  real  income  about  5s. 

The  men  shall  now  speak  for  themselves. 
The  first  that  I  saw  were  two  of  the  better 
class  of  foremen,  who  volunteered  to  give  me 
an  account  of  the  system. 

**  I  am  a  foreman  or  ganger  of  the  bollast- 
heavers,"  said  one.  "  I  work  imder  a  man  who 
is  a  publican  and  butcher;  and  I  also  work 
under  another  who  is  only  a  butcher.  I,  morc- 
orer,  work  under  a  grocer.  I  engage  the 
di^rent  gangs  of  men  for  the  parties  under 
whom  I  work.  I  also  pay  the  men.  The 
publican,  butcher,  or  grocer,  as  the  case  may 
ne,  agrees  to  give  me  9s.  a  score  tons.  The 
ibremen  often  give  the  men  the  same  money 
as  they  themselves  receive,  barring  a  pot  of 
beer  or  a  quartern  of  gin  that  they  may  have 
oat  of  the  job.  Some  foremen  take  much 
more." 

Another  foreman,  who  was  present  while 
I  was  taking  the  statement  of  this  man, 
here  observed,  that  *'Many  foremen  claim 
tow-tow,  or  a  •  fifth-handed'  proportion — that 
is,  they  will  have  10s.  when  the  working  men 
have  only  5s.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  impo- 
sition on  the  working-classes  here,  I  can  assure 
you;  the  general  thing,  when  we  go  to  a  job 
out  of  a  public-house  is,  that  the  publican  ex- 
pects the  men  to  drink  to  the  amount  of  4s. 
out  of  every  1/.,  and  Os.  out  of  every  30s.  that's 
coming  to  them — that  is,  one -fifth  part  of  the 
men's  money  must  be  spent  in  liquor.  The 
drink  is  certainly  not  the  best ;  indeed,  if  there 
is  any  inferior  stuff  they  have  it:  it's  an  obliga- 
tion on  them  that  they  drink.  If  they  refuse 
to  drink,  they  won't  get  employed,  and  that's 
the  plain  truth  of  it.  Oh,  it's  long  wanted 
looking  to ;  and  I'm  glad  at  last  to  find  some 
one  inquiring  into  it.  If  they  went  to  get  the 
regular  beer  firom  the  fair  public-houses  they 
'Would  have  to  pay  3i.  a  pot  for  it;  and  at  the 
contracting  publicans'  they  must  give  4</.  a  pot, 
^d  have  short  measure,  and  the  worst  of  stuff 


too.  Every  six  pots  of  beer  they  give  to  the 
men  is  only  five  pots  fair  measure ;  and  the 
rum  they  charge  them  2d.  halt'-a-pint  more 
than  the  regular  public-houses  would,  and  far 
worse  rum  into  the  bargain.  Besides  the 
profit  on  their  drink,  some  publicans  charge 
(Sd.  per  score  tons  as  well.  Out  of  the  money 
coming  to  the  men  after  the  pubhcan  has 
been  paid  his  score,  many  foremen  claim  one- 
fifth  part  over  and  above  their  regular  share ; 
or,  in  other  words,  the  foremen  takes  two 
shares,  and  the  men  only  one  each.  When 
the  men  have  been  paid,  the  publican  paying 
them  expects  them  to  spend  a  further  sum  in 
drink,  looking  black  at  the  man  who  goes 
away  without  calling  for  his  pint  or  his  pot, 
and  not  caring  if  they  drink  away  the  whole 
of  their  earnings.  There's  a  good  many 
would  be  glad  if  the  men  sat  in  their 
houses  and  spent  their  last  fai  thing,  and 
then  had  to  go  home  penniless  to  their  wives 
and  families." 

"  I  am  a  *  ganger'  to  a  butcher  as  well  as  a 
publican,"  said  one  of  the  foremen.  "  His 
practice  is  just  the  same  as  the  publican's. 
He  receives  10s.  per  score  tons,  and  pays  me 
for  the  men  9s.  The  men  and  myself  are  all 
expected  to  spend  about  one-half  of  our  earn- 
ings  with  the  butcher  in  meat.  He  charges 
Q\d.  per  lb.;  and  at  other  houses,  with  ready 
money,  I  and  the  men  might  get  it  for  4</.  as 
good.  His  meat  is  at  least  one-third  dearer 
than  other  butchers'.  I  am  also  ganger  to  a 
grocer,  and  he  gets  about  the  same  profit  out 
of  the  men  he  employs — that  is  to  say,  the 
articles  he  supplies  the  men  with  are  at  least 
one-third  dearer  than  at  other  shops.  If  any- 
thing, he  makes  more  out  of  the  men  tlian  the 
butcher;  for  if  any  man  goes  a  score  (which 
he  always  encourages)  he  stops  the  whole  out 
the  man's  earnings,  and  often  leaves  him  with« 
out  a  penny  after  the  job  is  done.  "VNTien  the 
publican,  grocer,  butcher,  or  lodging-house 
keeper  has  a  contract  for  ballast,  he  directs 
the  foreman  working  under  him  to  get  toge- 
ther the  gang  that  regularly  work  from  his 
house.  This  gang  are  men  who  always  deal 
at  the  shop,  and  the  contractor  would  dismiss 
me  if  I  was  to  engage  any  other  men  than 
those  who  were  his  regular  customers.  Many 
a  tunc  a  pubhcan  has  told  me  tliat  some  man 
was  a  good,  hard  drinker,  and  directed  me  to 
engage  him  whenever  I  could.  If  a  man  sticks 
up  a  score,  he  also  tells  me  to  put  him  on  first 
of  all:  tlie  grocer  and  the  butcher  do  the 
same.  This  system  is  the  cause,  I  know,  of 
much  distress  and  misery  among  the  men; 
the  publicans  make  the  men  drunkards  by 
forcing  them  to  drink.  I  know  many  wives 
and  children  who  starve  half  their  time  through 
it.  They  haven't  a  bit  of  shoo  or  clothing, 
and  all  through  the  pubhcan  compelling  the 
men  to  spend  their  earnings  in  drink.  After 
the  gang  is  paid,  at  least  three  out  of  the  four 
get  drunk ;  and,  often,  the  whole  four.  Many 
a  time  I  have  seen  the  whole  of  the  men  reel- 


ilH 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


iog  home  without  a  penny  to  bless  themselves, 
and  the  wife  and  children  have  to  suffer  for  all 
this ;  they  are  ill-treated  and  half-starved : 
this  I  can  safely  say  firom  my  own  know- 
ledge.** 

I  next  saw  two  men,  who  stated  that  they 
were  oppressed  by  the  publican,  and  the  fore- 
man eXao,  The  first  said,  "  I  work  under  a 
publican,  and  have  to  pay  the  foreman  one- 
fifth  of  my  earnings  ;  I  only  have  fourpenco 
oat  of  evexy  shilHng  I  earn,  and  I  must  be  a 
sobor  man  indeed  to  get  that  Both  the  pub- 
lican and  the  fureman  get  eighti>ence  out  of  a 
shilling,  and  make  their  money  out  of  my 
sweat.  Nine  years  ago  I  was  left,  to  my  sor- 
row, with  nine  motherless  children,  and  I  am 
the  slave  of  the  publican.  He  is  my  destruc- 
tion,  and  such  are  my  sufferings,  that  I  don't 
care  what  I  do  if  I  can  destroy  the  system ; 
I  shall  die  happy  if  I  can  see  an  end  to  it  I 
wonld  go  to  l)ed  supperless  to-night,  and  so 
should  my  cliildren,  if  I  could  stop  it.  After 
I  have  had  a  job  of  work,  many's  the  time  I 
have  not  had  a  penny  to  take  home  to  my 
children,  it  has  all  pone  betwixt  the  fon'ninn 
and  the  publican ;  and  what  is  more,  if  I  had 
brought  anything  home  I  should  have  stood  a 
worse  chance  of  work  the  next  day.  If  I  had 
gone  away  with  sixpence  in  my  pocket,  the 
worit  that  should  have  come  to  me  would  have 
gone  to  those  who  had  spent  all  in  the  house. 
I  can  solemnly  say  that  the  men  are  made 
regular  drunkards  by  the  publicans.  I  am 
nine-and-twenty  years  dealing  with  this  op- 
pression, and  I  wish  from  my  heart  I  could 
see  an  end  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  my  childnm 
and  my  fellow -creatures*  children  as  well. 
But  I  suffer  quite  as  much  from  the  foreman 
as  I  do  from  the  publican.  I  am  obliged  to 
treat  him  before  I  can  get  a  job  of  work.  The 
man  who  gives  him  the  most  drink  he  will 
employ  the  first  Besides  this,  the  foreman 
has  two-fifth  part8  of  the  money  paid  for  the 
job ;  he  has  twice  as  much  as  the  men  if  he 
does  any  of  the  work ;  and  if  he  does  none  of 
the  work  he  takes  one -fifth  of  the  whole 
money :  besides  this,  the  men  do  three  times 
the  foreman's  labour.  If  I  could  get  the  full 
valueof  my  sweat,  I  could  lay  by  to-morrow,  and 
keep  my  family  respectably.  In  the  room  of 
that,  now,  my  family  want  bread  often — worse 
luck,  for  it  hurts  my  feelings.  I  have  been 
idle  all  to-day ;  for  hearing  of  this,  I  came  to 
make  my  statement,  for  it  was  the  pride  of 
my  heart  to  do  all  that  I  could  to  put  an  end 
to  the  oppression.  The  publicans  have  had 
the  best  of  me,  and  when  the  system  is  done 
awfly  with  I  shan't  be  much  the  better  for  it. 
I  have  been  nineand-twenty  years  at  it,  and 
it  has  mined  me  both  body  and  soul ;  but  I 
say  what  I  do  for  the  benefit  of  others,  and 
those  who  come  after  me.** 

The  other  man  said  that  he  worked  under 
a  publican,  and  a  grocer  as  well,  and  lodged 
with  a  foreman.  "  I  pay  2*.  a  week  for  my 
lodgings,"  he  said;  "there  are  two  beds  in 


the  room,  and  two  men  in  each.  The  rooni 
where  we  all  sleep  is  not  more  than  lerai  feet 
long  by  five  feet  wide,  and  barely  aeren  feet 
high.  There  is  no  chimney  in  it  It  is  a 
garret,  with  nothing  in  it  but  the  two  beds. 
There  hadn't  need  be  much  more, for  it  woaldn*t 
hold  even  a  chair  besides.  There's  haid]y 
room,  in  fact,  for  tlie  door  to  open.  I  find  it 
very  close  sleeping  there  at  night-time,  with 
no  ventilation,  hut  I  can't  help  myselfl  I  stay 
there  for  the  job  of  work.  I  must  stay ;  I 
shouldn't  get  a  day's  work  if  I  didn't  The 
lodgings  are  so  bad,  I'd  leave  them  to-morrow 
if  I  could.  I  know  I  pay  twice  as  much  as  I 
could  get  them  for  elsewhere.  That's  one 
way  in  which  I,  for  one,  am  robbed.  Besides 
this,  I  am  ohli<.'ed  to  treat  the  foreman ;  I  am 
obliged  to  give  him  two  glasses  of  rum,  as 
well  as  lodging  at  his  house,  in  order  to  get 
employment  I  have  also  to  drink  at  the 
public-house ;  one-fifth  of  my  money  is  kept, 
first  and  foremost,  by  the  publican.  That 
goes  for  the  compulsory  drink — for  the  swash 
which  he  sends  us  on  board,  and  that  we 
think  the  Thames- water  is  sweet  and  whole- 
I  sonic  to  it.  It  is  expressly  adulterated  for 
I  our  drink.  If  wo  speak  a  word  against  it  we 
j  should  be  left  to  walk  tho  streets,  for  a  week 
'  and  more  forward.  Kven  if  we  were  known 
to  meet  a  friend,  and  have  a  pint  or  a  pot  in 
another  public-house,  we  should  be  called  to 
on  account  for  it  by  tho  publican  we  worked 
under,  and  he  would  tell  us  to  go  and  get 
work  where  we  spent  our  money;  and,  God 
knows,  very  little  money  we  would  have  coming 
out  of  his  house  after  our  hard  sweat  After 
tho  compulsory  drink,  and  the  publican  has 
settled  with  us,  and  his  fifth  part  of  our  hard- 
earned  money  for  the  swash — it's  nothing 
else — that  he  has  given  us  to  drink,  tlten  I 
should  be  thought  no  man  at  all  if  I  didn't 
have  two  pots  of  beer,  or  half-a-pint  of  gin,  so 
that  I  would  count  mysolf  very  lucky  indeed 
if  I  had  a  couple  of  shillings  to  take  home, 
and  out  of  that  I  should  have  to  spend  two- 
thirds  of  it  to  get  another  job.  I  am  a  married 
man,  and  my  wife  and  three  children  are  in 
Ireland.  I  can't  have  them  over,  for  it  Ls  as 
much  as  I  can  do  to  support  myself.  I  came 
over  here  thinking  to  get  work,  and  to  send 
them  money  to  bring  them  over  after  me,  but 
since  I  have  been  here  I  have  been  working 
at  the  ballast-work,  and  I  have  not  been  able 
to  keep  myself.  I  don't  complain  of  what  is 
paid  for  the  work ;  the  price  is  fair  enough ; 
but  we  don't  get  a  quarter  of  what  we  earn, 
and  the  Irish  ballast-heavers  suffer  more  hero 
than  in  their  own  country.  When  I  coiue 
over  here  I  had  a  good  suit  of  clothes  to  my 
back,  and  now  Tm  all  in  rags  and  tatters,  and 
yet  I  have  been  working  htuxler,  and  earning 
more  money,  that  I  did  in  all  my  life.  We  ak 
robbetl  of  ail  we  get  by  the  foremen  and  publi- 
cans. I  was  eight  years  a  teetotaler  before  I 
went  to  ballast-work,  and  now  I  am  forced  to 
be  a  drunkard,  to  my  sorrow,  to  get  a  job  oi 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


270 


woik.  Mj  wife  and  children  have  a  bit  of 
lund  in  Ireland  to  keep  them,  and  they're 
badly  off  enough,  God  knows.  I  can  neither 
hel^  them,  nor  send  monej  to  bring  them 
over  to  me ;  nor  can  I  get  oyer  to  them  myself. 
The  grocers  whom  we  work  nnder  rob  us  in 
the  same  manner.  I  have  worked  under  one. 
He  supplied  bread,  butter,  tea,  sugar,  coffee, 
candles,  tobacco,  cheese,  <fec.  It  is  a  larger 
kind  of  chandlers'  shop.  He  charges  us  b\d, 
iot  the  same  bread  as  I  can  buy  for  ^\d.  at 
other  shops.  The  tea,  sugar,  and  other 
articlee  he  suj^plies  us  ^ith  are  at  the  same 
rale ;  they  are  either  worse  or  dearer  than  at 
oiher  shops.  They  generally  manage  to  get 
A  AfUi  part  of  our  earnings  wherever  we  go ; 
but  the  grocers  are  best  of  all,  for  they  don't 
ruin  our  health,  as  what  they  give  us  don't 
make  us  sick.  I  work  for  these  two  houses 
because  the  foreman  that  I  lodge  with  has 
work  out  of  both  houses,  and  we  are  obliged 
to  deeJ  at  the  houses  that  he  works  under ;  if 
we  didnt  we  shouldn't  get  the  job,  so  that  if 
we  are  not  robbed  by  the  publican  we  are  by 
the  grocer.  They  wUl  have  it  out  of  the  poor 
hard-working  man,  and  the  foreman  must 
have  the  gain  out  of  it  as  weU.  I  only  wish 
to  God  it  was  done  away  with,  for  it  is  down- 
right oppression  to  us  dl,  and  if  I  never  have 
another  stroke  of  work  I  will  strive  all  I  con 
io  have  it  done  away  with  for  the  sake  of  my 
fellow-men. 

After  these  two  cases  came  one  who  said, — 
**  I  have  been  three  years  a  ballast-heaver. 
Just  before  that  I  came  to  this  country.  When 
I  came  I  got  to  be  a  lodger  with  a  foreman  to 
a  publican.  I  paid  him  2j.  ^d,  a- week.  My 
family,  a  wife  and  two  children,  came  over 
when  I  had  got  work  as  a  ballast-heaver.  I 
couldn't  take  them  to  the  lodgings  I  then 
had ;  they  were  all  for  single  men :  so  I  had  to 
take  another  place,  and  there  I  went  to  live 
with  my  family ;  but  to  keep  my  work  I  had 
to  pay  the  foreman  of  the  publican  —  him 
that  lets  these  lodgings  to  the  ballast-heaver — 
2«.  6d.  a-week  all  the  same  as  if  I  had  been 
living  there.  That  I  had,  and  I  had  to  do  it 
for  two  years.  Yes,  indeed.  I  didn't  earn 
enough  to  pay  for  two  lodgings,  so  two  or 
three  months  back  I  refused  to  pay  the  2s.  Qd, 
a-week  for  a  place  I  hadn't  set  my  foot  in  for 
two  years,  and  so  I  lost  my  work  under  that 
foreman  and  his  publican.  If  me  and  my 
children  was  starving  for  want  of  a  bite  of 
bread,  neither  of  them  would  give  mo  a  far- 
thing. There's  plenty  as  bad  as  them,  too, 
and  plenty  used  like  me,  and  it's  a  mur- 
dering shame  to  tax  poor  men's  labour  for 
nothing.'* 

This  man  reiterated  the  constant  story  of 
being  compelled  to  drink  against  his  will, 
hating  the  stuff  supplied  to  him,  being 
kept  for  hours  waiting  before  he  was  paid, 
and  being  forced  to  get  drunk,  whether  he 
would  or  no.  .The  man  also  informed  me 
that  he  now  works  under  a  butcher,  who 


pays  8s.  a  score  to  the  hands  he  employs, 
he  (the  butcher)  receiving  from  the  captain 
10s. 

"  Suppose,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  00-ton  job, 
I'd  be  entitled  to  7s.  %d,  without  beer,  or 
such-like ;  but  under  this  butcher  I  get  only 
5s.  3<i.,  and  out  of  that  5s.  d<i.— that's  all  I 
get  in  hard  money  —  I'm  expected  to  spend 
4s.  or  thereabouts  in  meat,  such  as  he  chooses 
to  give.  I  have  no  choice;  he  gives  what 
he  likes,  and  charges  me  Of<i.  a-pound  for 
what  I  could  buy  at  A.d,  in  a  regular  way. 
Very  inferior  stuff  he  keeps.  Working  under 
a  butcher,  we  must  ail  live  on  this  poor  meat 
We  can't  afford  bread  or  vegetables  to  it." 

This  same  butcher,  I  was  afterwards  in- 
formed, had  been  twice  fined  for  using  false 
weights  to  customers,  such  as  the  man  whose 
statement  I  have  given;  he  even  used  wooden 
weights  made  to  look  like  lead. 

The  following  is  an  instance  of  the  injustice 
done  to  the  men  by  those  who  contract  to 
whip  rather  than  to  heave  the  ballast  on 
board. 

"  I  now  work,"  said  the  man,  whom  I  was 
referred  to  as  an  exponent  of  the  wrong,  "  for 

Mr. ,  a  publican  who  contracts  to  supply 

ships  with  ballast  by  the  lump.  Hell  con- 
tract to  supply  a  ship  with  edl  the  ballast 
she'll  want  by  the  lump — that  is,  so  much 
money  for  all  she  wants,  instead  of  so  much 
by  the  ton ;  or  he  may  contract  with  a  ship 
at  2s.  Qd,  a- ton.  We — that  is  a  gang  of 
eight  men — may  put  two  loads  or  120  tons 
on  board  in  the  course  of  a  day.  For  those 
120  tons  he  will  receive  120  half-crowns, 
that's  15/.  For  putting  in  those  120  tons  we — 
that  is,  the  eight  ballast-heavers  employed — 
receive  2s.  Qd.  a-day  of  12  or  14  hours ;  that 
is  8  half-crowns  or  20  shillings,  with  3s.  6</. 
a-day  for  a  basket-man,  in  addition  to  the 
eight,  so  leaving  the  publican  a  profit  of 
13/.  10s.  0</."  I  could  hardly  believe  in  the 
existence  of  such  a  system — yielding  a  mere 
pittance  to  the  labourer,  and  such  an  enor- 
mous profit  to  the  contractor,  and  I  inquired 
further  into  the  matter.  I  found  the  state- 
ment flilly  corroborated  by  many  persons  pre- 
sent ;  but  that  was  not  all  I  learned.  When 
the  men,  by  incessant  exertion,  get  in  120  tons 
in  a  day,  as  they  often  do,  nothing  is  charged 
them  for  the  beer  they  have  had,  four  or  five 
pints  a-day  each ;  but  if  only  60  tons  be  got 
in,  as  sometimes  happens,  through  the  wea- 
ther and  other  circumstances,  then  the  men 
employed  on  the  half-a-crown  a-day  must  pay 
for  their  own  beer  and  pay  their  private  scores 
for  treating  a  friend,  or  the  like.  "  There's  no 
chance  of  a  job,"  said  my  informant ;  "  not  a 
bit  of  it."  He  continued  :  *•  Very  bad  drink  it 
is  —  the  worst — it  makes  me  as  sick  as  a  dog. 
There's  two  brothers  there  what  they  cidl 
blood-hounds ;  they're  called  so  because  they 
hunt  up  the  poor  men  to  get  them  to  work, 
and  to  see  that  they  spend  their  money  at 
their  employer's  public -house  when  work's 


280 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


done.  If  you  don't  spend  somethinff,  no  bread 
to  cut  the  next  morning — ^not  a  bit  of  it — 
and  no  chance  of  another  job  there.  He 
employs  us  ballast-heaTers,  when  we  are  not 
at  the  ballast,  in  backing  coals  into  the 
steamers." 

I  have  given  the  statement  of  a  ballast- 
heaver  as  to  the  system  pursued  by  those 
whom  he  called  basket-men.  The  employer 
here  alluded  to  is  one  of  that  cla.ss,  the  dif- 
ference being,  that  the  ballast-heavers  shovel 
the  ballast  out  of  the  lighter  on  to  the  stage, 
and  from  the  stage  through  a  port-hole  into 
the  hold.  Four  men  are  thus  employed,  two 
on  the  lighter,  and  two  on  the  stage.  "With  a 
large  ship  five  men  are  employed,  and  two 
stages.  When  the  basket-man  or  the  man 
contracting  by  the  lump  is  employed,  this 
process  is  observed : — There  are  two  men  in 
the  lighter  alongside  the  vessel  to  be  bal- 
lasted, whose  business  it  is  to  fill  five  baskets. 
There  are  five  men  at  the  winch  aboard 
ship  employed  hea^•ing  up  these  baskets, 
and  a  bosket-man  to  turn  them  over  and 
empty  out  their  contents. 

To  ascertain  that  there  was  no  provident 
fund  —  no  provision  whatever  for  sickness  —  I 
investigated  the  case  of  a  man  who,  in  conse- 
quence of  illness  occasioned  by  his  trade,  was 
afflicted  with  a  pulmonary  complaint  This 
man  was  formerly  one  of  the  wine-cellarmen 
in  the  London  Dock  ;  he  was  then  made  a 
permanent  man  at  the  St.  Katherine's  Dock, 
and  was  dismissed  for  having  taken  a  lighted 
pipe  in  while  at  his  work;  and  for  the  last 
fourteen  years  and  upwards  he  has  been  a 
baUast-heaver.  I  now  give  his  wife's  state- 
ment : — **  My  husband  has  been  ill  for  three 
months,  and  he  has  been  six  weeks  in  Guy's 
Hospital,  and  I  am  afraid  hell  never  get 
i  out  again,  for  he  kept  up  as  long  as  ho  could 
for  the  sake  of  the  children.  We  have  five  at 
home;  one  of  them  (twelve  years  old)  I  hope 
to  get  to  sea,  having  two  older  sons  at  sea, 
and  being  the  mother  of  twelve  children  alto- 
gether. I  will  tell  vou  what  led  to  my  poor 
husband's  illness ;  ne  was  a  kind  husband  to 
me.  I  consider  it  was  his  hard  work  that 
made  him  ill,  and  his  not  getting  his  rights — 
not  his  money  when  entitled  to  it.  After 
doing  a  heavy  day's  work  he  had  to  go  and  sit 
in  a  cold  taproom,  drinking  bad  beer ;  but  it 
wasn't  beer — murk,  I  call  it — and  he  had  to 
wait  to  be  paid,  ay,  and  might  have  had  to 
wait  till  the  day  after,  and  then  come  home 
cold  and  have  to  go  to  bed  without  a  bit  of 
victuals.  His  illness  is  owing  to  that;  no 
horse  could  stand  it  long.  Ballast-men  are 
worse  than  slaves  in  the  West  Indies.  When 
at  work  he  earned  what  the  others  did.  He 
only  drank  what  he  couldn't  help — the  worst 
of  stuff.  No  drink,  no  work.  Six  weeks  ago 
she  went  to  the  hospital,  I  conveying  him. 
When  I  rrtumed  home  I  found  three  strange 
men  had  turned  my  four  children  into  tlie 
street,  doing  it  in  a  brutal  way.    I  rushed 


into  the  house,  and  one  said,  <  Who  are  you?' 
I  seized  the  fellow  who  said  this  by  the  hand 
kerchief,  and  put  him  out  One  of  them  said. 
*  Be  off,  you  old  Irish  bag,  you  have  no  busi- 
ness here ;  we  have  possession.*  When  I  saw 
the  children  in  the  street,  passion  made  me 
strong,  and  so  I  put  him  out  The  collector 
of  the  rent,  who  employed  the  broker,  is  a 
publican,  for  whom  my  husband  worked  as 
a  ballast-heaver  tmtil  he  was  unable  to  wock 
from  illness.  I  was  given  into  custody  for  an 
assault,  and  taken  before  Mr.  Yardley.  He 
considered  the  assault  proved,  and  as  an 
honest  woman  I  couldnt  deny  it,  and  so  I  had 
fourteen  days  with  bread  and  water.  The 
children  were  placed  in  the  workhouse,  where 
they  were  well  treated.  I  was  very  glad  they 
were  so  taken  care  of.  As  soon  as  I  got 
out  I  went  to  see  about  my  children;  ^at 
was  the  first  thing  I  did.  I  couldn't  rest  till 
I  did  that  I  brought  them  home  with  me, 
though  it  was  only  to  bread  and  water,  but  I 
was  with  them.  I  only  owed  about  19<.  rent, 
and  had  been  four  years  in  the  house  at  the 
time  the  publican  put  the  broker  in.  We 
paid  6<.  td,  a- week ;  it  wa^  no  use  asking 
such  a  man  as  that  any  mercy.  He  was  in 
the  habit  of  employing  ballast-heavers  for 
many  years;  and  if  that  doesn't  harden  a 
man's  heart,  nothing  will.  In  general  these 
ballast  publicans  are  cruel  and  greedy.  At 
present  I  go  out  washing  or  charing,  or  doing 
anything  I  can  to  maintain  my  children,  but 
work's  very  slack.  I've  had  a  day  and  a-half  this 
fortnight  earning  2s.  6<^.,  that's  all  for  a  fort- 
night; the  parish  allows  me  four  loaves  of 
bread  a -week.  The  children,  all  boys,  just 
get  what  keeps  a  little  life  in  them.  Thej 
have  no  bed  at  night,  and  are  stan-ed  almost 
to  death,  poor  things.  I  blame  the  system 
under  which  my  husband  hod  to  work — hi* 
money  going  in  drink — for  leaving  me  desti- 
tute in  the  world.  On  Christmas-oay  we  lived 
on  a  bit  of  workhouse  bread  — nothing  else, 
and  had  no  fire  to  eat  it  by.  But  for  the 
money  gone  in  drink  we  might  have  had  a 
decent  home,  and  wouldn't  so  soon  have  come 
to  this  killing  poverty.  I  have  been  tenderly 
reared,  and  never  thought  I  should  have  come 
to  this.  May  God  grant  the  system  may  be 
done  away  with,  for  poor  people's  sake.** 

I  now  give  the  statement  of  two  women,  the 
wives  of  ballast-heavers,  that  I  may  fdither 
show  how  the  wives  and  families  of  these  men 
are  affected  by  the  present  system, 

"  I  have  been  11  years  married,**  said  one, 
*'  and  have  had  five  children,  four  being  now 
living." 

The  other  wojnan  had  been  married  23  years, 
but  has  no  children  living. 

"  Wo  are  very  badly  off,"  said  the  woman  with 
a  family,  "  my  husband  drinking  hard.  Wlien 
I  first  knew  him — ^when  we  were  sweethearts  in 
a  country  part  of  Ireland — he  was  a  farm- 
labourer  and  I  was  a  collier's  daughter,  he  wis 
a  sober  and  well-behaved  man.  Two  years  after 


LOKDOir  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


281 


VB  vere  mazried,  and  he  was  a  sober  man  those 
tvo  yean  stilL  We  came  to  London  to  better 
onnelTea,  worse  Inck.  The  first  work  he  got 
was  hallast-heaYing.  Then  he  was  obligated 
to  drink  or  he  couldn't  get  work ;  and  so,  poor 
nan,  he  got  fond  of  it.  This  winter  oft  enough 
he  brings  me  and  the  children  home  Zs.  or 
Is.  6^  after  a  job ;  and  on  that  we  may  live 
for  two  or  three  days, — we're  half  starved,  in 
coime.  The  children  have  nothing  to  eat. 
If  a  enongh  to  tear  any  poor  woman's  heart  to 
pieces.  What's  gone  into  the  publican's  till 
would  get  Uie  children  bread,  and  bedding. 
and  bits  of  clothes.  Nothing  but  his  being 
employed  at  ballast-heaving  made  him  a 
drunkard,  for  he  <«  a  drunkard  now.  He  often 
comes  home  and  ill-uses  me,  but  he  doesn't  ill- 
use  the  childr^i.  He  beats  me  with  his  fists ; 
he  strikes  me  in  the  face ;  he  has  kicked  me. 
When  he  was  a  sober  man  he  was  a  kind,  good 
husband ;  and  when  he's  sober  now,  poor  man, 
he's  a  kind,  good  husband  still.  If  he  was  a 
sober  man  again  with  his  work,  Td  be  happy 
md  eomfiiftable  to  what  I  am  now.  Almost 
all  his  money  goes  in  drink." 

**  We  can't  get  shoes  to  our  feet,"  said  the 
•eoond  woman. 

••When  my  husband  is  sober  and  begins  to 
thmk,"  (continued  the  first,)  **he  wishes  he 
could  get  rid  of  such  a  system  of  drinking, — 
he  really  does  wish  it,  for  he  loves  his  family, 
but  when  he  goes  out  to  work  he  forgets  adl 
that  iVa  just  the  drink  that  does  it.  I  would 
like  him  to  have  a  fair  allowance  at  his  work, 
herequireeit;  and  beyond  that  it's  all  waste 
and  sin :  but  he's  fbroed  to  waste  it,  and  to  run 
into  sin,  and  so  we  all  have  to  suffer.  We  are 
often  without  fire.  Much  in  the  pawn-shop 
do  yoa  say,  sir?  Indeed  I  haven't  much 
oof 

*  We,"  interposed  the  elder  woman,  "haven't 
a  stitah  bat  what's  in  pawn  except  what  wouldn't 
be  taken.  We  have  6O5.  worth  in  pawn  al- 
together— all  for  meat  and  fire." 

**  I  can't,  I  daren't,"  the  younger  woman  said, 
"expect  anything  better  while  the  present 
sjstem  of  woric  continues.  My  husband's  a 
dave,  and  we  suffer  for  it" 

The  elder  woman  made  a  similar  statement. 
After  his  score  is  i^aid,  she  said,  her  husband 
hsfl  brought  her  4j.,  3s.,  2s.,  Is.,  and  often 
nothing,  coming  home  drunk  witli  nothing 
at  all.  Both  women  stated  that  the  drink 
made  their  husbands  sick  and  ill,  and  for 
sickness  there  was  no  provision  whatever. 
They  could  have  taken  me  to  numbers  of^ 
women  situated  and  used  as  they  were.  The 
rooms  are  four  bare  walls,  with  a  few  pieces 
of  furniture  and  bedding  such  as  no  one  would 
give  a  penny  for.  The  young  woman  was 
perfectly  modest  in  manner,  speech,  and  look, 
and  spoke  of  what  her  husband  was  and  still 
might  be  with  much  feeling.  She  came  to  me 
with  a  half-dad  and  half-famished  child  in 
her  arms. 
I  then  took,  for  the  sake  of  avoiding  repe- 


tition, the  statements  of  two  ballast-heavers 
together — constant  men — working  under  dif- 
ferent publicans.  The  account  they  gave  me 
of  the  way  in  which  the  publicans  contracted 
to  ballast  a  ship  was  the  same  as  I  have  given 
elsewhere. 

"  I  have  been  twenty  years  a  ballast-heaver," 
said  one,  "  and  all  that  time  I  have  worked 
for  a  publican,  and  haven't  a  coat  to  my  back. 
Twenty  years  ago  the  publicans  had  the  same 
number  of  hands,  but  had  more  work  for 
them,  and  I  might  then  earn  20s.  a-week; 
but  I  couldn't  fetch  that  home  from  the  pub- 
lican. He  expected  me  to  spend  one-half  of 
my  earnings  with  him ;  and  when  I  left  his 
house  dnink,  I  might  spend  the  other  half. 
I've  dnmk  gallons  of  diink  against  my  will. 
I've  drunk  stuff  that  was  poison  to  me.  I 
turned  teetotaler  about  six  months  ago,  and 
the  publican,  my  employer,  sacked  mo  when 

he  found  it  out,  saying,  *  He'd  be  d d  if 

he'd  have  such  mon  as  mo — he  didn't  make 
his  living  by  teetotalers.' " 

**  Yes,"  added  the  other  man,  "  and  so  my 
publican  told  me  ;  for  I  turned  teetotaler  my- 
self somewhere  about  sevon  years  ago,  and 
took  the  pledge  from  Father  Mathcw  in  the 
Commeraal-road.  The  publican  told  me,  that 
if  Father  Mathew  chose  to  interfere  with 
me,  why  Father  Mathew  might  get  employ- 
ment for  me,  for  he — that's  the  publican- — 
wouldn't.  So  I  was  forced  to  break  my  pledge 
to  live — me  and  my  youngsters — I  had  six 
then,  and  I've  buried  two  since." 

**  Work,"  resumed  the  man  who  first  gave 
me  the  statement,  "  keeps  getting  worse.  Last 
week  I  carried  only  85.  home,  and  if  I'd  got 
paid  by  the  captain  of  the  ship  for  the 
amount  of  work  I  did,  and  on  tlie  same  terms 
as  the  publican,  I  should  have  taken  home 
at  the  very  least  16s.  The  publican  that 
employs  us  gives  us  only  8s.  a-score,  and 
receives  10s.  from  the  captain.  All  the  pub- 
licans don't  do  this ;  some  give  what  they  get 
firom  the  captain,  but  some  publicans  takes 
two-thirds,  and  that's  the  truth.  (The  second 
man  sissentod.)  One  week  with  another  I've 
taken  homo,  this  winter,  fVora  12s.  to  13s., 
and  but  for  this  shameful  starvation  system, 
having  to  work  for  a  publican's  profit,  and  to 
drink  his  drink,  I'd  take  home  my  20s.  every 
week.  It  makes  a  man  feel  like  a  slave  ;  in- 
deed, Pm  not  much  better.  We  should  be 
in  heaven  if  we  got  away  from  the  publican 
or  butcher  either;  it's  compulsion  one's  life 
through.  Some  of  the  publicans  have  as  many 
as  sixty  single  men  lodging  in  their  houses, 
paying  half-a  crown  a-week ;  ay,  and  men 
that  don't  lodge  with  thcra,  when  the  house  is 
full,  must  pay  half-a-crown  all  the  same,  to 
get  a  job  of  work,  as  well  as  paying  for  the 
places  where  they  do  lodge." 

The  first  man  continued : — 

"  The  gin  and  rum  is  the  worst  that  can 
be  supplied ;  but  we  must  drink  it  or  waste 
it.      We  often  spill  it  on   the   ballast,  it's 


280 

done.  If  you  dn^** 
to  oat  the  ne* 
and  no  char 
employs  nil  * 
at  the   baJ' 
ateamen." 
I  haTT 
heaver 


LmmowL^^ 


^M^Jxm^ooB. 


^0^>Mft^  ^'  The  Ugger  room  may  be  1 6  feet 

,:i  '■^^  j*^jfJO;  tha  amaller  i£out  a  quarter  that  size. 

''  '  '^l^^f^  eamiot  torn  in  it — the  bed  cannot  be 


;  ,AV 


..gS^2^r&w.urd 

:V-./V*£j   "When we 
**^~'  ittiff  without 


'^ftS 


'      /**"        *^«^  to  put  my  aticlca    m 

'^'rn  *^f^«d  Jeft — for  1  was  beUer 

•j^  9^ A I  iras  always  a  ballast- heaver 

Jjf^^  '^SSd  f*>'  *^®  **"*  publican  four- 

^'  "  "  bl^ue 

off- 

^CJif  »an,  a  lodger,  will  go  into  a  pub^ 
i^W^j  call  for  1«.  wortli  of  rum,   and 
i^^fjican  will  call  me  a  Kcoly  fellow;  if  1 
***/jo  tlie  same;    tliat  will   be  when   Vd 
'Slor  he  without  his  rum,  if  I  got  it  for 
'^jiDg."    One  publican  (the  men  gave  me 
^j  account  concurreutly,  oud  it  was  (nUy 
^pgnned  by  a  host  of  others,)  married  the 
fiifce  of  a  waterman   employed  to  pull  the 
liifbour- master  about  the  river.    He  kept  a 
Aublic -house,  and  carried  on  the  system  of 
jOHJKt!r9  for  ballast-heaving,  making  a  great 
dea]  of  money  out  of  them  ;  by  tliis  means  he 
gut  BO  much  work  at  his  command,  that  the 
re^t  of  the  publicans  complained  to  the  har- 
bour-master, and  the  man  was  forced  to  give 
up  Ills  public-bouse.    When  he  had  to  give  it 
up  be  mode  it  over  to  his  niece's  husband, 
anil  til  At  man  allowed  him  It.  for  evci^'  ship 
he  brought  him  to  ballast.    I've  known  him — 
tlint'^  the  publican  that  succeeded  the  man 
I've  b^en  telling  you  of — liave  40  ships  in  a 
day :  one  week  witli  another  he  has  had  100 
sbipA ;  that's  T)/.,  and  he  has  them  still.     It's 
the  sajjie  now.    We've  both  worked  for  him. 
Hid  w Lie's  uiu-le  (tlio  hai'bour-master's  water- 
man) says   to  the  captains,  and  he  goes  on 
bnojxl  to  see  tliem  after  tlie  harbour-master's 

visit  to  thorn,— Go  to ;  get  your  ballast  of 

liiiiit  ami  I'll  give  you  the  best  berth  in  the 
liver.'' 

I  tioxt  obtained  an  inti^rview  with  a  young 
Tiiim  who  was  the  \ietlm  of  a  double  extortion. 
He  made  the  following  statement: — 

**  1  work  undor  a  publican,  and  lodge  in  his 
house.  I  have  done  so  for  five  yeai*s.  I  pay 
sjji.  iUL  a-wrek,  there  being  ten  of  us  in  two 
rooinii.  We're  all  single  men.  These  two 
riHinis  con  t  nil)  four  beds,  tlireo  in  the  larger 
ruiim  Rn ..I  one  in  the  other.  Wo  sleep  two  in  a 
bed^  Aiid  should  have  to  sleep  three  in  some; 
only  two  of  the  men  don't  occupy  the  lodgings 


"  "^I^  **'^  mnuN  mm  in  ii — me  oea  cannoi  oe 
?  «^^p]  teoii|Eht  out  of  the  room  without  being  taken 
/."'^'TiT/to  inacea.  We  must  cook  in  the  tap-room, 
whuh  Is  a  room  for  the  purpose ;  it  eontaina 
fonna  and  an  old  table,  with  a  large  grate. 
We  are  found  fryingpans  and  gridirons,  and 
pans,  and  lire,  and  candle ;  but  we  must  find 
our  own  knives  and  forks.  The  room  is 
shameftiUy  dirty — I  mean  the  tap  (cooking) 
room.  It  looks  as  if  it  hailn't  been  washed 
for  years.  It's  never  been  washed  to  my  know- 
ledge. The  bed-rooms  are  veiy  little  better. 
The  bedding  is  very  bad — a  flock  bed,  with  a 
pair  of  blankets  and  quilt,  and  a  sort  of  sheet 
clean  once  a-fortnight.  There's  very  bad  ven- 
tilation and  very  unpleasant  smells.  It's  a 
horrid  den  altogether.  None  of  us  would  stop 
tliere  if  we  could  help  it — but  we  cant  help 
it,  for  if  we  leave  we  get  no  work.  We  are 
forced  to  find  locks  for  our  rooms,  to  keep  onr 
bits  of  things  fh)m  being  stolen.  One  man 
was  robbed ;  my  clothes  was  in  the  box  with 
his ;  the  box  was  broken  open,  but  the  clothes 
was  left,  and  a  few  halfpence  put  away  in  the 
box  was  taken.  There's  lota  of  bugs ;  we  can 
only  sleep  after  hard  work,  and  we  must  drink 
when  we're  at  work.  I've  poured  my  beer 
into  the  river  many  a  time,  it  was  so  bad — it 
tasted  poisonous.  We've  drank  Thames  water 
rather  than  the  bad  beer  we're  all  forced  to 
drink.  To  show  how  we're  treated  I'll  tell  yo« 
this :  I  owe  so  much,  and  so  much  a  weets 
stopped  to  pay  it ;  but  it  noTer  gets  less,  I  am 
always  charged  the  same.  There  it  is.  the 
same  figures  are  on  the  slate,  keep  paying, 
paying  otf  as  you  will.  They  won't  rub  it  ott, 
or  if  they  do  rub  it  off  it's  there  again  the 
next  time.  Only  last  week  a  man  was  dis- 
charged for  grumbling,  because  he  objected 
to  paying  twice  over.  He  hasn't  had  a  daf§ 
work  since." 

Then  came  one  who  was  the  emploj/4  of 
a  publican  and  grocer.    He  said : 

**  I  work  under  a  publican  and  giooer.  Pm 
any  man's  man.  I  stand  with  my  fingers  in 
my  mouth  at  Ratchff-crosa  watching,  and  have 
done  it  these  last  nine  years.  Half  of  us  is 
afraid  to  come  and  speak  to  yon.  When  I 
volunteered,  the  big-whiskered  and  fat-faced 
men  (foremen)  were  looking  at  me  and 
threatening  me  for  coming  to  you.  No  matter, 
I  care  for  nobody.  Worse  nor  I  am  I  can't 
be.  No  more  I  can't.  I  go  to  one  publican's 
to  work  TiO  tons,  and  for  that  I  get  4s.,  but  Os. 
is  my  rights.  The  remainder  3«.  is  left — I'm 
forced  to  leave  it — for  me  to  drink  out  on 
Sunday  night  If  I  was  in  a  fair  house  the 
publican  would  pay  me  7$.  Qd;  as  it  is  I  get 
•is,  and  2$,  must  be  dnmk, — it's  the  rule  at 
that  house — he's  in  opposition  and  works  low. 
If  I  was  at  liberty  it  wasn't  to  his  house  I'd 
go  for  a  drink.  The  hardest-drinking  niin 
gets  work  first,  and  when  a  man's  drunk  be 
doesn't  care  what  stuff  he  puts  into  his  beUy. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


2»8 


re  go  to  a  job  the  four  of  ns  are 

to  drink  half-a-pint  of  rum  or  gin ; 
.cans  expect  it.  If  I  was  a  teetotaler 
ay  my  whack  and  the  other  men  may 

for  the  score  against  the  ship  is 
mong  the  men  equal. 
>ose  two  foremen  were  to  meet  and 
Irop  of  rum  or  brandy  together,  and 
talk  about  a  ship's  ballast,  that's 
to  us  poor  fallows — it's  stuck  up  to 

we  mustn't  say  nothing,  though  wc 

never  had  a  sup  of  it;  but  if  we  say 
,'8  all  up — no  more  work. 
3  on  a  time  I  worked  for  a  publican 
here,  and  when  I  came  to  the  house 
lOthing  to  drink.  My  oldest  mate 
d  to  me    as    we  were  on  our  wny 

London  Dock,  and  told  me  to  speak 
1,  for  he  knew  there  was  a  Mse 
iked -against  the  ship ;  and  the  others 
id  to  say  a  word.  Well,  I  did  speak 
^t  into  the  house,  and  the  foreman 
e»  and  he  asked  me  what  business  I 
leak  more  than  another  ?  There  was 
ed  to  the  score  for  drink  that  we  never 
or  ever  saw, — not  a  sup  of  it.  He — 
e  foreman — told  me  I  shouldn't  go 
the  ship ;  I  said  I  would,  in  spite  of 
>Ld  the  missus  I  expected  she  wouldn't 
'  more  drink  but  what  we  had  our- 
r  would  get  when  we  came  home;  and 

she  wouldn't;  and  that's  two  years 
i  I  haven't  had  a  job  from  them 
inoe. 

x>8e  I  get  to  the  public-house  for 
ay  at  six  in  the  evening,  I  am  forced 
there  till  eleven,  until  I  am  drunk 
m— drunk  from  vexation ;  stopt  when 
gry  after  five  or  six  hours'  work  on 
V  and  not  let  take  the  money  home  to 
and  family,  nor  let  have  anything  to 
I'm  waiting  for  that  money  to  get  a 
Tib;  but  when  I'm  half  drunk  the 
roes  off  just  for  a  time.  I  must  go 
kin  a  morning  if  my  children  go  with- 
Ji&st,  and  starve  all  day  till  I  come 

night.  I  can  get  nothing  from  my 
n  but  drink.  If  I  ask  Uiem  for  a 
I  can't  get  it.  I've  finished  my  load 
t  without  breaking  my  fast  but  on  the 
re  forced  to  take  with  us. 

found  grocers  better  to  work  under 
blicansi—there's  a  great  deal  more 

in  them.  They  charge  a  middling 
9;  but  they'll  have  tow-row  out  of  it, 
irj  money — so  much  a  score.  They'll 
a  score  only  for  giving  us  a  job.  I 
IS  good  sugar  as  I  get  of  them  at  ^d. 
;  but  then  the  difference  between  the 
ind  publican  is,  that  the  wife  and 
in  have  a  bit  of  somethiog  to  eat  under 
«r,  but  not  under  the  publican.  All 
brink  witli  the  publican ;  but  we  cannot 
ink  home.  When  I  go  home  drunk 
e  publican's,  I  tumble  on  the  floor, 
,  and  say,  'Is  there  anything  to  eat 


for  me  V  and  my  old  woman  says,  *  Where's 
the  money?  give  me  that  and  I'll  give  you 
something  to  eat.'  Then  a  man  gets  mad  with 
vexation,  and  the  wife  and  children  runs  away 
from  him;  they  are  glad  to  get  away  with 
their  lives,  they're  knocked  about  so.  It 
makes  a  man  mad  with  vexation  to  see  a  child 
hungry, —  it  kills  me;  but  what  the  foreman 
prives  me  I  must  take;  I  dare  never  say  no. 
If  I  get  nothing — if  all  is  gone  in  drink  — 
I  must  go  from  him  with  a  blithe  face  to  my 
starving  children,  or  I  need  never  go  back  to 
him  for  another  job.'* 

I  shall  now  set  forth  as  fully  as  possible  the 
nature  of  the  system  by  which  the  bollost- 
heaver  is  either  forced  by  the  fear  of  losing 
all  chance  of  future  employment,  or  induced 
by  the  hope  of  obtaining  the  preference  of 
work  fVoni  the  publican,  his  employer,  to 
spend  at  least  one  half  of  his  earnings  every 
week  in  intoxicating  drinks.  Let  me,  how- 
ever, before  proceeding  directly  to  the  sub- 
ject of  my  present  communication,  again  lay 
before  the  reader  the  conclusions  which  I 
lately  drew  from  the  Metropolitan  Police  re- 
turns for  1848,  concerning  the  intemperance 
of  the  labouring  classes  of  London.  It  is 
essential  tliat  I  should  first  prove  the  fact, 
and  show  its  necessary  consequences.  This 
done,  the  public  will  be  more  ready  to  per- 
ceive the  cause,  and  to  understand  that  until 
this  and  similar  social  evils  are  removed, 
it  is  worse  than  idle  to  talk  of  **  the  elevation 
of  the  masses,"  and  most  unjust,  to  use  the 
mildest  term,  to  condemn  the  working  men  for 
sins  into  which  they  are  positively  forced.  To 
preach  about  the  virtues  of  teetotalism  to  the 
poor,  and  yet  to  allow  a  system  to  continue 
that  compels  them  to  be  drunk  before  they 
can  get  work — not  to  say  bread — is  surely  a 
mockery.  If  we  would  really  have  the  indus- 
trious classes  sober  and  temperate  men,  we 
must  look  first,  it  seems,  to  flieir  employers. 
We  have  already  seen  that  the  intemperance 
of  the  coal-labourer  is  the  fault  of  the  employer, 
rather  than  the  man ;  but  we  have  only  to  go 
among  the  ballast-labourers  to  find  the  demo- 
ralization of  the  working  man  arising,  not 
from  any  mere  passive  indifference,  but  from 
something  like  a  positive  conspiracy  on  the 
part  of  the  master. 

According  to  the  criminal  returns  for  the 
metropolis,  there  were  9197  males  and  7204 
females,  making  altogether  a  total  of  10,461 
individuals,  charged  with  drunkenness  in  the 
year  1848.  This  makes  one  in  every  110  in- 
dividuals in  London  a  drunkard— a  proportion 
which,  large  as  it  seems,  is  still  less  than  one- 
half  what  it  was  some  ten  or  fifteen  years 
back. 

For  the  sake  of  comparison  I  subjoin,  in 
the  following  page,  a  Table,  taken  Amm  the 
Government  Report  on  Drunkenness ;  being  a 
return  of  the  number  of  charges  of  drunken- 
ness which  have  been  entered  upon  the  books 
of  the  Metropolitan  Police  in  the  years  1831, 


4S4 


LONJJON  LAbOVH  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


lis 

111 


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OOCOr-li-iedOOCOi-ICtMi-l 


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oo  m  «D  m  00 


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o  cr  c*  c^  fc«  db 


O  Oi  »«  m 
p-4  fh  eo  «3 
Of  eo  iH 


CO  355»,o»  '=l^°l'T.''l^ 


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00  t«  HI 

*^  c»  <p 


ctoi^^eoaococa^^rHocot^oeo^^b* 

C*C0»-^C«CO00OIClOIOIrH' 


CO  rH  O  Q  »^  fc*  O 
1(  CO  O  iS  O  1-f  •!• 
9«»  OD  O  CO  OC   O  HI 


S  S 


Si 


W     rH      iM 
CM     rH     1-4     cT     cf    iH     »-^     rH     ^    iH 


■(►•^OiOr^ooeoeoo?* 

OgOGDt-OQ^i-lQr-l         O 

3^edio-««»-45io«Dooc<      c5 


S  ^  S  3  S 

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8     0     fc*     I-     o     o 
o    ei    C9    t*    o 

C<     00     iH     i*      b     lO 


fc»     ^      -H 

eo    o    €» 

rH      00 


Hiioctooi^c«^^e^ao^:.«aoo«eoo^c» 


h;  «  d  Q  p4  pm*  6  a  ui  i4  a  Jz5  p;  p4  «5  H  > 


LOSDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


3851 


IfUIS,  and  IIV^I,  with  the  ntunber  of  offirors 
employed  in,  and  the  locality  of,  each  din- 
flion :  also  the  amoont  of  population  in  each, 
ar<N9rding'  to    the   Parliamentary  returns  of 

Now,  eomporing  these  returns  with  thoHe  of 
tlic  year  before  last,  we  find  that  the  drcrease 
of  intemperance  in  the  metropolis  bnn  been 
Dinut  eztraiirdinary.  In  thu  yoor  IH:)],  1  in 
every  48  individuals  was  drunk;  in  iH:^2  the 
number  increased  to  1  iu  Hi;  whereas  in 
It^a  it  decreased  to  1  in  50 ;  and  in  1H48 
the  average  had  again  fallt>n  to  1  individual 
to  every  110.  This  decrease  of  intouiperance 
wa«  attended  with  a  similar  decrease  in  the 
number  of  metropolitan  beer-shops.  In  lU^iO 
there  were  11H2,  and  in  1848  only  77U  beer- 
shops  in  London.  Whether  this  decn^ase 
preceded  or  succeeded,  and  so  was  tlie  cause 
or  the  conseq-ience  of  tlie  increasetl  sobriety 
of  tlie  prtople,  it  is  dithcult  U*  say.  The  num- 
ber of  public  hooses  in  London,  however,  hod, 
increft.<«ed  during  the  same  period  from  4073 
to  4'27d.  Upon  the  cause  and  elTect  of  this  I 
l«Hv.'  others  to  specuLue. 

Of  the  total,  16,461  persons,  male  aud  ftmale, 
irLt>  were  charged  with  being  intoxicated  in 
the  year  184H,  no  less  than  one  individual  in 
every  seven  belonged  to  the  labouring  class : 
anil,  excluding  the  females  from  the  number, 
■w  !»h*dl  tind  that,  of  the  males,  every  fourth 
iodividuol  that  was  taken  up  fur  drunkenness 
was  a  labouring  man.  Taking  the  whole  pu- 
palation  of  London,  temperate  and  intemper- 
ate, (m1y  1  in  every  110  is  a  dnmkord;  but 
vitii  the  labooring  classes  the  average  is  as 
hiffh  as  1  in  every  22.  Of  course,  where  llic 
habit  of  drinking  is  excessive,  we  may  expect 
to  liiiil  also  excessive  iJu-^nocity.  That  it  is 
the  t'fudency  of  all  iutoxicaling  liquors  to 
incR'ase  the  irritability  of  the  individual  is 
■ffcU  known.  We  might  infer  therefore,  a 
frlorit  tliat  the  greater  numl)er  of  common 
assaults  wotUd  be  committed  by  tlie  greatest 
(Inmkords.  In  1S4«  there  were  7780  indivi- 
duals assaulted  in  London,  and  nearly  one- 
fourth  of  these,  or  18H2,  were  attacked  by 
lal>ouring  men,  one  in  ever}'  26  of  the  entire 
body  of  labourers  baring  been  charged  with 
this' offence.  The  "  simple  larceny,"  of  which 
the  labonring  classes  appear,  by  the  same  re- 
tnms,  to  be  more  guilty  than  ony  other  body 
of  indiridnals,  is  also  explained  by  their  inor- 
dinate intemperance.  When  a  man's  b«)dily 
energy  is  destroyed  by  drink,  laboiu:  is  so 
irksome  to  him  that  he  would  sooner  peril 
his  liberty  than  work.  What  won«Ier,  then, 
that  as  many  as  1  in  everj*  28  labourers  shoubl 
ht  charj<ed  with  theft?  Whereas,  of  the  rest 
of  the  p'»pnlation  there  are  only  1  in  every 
23r;  indivi<lnals.  Thus,  of  the  labouring 
<*1r*<scs,  1  in  every  22  is  chargred  with  being 
drunk;  1  in  every  26  with  c(»mmitting  an 
n«f>.ault;  and  1  in  every  28  with  being  guihy 
of  Mmple  Inrceny. 

For  the  truth  of  tlie  connexion  existing 


I  between  drink,  pugnacity,  and  thefb,  I  wotdd 

refer  to  the  statement  of  one  of  the  most 

I  intelligent  and  experienced  of  the  cool  whip- 

!  pern, —  one,  indeed,  to  whose  unceasing  and 

:  heroic  exHrtions  that  class   principally  owe 

I  their  redemption :  —  **  The  dialdren   of  the 

I  coai-whippers,"  he  told  me,  **  were,  under  the 

old  system,  almost  reared  in  the  tap-room." 

i  He    himself   had    known    as   many   as   500 

I  youths  that  were  transported ;  and  tliis,  be  it 

remembered,  out  of  a  class  numbering   only 

2000  men. 

Such,  then,  are  the  proved  consequences  of 
an  inordinate  use  of  intoxicating  liquors.  It' 
becomes,  therefore,  the  duty  of  every  one  who 
is  anxious  for  the  wull-being  of  the  people,  to 
diminish  tiie  occasions  for  drinking  wherever 
possible.  To  permit  the  continuance  of  cer- 
tain systems  of  employment  and  payment, 
which  ui*o  well  known,  both  t^)  tempt  and 
compel  the  men  to  indulge  in  intoxicating 
liquors,  is  at  once  to  breed  the  very  crimes 
that  it  is  the  otftee  of  Govermnent  to  suppress. 
The  custom  pursued  by  the  cool-merchants  of 
paying  the  labourers  in  tlieir  employ  in  public- 
houses,  as  I  lately  exposed,  api>eared  bad 
enough.  The  ''  backer,"  jaded  and  depressed 
with  his  excessive  work  through  the  day,  was 
ontrappt-d  into  the  publi«%h(mse  in  the  even- 
ing, under  the  pretence  of  receiring  his  wages. 
Once  inside  he  was  kept  waiting  there  hour 
after  hour  by  Uie  publican  (who  of  course 
was  out  of  silver,  and  had  to  send  some  dis- 
tance for  it).  Beer  is  called  for  by  the  men 
in  the  meantime.  Under  the  intiuence  of  the 
stimulant,  the  fatigue  and  the  dejiression 
begin  to  leave  the  labourers,  the  burden  that 
is  still  on  their  bocks  (it  will  be  remembered 
that  such  is  the  description  of  the  men  them- 
selves) is  shaken  off,  and  their  muscles  no 
lon<:jer  ache  and  are  stitf,  but  relax,  while 
their  flagging  spirits  gradually  revive  under 
the  potent  chann  of  the  liquor.  What  wonder, 
then,  that  the  poor  creatures  finding  it  so  easy, 
and  when  the  habit  is  once  formed,  so  pleasant, 
a  cure  for  their  ills,  shoubl  be  led  to  follow  up 
one  draught  with  anoihi-r  and  another?  This 
system  appeared  to  me  to  be  vicious  enough, 
and  to  display  a  callousness  c.n  the  part  of  the 
employers  that  quite  startled  me.  But  the 
system  under  which  the  ballast-labi  hirers  are 
now^  suffering,  is  an  infamy  hardly  to  be 
cri'tlited  as  flourishinji  in  these  days.  I  have, 
tlierefore.  boon  at  considerable  pains  to  estab- 
lish such  a  mass  of  evidence  upon  the  subject 
as  shall  make  all  earnest  men  look  upmi  the 
continuance  of  such  a  system  as  a  nutioncd 
dishonour. 


Meetixo  of  th«  Baixast  Heavehs'  Wives. 

Before  dealing  with  the  Lumpers,  or  those 

who   disehargi*   the   timber  fnmi   ships  —  in 

contnulistinction  to  the  stevedores,  or  those 

'  who  stow  the  cargoes  of  vessels, — 1  will  give 


X'».  LXXL 


2»?0 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR.- 


the  following  report  of  a  meeting  of  the  hallast- 
heavers'  wives.  It  is  the  wife  and  children  who 
arc  the  real  sufferers  from  the  intemperance  of 
.  the  working-man ;  and  being  anxious  to  give 
the  public  some  idea  of  the  amount  of  misery 
entailed  upon  these  poor  creatures  by  the  com- 
pulsory and  induced  drunkenness  of  the  hus- 
bands,  I  requested  as  many  as  could  leave  tlicir 
homes  to  meet  me  at  the  British  and  Foreign 
School,  in  Shakespeare-walk,  Shadwell.  The 
meeting  consisted  of  the  wives  of  ballast 
heavers  and  coal-whippers.  The  wives  of  the 
coal-whippers  had  come  there  to  contrast 
their  present  state  witli  their  past,  with  a  \iow 
of  showing  the  misery  they  had  endured  wlicn 
their  husbands  were  under  the  same  thraldom 
to  the  publican  as  the  ballast-heavers  are  now, 
and  tlie  comparative  happiness  which  they 
have  experienced  since  they  were  freed  from 
it.  They  had  attended  unsolicited,  in  the  hope, 
by  making  their  statements  public,  of  getting 
for  the  bdlast-heavers  the  same  freedom  fVom 
the  control  of  the  publican  which  the  coal- 
whippers  had  obtained. 

The  meeting  consisted  of  the  wives  of 
ballast-heavers  and  coal-whipi)ers,  thirty-one 
were  present.  Of  tlie  thirty-one,  nine  were 
the  wives  of  coal-whippers,  the  remaining 
twenty-two  the  wives  of  ballast-heavers.  Many 
otliers,  who  bad  expressed  a  desire  to  attend, 
were  prevented  by  family  cares  and  arrange- 
ments ;  but,  small  as  the  meeting  was  com- 
paratively, it  aflforded  a  very  fair  representation 
of  the  circumstances  and  characters  of  their 
husbands.  For  instance,  those  who  were 
coal-whippers'  wives  appeared  comfortable  and 
"well  to  do."  They  wore  warm  gowns,  had 
on  winter- bonnets  and  clean  tidy  caps  under- 
neath ;  the  ballast-heavers'  wives,  on  the  con- 
traiy,  were  mostly  ragged,  dejected,  and 
anxious-looking. 

An  endeavour  was  made  to  ascertain  in  the 
first  instance  how  many  children  each  person 
had.  This  was  done  by  questioning  them 
separately ;  and  from  the  answers  it  appeared 
that  they  all  hnd  families.  Eight  haid  one 
child  each,  the  rest  varied  from  two  to  eight, 
and  one  woman  stated  that  she  had  twelve 
children,  all  of  whom  were  living,  but  that 
only  four  resided  now  with  her  and  her 
husband.  Five  had  infants  in  their  arms, 
and  several  had  children  sick,  either  at  home 
or  in  some  hospital. 

In  the  next  place  the  ballast-heavers*  wives 
were  asked  whether  their  husbands  worked 
under  publicans  ?  "  All  of  them,"  was  the 
reply,  "  work  under  publicans ;"  and,  said  one, 
"Worse  luck  for  us," — a  sentiment  Uiat  was 
very  warmly  concurred  in  by  all  the  rest. 

This  fact  having  been  specifically  ascertained 
from  each  woman,  wo  proceeded  to  inquire 
from  them  separately  how  much  their  hus- 
bands earned,  and  how  much  of  their  earnings 
was  spent  at  the  publicans'  houses  through 
which  they  obtained  work,  or  where  they  were 
paid. 


"  My  husband,**  said  the  first  woman, 
''  works  under  a  publican,  and  I  know  that  be 
earns  now  12«.  or  I3<.  a- week,  but  he  brings 
home  to  me  only  half-a-crown,  and  sometim«s 
not  so  much.  He  spends  all  the  rest  at  a 
public-house  where  he  gets  hi?  jobs,  and  often 
comes  home  drunk." 

**  My  husband,"  exclaimed  the  second,  **win 
sometimes  get  from  24s.  to  28s.  a-week,  but  I 
never  see  anything  the  likes  o'  that  money 
from  him.  He  spends  it  at  tlie  publican's. 
And  when  he  has  earned  243.  he  vill  some- 
times bring  home  only  2s.  or  2«.  6rf.  We 
are  badly  off,  you  may  be  sure,  when  the 
money  goes  in  this  way.  But  my  husband 
cannot  help  spending  it,  for  he  is  obliged  to 
get  hi»  jobs  at  the  public-house." 

"  Last  week,"  interposed  another,  "  we  had 
not  one  penny  coming  into  our  house;  and 
the  week  before — which  was  Christmas  week 

—  my  husband  got  two  jobs  which    would 
come,  he  told  me,  to  85.  or  9«.  if  he  had 
brought  it  all  home ;  but  he  only  brought  me 
Is.    This  was  alHhe  money  I  had  to  keep  me 
and  my  five  children  for  the  whole  week ;  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  we  got  through. 
This  is  all  owing  to  the  public-house.    And 
when  we  go  to  fetch  our  husbands  at  eleven  or 
twelve  o'clock  at  night  they  shut  us  out,  and 
say  they  are  not  there,  though  we  know  very    1 
well  they  are  inside  in  a  back  place.     My    : 
husband  has  been  kept  in  that  back  place    , 
many  a  time  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning 

—  then  he  has  been  turned  out  and  come  ■ 
home  drunk,  without  Od.  in  his  pocket,  though  : 
the  same  day  he  has  received  8s.  or  Oj^  at  the  ■ 
same  public-house.** 

"They  go  to  the  public -house,"  addecE 
another  woman,  "  to  get  jobs,  and  to  cuny 
favour  they  spend  their  money  there,  because 
if  they  did  not  spend  their  money  they  would 
never  get  a  job.  The  men  who  will  drink  the 
greatest  quantity  of  money  will  get  the  most 
jobs.  This  leaves  their  families  and  their 
wives  miserable,  and  I  am  sure  me  and  my 
poor  family  are  miserable  enough.** 

"  But  this,'*  interposed  a  quiet,  elderly 
woman,  '*  is  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  week, 
in  all  of  which  my  husband  has  only  had  four 
jobs,  and  all  I  have  received  of  him  during 
tliat  time  is  Is.  Z\d,  a-weck,  and  we  stand. in 
2s.  C</.  a-week  rent.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
how  we  get  along.  But  our  publicans  are 
very  civil,  for  my  husband  works  for  two. 
Still,  if  he  does  not  drink  a  good  part  of  it 
away  we  know  very  well  he  will  get  no  more 
work." 

"  It  is  very  little,*'  said  a  female  with  an 
infant  in  her  arms,  *'that  my  husband  earns; 
and  of  what  little  he  does  earn  he  does  not 
fetch  much  to  me.  He  got  one  job  last  week, 
heaving  45  tons,  and  he  fetched  me  home 
Is.  6</.  for  it.  I  was  then  in  lodgings  at  Is.  6</.  ; 
a-week,  but  I  could  not  afibrd  them,  but  now 
I'm  in  lodgings  at  9d,  a-week.  This  week  he 
has  no  work  yet    In  Christmas  week  my  man   . 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH. 


287 


told  me  he  earned  25s.,  and  I  believe  lie  did, 
but  be  only  fetched  me  home  8«.  or  04.  on 
Saturday.  My  husband  works  for  a  publican, 
ftnd  it  was  at  his  house  he  spent  his  money. 
One  day  last  week  he  asked  Uie  publican  to 
l^ve  him  a  job,  and  he  said,  *  I  cannot  give 
you  a  job,  for  there  is  nothing  against  you  on 
the  slate  but  Is,,  and  so  he  got  none  thero. 
lly  iniant  is  six  weeks  old  to-day,  and  this 
woman  by  mo  (appealing  to  t]ie  female  next 
to  her)  knows  well  it  is  the  truUi  that  I  tell — 
that  for  two  nights  in  last  week  my  child  and 
myself  were  obliged  to  go  to  bed  breadless. 
We  had  nothing  neither  of  those  two  days. 
It  was  the  same  in  one  night  the  week  before 
Chxistmas,  though  my  husband  received  that 
night  8s.,  but  all  was  spent  at  the  public-house. 
On  Christmas  night  we  could  not  get  any 
sapper.  We  had  no  money,  and  I  took  the 
gown  off  my  back  and  pawned  it  for  2s.  to 
firovide  something  for  us  to  eat.  I  have 
nothing  else  to  say  but  this — that  whatever 
mj  husband  earns  I  get  little  or  nothing  of 
it,  for  it  goes  to  the  public-house  where  he 
gets  his  jobs." 

An  iniiim  woman,  approaching  fifty  years 
of  age,  who  spoko  in  a  tone  of  sorrowful 
resignation,  said, — "  We  have  had  very  little 
money  coming  in  of  late.  My  husband  has 
been  very  bad  for  ten  weeks  back.  He  throws 
19  blood ;  I  suppose  he  has  strained  himself 
too  much.  All  the  money  I  have  had  for 
nx  weeks  to  keep  us  both  has  been  8«.  If  he 
WIS  earning  money  he  would  bring  it  to  me." 

Another  woman,  **  Not  without  the  publican's 
aQowance,  I  am  sure." 

The  first  woman,  *<No;  the  publican's  al- 
birance  would  be  taken  off;  but  the  publican, 
yoa  see,  must  have  a  little — I  do  not  know  how 
miieh  it  is,  but  they  must  have  something  if 
they  give  us  their  jobs." 

This  woman  was  here  asked  if  her  husband 
ever  came  home  drunk  ? 

**  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  «*  many  a  time  he 
comes  home  drunk ;  but  he  must  have  the 
diink  to  get  the  jobs." 

A  number  of  other  women  having  made 
ttatements  confirmatory  of  the  above ; — 

"Do  you  think,"  the  meeting  was  asked, 
**yonr  husbands  would  be  sober  as  well  as 
industrious  men  if  they  could  be  got  away 
from  the  publiehouse  system  of  employment 
•nd  pajrment  of  wages?" 

'*  God  Almighty  bless  you  I"  exclaimed  one 
woman,**  they  would  love  us  and  their  families 
•U  the  better  for  it  I  We  should  all  be  much 
the  better  for  it." 

**  And  so  say  all  of  us  I"  was  the  next  and 
perfectly  unanimous  exclamation. 

*'If  we  could  see  that  day,"  said  one  who 
had  spoken  before,  '*  oiur  families  would  have 
httle  to  complain  of.*' 

Another  added,  "The  night-houses  ought 
*o  be  closed.  That  would  be  one  good 
thing." 

Some  inquiries  were  then  made  as  to  whe- 


ther these  poor  women  were  ill-treated  by 
tlieir  husbands  when  they  came  home  in  a 
state  of  intoxication.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  hesitation  before  any  answers  could  be  ob- 
tained. At  last  one  woman  said,  "her  hus- 
band did  certainly  beat  her,  of  course;  but 
then,"  she  added,  "  he  did  not  know  what  he 
was  doing." 

**  I,"  said  another,  "  should  not  know  what 
it  was  to  have  an  angry  word  with  my  hus- 
band if  he  was  always  sober.  He  is  a  quiet 
man — very,  when  the  drink  is  out  of  him; 
but  we  have  many  words  together  when  he  is 
tipsy ;  and ''  she  stopped  without  com- 
pleting the  sentence. 

Several  others  gave  similar  testimony  ;  and 
many  declared  that  it  was  the  public  house 
system  which  led  their  husbands  to  drink. 

One  woman  hero  said  that  the  foremen  of 
gangs,  as  well  as  the  publican,  helped  to  re- 
duce the  ballast-heaver's  earnings;  for  they 
gave  work  to  men  who  took  lodgings  from 
them,  though  they  did  not  occupy  tliem. 

This  was  confinned  by  another  woman,  who 
spoke  with  great  warmth  upon  the  subject 
She  said  that  married  men  who  could  not 
afford  to  spend  with  the  publican  and  lodge 
with  the  foremen  in  the  manner  pointed 
out,  would  be  sure  to  have  no  work.  Other 
men  went  straight  from  one  job  to  another, 
while  her  own  husband  and  other  women's 
husbands  had  been  three  or  four  weeks  \iith- 
out  lifting  a  shovelful  of  ballast.  She  con- 
sidered this  was  ver}'  hard  on  men  who  had 
famiHcs. 

A  question  was  here  asked,  whether  any 
women  were  present  whose  husbands,  in  order 
to  obtain  work,  were  obliged  to  pay  for  lodg- 
ings which  they  did  not  use  ? 

One  immediately  rose  and  said,  "  They  do 
it  regularly  at  a  publican's  in  Wapping ;  and  I 
know  the  men  that  have  paid  for  them  have 
had  six  jobs  together,  when  my  husband  has 
had  none  for  weeks."  "  There  are  now,"  added 
another,  "fourteen  at  that  very  place  who 
never  lodge  there,  though  they  are  paying  for 
lodgings." 

They  were  next  asked,  who  had  suffered 
from  want  owing  to  tlieir  husbands  drinking 
their  earnings,  as  described  at  the  public- 
houses  in  question? 

"Stan'ation  has  been  my  lot,"  said  one. 
'*  And  mine,"  added  another.  "  My  children," 
said  a  tliird,  "  have  often  gone  to  bed  at  night 
without  breaking  their  fast  the  whole  length 
of  the  day."  **  And  mine,"  said  one,  "  have 
many  a  time  gone  without  a  bit  or  sup  of  any- 
thing all  the  day,  through  their  father  working 
for  the  publican." 

"  I  cannot,"  exclaimed  the  next,  "  afford  my 
children  a  ha*porth  of  milk  a-day." 

"  Many  a  time,"  said  one,  who  appeared  to 
be  very  much  moved,  "  have  I  put  my  four 
children  to  bed,  when  the  only  meal  they  have 
had  the  whole  day  has  been  lib.  of  bread; 
bnt  it's  of  no  use  opening  my  mouth." 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOE. 


'*  1/  said  the  last,  **  have  been  in  London 
twenty  Heren  years,  and  during  tliat  time  I 
can  nafely  &ay  1  Imvo  never  taken  mybelf  a 
single  gloss  of  apiiits  or  anytliiiig  else ;  but 
in  tliat  time  I  have  suffered  Uie  maityrdom 
of  foily  years — all  through  my  buciband  and 
the  public-house.  I  have  two  children  who 
bring  me  in,  one  of  them  2s.  C)d.  and  the  other 
ttf.  Of/,  a- week,  which  is  all  we  have,  for  my 
huHband  gets  nearly  nothing.  If  he  could 
bring  his  earnings  liome,  instead  of  spending 
them  at  a  public-house,  wo  should  be  very 
comfortable." 

These  questions  led  to  one  concerning  the 
lato-hi)urKyst«^m  at  the  public4iou868 frequented 
by  the  ballast-heaven. 

*■  I  ollen  go  for  my  husband,"  said  one, 
"  at  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after 
I  know  he  has  been  paid ;  but  they  -have 
kept  him  in  a  back  apartment  away  from 
me,  till  I  have  threatened  to  smasli  the  win- 
dows if  Uiey  did  not  let  him  out  I  threat- 
ened to  smash  the  windows  because  my 
oliildren  were  wanting  the  money  for  bread, 
which  he  was  sp<iU(Uug  there.  If  our  husbands 
were  inclined  to  come  home  sober  there  is 
little  chaaoe,  for  Uiey  have  cards  and  bagatelle 
to  keep  them  till  they  become  heady,  and 
when  they  are  become  heady,  there  is  nothing 
left  for  their  families — then  the  publicans 
luck  our  poor  men  out,  and  lock  the  doors." 

This  statement  was  confirmed,  and  after 
several  otlier  peraous  had  described  their 
feolings, — 

The  coal-whippers*  wives  were  asked  whether 
or  not  their  condition  and  that  of  their  families 
had  been  improved  since  the  system  of  carry, 
ing  on  the  trade  had  been  altered  by  the 
Le^^islature  ? 

The  answer  was  a  most  decisive  affirmative. 
Their  husbands,  they  said,  used  to  spend  all, 
or  very  nearly  all,  their  earnings  with  the 
publicans;  but  now,  when  they  got  a  good 
•hip,  they  bi-ouglit  home  the  greatest  part  of 
their  earnings,  which  was  sufiidcnt  to  make 
their  families  comfortable.  Their  husbands 
had  become  quite  different  men.  They  used 
to  ill-treat  tiiem  when  they  were  paid  at  a 
pnblio-house — very  much  so,  because  of  the 
drink ;  but  now  they  were  very  much  alter«ul, 
bocaufie  they  were  become  sober  men  to  what 
they  were.  None  were  now  distressed  to 
provide  for  their  families,  and  if  there  was 
plenty  of  work  they  would  be  quite  happy. 
The  improvement,  one  woman  said,  must 
be  very  great,  otherwise  there  would  not  be 
80  many  institutions  and  benefit  societies, 
pension  societies,  and  schools  or  their 
children. 

This  declaration  was  very  warmly  applauded 
by  the  wives  of  the  ballast-heavers.  They 
declared  that  similar  measures  would  pro 
dnoe  similar  benefits  in  their  ease,  and  tliejr 
hoped  the  day  would  soon  come  when  they 
should  be  secure  in  the  enjoyment  of  them. 

So  terminated  the  proceedings. 


LUMPEBS. 

Tbx  *'  Lumpers'*  ars,  if  possible,  in  a  more 
degraded  state  than  the  ballast-heavers ;  they 
are  not,  it  is  true,  under  the  same  amount  of 
oppression  from  the  publican,  but  still  they 
are  so  besotted  with  the  drink  which  they  are 
tempted  to  obtain  from  tlie  publicans  who 
employ  them,,  as  to  look  upon  the  man  who 
tflidts  them  out  of  their  earnings  rather  as  %, 
friend  than  an  enemy. 

The  lumpers  make,  I  am  informcdt 
during  six  months  in  the  year,  as  inncli  aa 
24(. ;  and  during  the  other  six  months  they 
have  nothing  to  do.  Of  the  *2lt.  thst  they 
earn  in  tlicir  busy  time,  2Ut.  it  will  be  seen 
is  spent  in  the  public-house.  One  master* 
lumper,  who  is  a  publican,  employs  as  many 
as  100  men.  This  iufiirmatiuu  I  have,  not 
only  fVom  the  men  themselves,  but  from  the 
managers  of  the  Commercial  Docks,  where  thft 
greater  number  of  the  lumpers  are  engaged* 
The  100  men  in  the  pubUcan's  employ,  aa 
will  be  seen  from  the  evidence  of  the  wives, 
spend  upon  an  average  1/.  a- week  in  the 
house,  taking  generally  but  4s.  home  to  theii 
vriwes  and  families:  so  that  no  less  a  sum 
than  100/.  a-week  is  squandered  in  the  pub- 
lican-contractor's house  by  the  working  men 
in  drink.  There  is  not  only  a  pay-night,  but 
two  **  draw-nights"  are  appointed  in  the  week* 
as  a  means  of  inveigling  the  men  to  their  mas- 
ter's tap-room ;  and  indeed  the  same  system, 
which  gives  the  greatest  drunkard  the  best 
chance  of  work,  prevails  among  the  Inmpura 
as  among  the  btdlast-hcavers.  The  etfectof 
this  is,  that  the  lumpers  are  the  moat  driuU(ea» 
debased,  and  poverty-stricken  of  all  the  classes 
of  labouring  men  tliat  I  have  yet  aeen ;  for» 
earning  more  than  the  ballast-heavers,  tbi^ 
of  course  have  more  to  spend  in  the  publio- 
house. 

I  made  it  a  point  of  looking  more  mi- 
nutely into  the  state  of  these  men  on  the 
Sunday,  for  I  have  found  tliat  on  that  day  it 
is  easy  to  tell  the  habits  of  men  by  their  ex- 
ternal appearance.  The  greater  part  tliat  I 
saw  were  either  intoxicated,  or  else  reeking 
of  liquor  as  early  as  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
Sunday  morning.  One  foreman  was  decently 
dressed,  it  was  true ;  but  tlien  he  was  sent  te 
me,  I  was  credibly  informed,  by  the  master* 
publican,  who  had  heard  of  my  preWous  inves- 
tigations, to  give  me  a  false  impression  as  to 
the  state  of  the  labourers ;  the  rest  of  the  men 
tiiiit  I  saw  were  unwashed  and  unshaven,  even 
up  to  five  and  six  in  the  afternoon  of  that  dsy. 
Their  clothes  were  the  same  tattered  and 
greasy  garments  that  I  had  seen  them  in  the  j 
day  before ;  indeed  the  wives  of  the  lumpen  i 
appeared  to  be  alone  alive  to  the  degradation  I 
of  their  husbands.  At  one  house  that  I  visital  , 
late  on  the  Sunday  evening,  I  found  two  "f 
the  children  in  one  comer  of  tlu^  small  clM^e 
room  on  the  han  boaida,  covered  witli  a  piece 


LONDON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


289 


of  old  carpet,  and  four  more  boys  and  girU 
bU^wed  awn  J  at  tlie  top  and  l>iiU«)ui  of  the  ono 
tied  in  which  the  rest  of  the  fansiiy  slept. 
Dirtr  wet  clothes  were  haiii;iii{^  to  di-y  ou  lines 
ai3\>68  the  room ;  and  the  fact*  of  the  \vifi\  m*]io 
was  aloue,  in  all  her  sqimlid  misery,  was  lilack 
auil  p^tfcd  with  cut-t  usd  Iatiusos.  Not  a  step 
I  took  but  I  was  dof^ed  by  some  foreiiiim  or 
other,  io  the  hopos  of  [uittin^  me  on  the  wrong 
scent.  I  had  arranged  wiiL  the  nieu  on  Sa- 
tunli^  morning  to  have  a  meeting  with  them 
r*D  that  iiight  after  their  hihour,  but  on  going 
to  the  appointed  place  I  found  not  one  labour- 
ing man  there ;  and  I  leanit  tlic  next  day  that 
the  publican  had  purposely  deferred  paying 
them  till  a  late  hour,  no  that  they  might  have 
DO  chance  of  meeting  mc.  Ou  Mcndny  morn- 
ing, while  at  the  oihce  of  the  Sup^rinten(lent 
of  the  Commercial  Dock  Company,  oue  of  the 
lumpers  staggered  drunk  into  the  n>om,  intent 
npoa  making  some  insolent  demaml  or  other. 
That  this  drunkenness,  with  (dl  its  attendant 
TJevs,  i«  not  the  fault  of  the  lumpers,  but  the 
necessary  consequence  of  the  hystem  under 
irhich  they  are  employed,  no  man  who  bos 
seen  tlie  marke<l  dilforence  between  the  coal- 
irhippers  and  that  class  of  bilMir.riirs  who  still 
work  out  of  ilie  public-house,  can  f(»r  a  mo- 
uent  doubt.  The  sins  of  the  labc>uring  mtui, 
80  far  as  I  have  seen,  are,  in  this  instance, 
most  indi.si>utiibly  the  sins  of  his  employer. 
If  he  is  drunken,  it  is  liis  ma^^ter  who  makes 
Itim  so :  if  he  is  poor,  his  house  bare,  his  wife 
ra${fied,  his  children  half-cliithed, half-fed,  and 
vkolly  uneducated,  it  is  mainly  because  his 
voMt'XfiT  tricJks  him  out  of  his  earnings  at  the 
public  nhouse. 

Let  mo  now  give  a  description  of  tlie  lump- 
en' labour,  and  then  of  their  earning*;.  The 
iimbcr*trade  is  divided  by  the  custom  of  the 
trade  into  two  ehissos,  called  timber  and 
dtiaU.  By  "  timber"  is  meant  v.hat  is  brought 
in  uncut  logs ;  this  is  AmtTicin  red  pine, 
vfJlow  pine,  elm,  ash,  oak,  and  birch.  The 
teak-trade  is  more  recent,  and  seems  to  be  an 
exception  to  the  classification  I  have  men- 
tioned: it  is  genemlly  described  as  teak; 
mahogany  and  dye-woods  again  oic  not  styled 
tiiiibcr.  The  deals  arc  all  ba^\^l  ready  for  tlie 
cari>enter  or  joiner's  use.  j\t  the  Custom- 
house the  distinctions  are,  hewn  and  sawn 
Woods:  tliat  is,  timber  and  deals.  On  timber 
there  is  now  a  duty  of  Is.  per  load  (a  load 
being  fifty  cubic  feet)  and  on  deals  of  2.^.  The 
deals  are  sawn  in  Canada,  where  immense 
steam-mills  have  been  erected  lor  the  purpose. 
The  advantage  to  the  trader  in  ha>'ing  this 
process  efleeted  in  Canada  rather  than  in  this 
couutr\',  sttema  to  be  this :  the  deals  brought 
over  prepared,  as  I  have  described,  of  different 
lengths,  varying  from  six  feet  to  twenty,  while 
three  inches  is  a  usual  thickness,  ant  ready 
for  the  workman's  purpose,  and  no  refuse- 
matter  fi>nn8  a  part  of  them.  Were  the  pine 
brunglit  in  logs,  the  bark  and  the  unevenness 
of  the  treo  would  add  to  the  freight  for  what 


w.'is  only  valueless.  Timber  and  deals  require 
about  the  fome  time  for  their  thseharge.  The 
larg>.'st  vessels  that  enter  into  this  trale  in  the 
port  of  London  arc  to  be  found  in  tlie  West 
India  South  Dnck,  formerly  the  City  Canal. 
On  one  occasivin  in  this  dock  a  vess<.>l  of  bOO 
tons,  containing  24,(KK)  deals  and  ends,  was 
discharged  in  twenty-six  working  hours— forty- 
tive  men  being  employed.  I  am  informed  that 
twenty  men  Wduld  discharge  a  ship  of  0()()  tons 
of  timber  and  deals  in  seven  days.  Forty  men 
will  do  it  in  four  days.  In  onler  to  bocxune 
acquainted  with  the  system  of  lum]iing,  I  went 
on  bo:u\l  a  vessel  in  the  river  whei^;  a  gang  nf 
twenty  men  were  at  work.  She  was  a  ves«»el 
of  G<X)  tons,  fri^ra  Quubec.  She  lay  alongside 
the  riura,  a  Norwegian  vessel  —  the  first 
timber -ship  that  had  reached  the  port  of 
L(mdon  since  the  change  in  tlie  Nangation 
Laws  had  come  into  operation.  The  Flom'.s 
cargfj  was  tHK)  pieces  of  timber,  which  would 
l)e  dischaiged  by  her  crew,  as  the  lumpers  are 
only  employed  in  British  vessels.  The  vessel 
that  I  visited,  and  which  lay  next  the  Flcra, 
had  her  hold  and  the  between-decks  (which 
might  be  thirty- eight  yards  in  length)  pocked 
closely  witli  deals.  She  held  between  17,<Ji)0 
and  18,(HK)  deals.  She  was  being  lightened  in 
the  river  before  going  into  dock;  twenty  men 
were  at  work  in  two  barges,  well  moored  along- 
side, close  to  two  portholes  in  the  stem  of  the 
ship.  There  were  three  men  in  each  barge 
who  received  and  packed  tlie  deals  into  the 
Inu-ge  as  they  were  thrust  out  of  tlie  poitltoles; 
the  lapf/er  deals  wore  carried  along  by  two  men 
as  snuu  as  a  sufDeient  clearance  had  been 
made  to  enable  them  to  run  along — at  first, 
bent  half-ilouble.  The  two  men  who  carried 
the  deals  ran  along  in  a  sort  of  jog-trot  motion, 
keeping  time,  so  that  the  motion  reheved  the 
pressure  of  the  weight;  tlie  men  all  said  it 
was  eiisier  to  nm  than  to  walk  with  tlio  desls : 
the  shorter  di»als  (ends)  were  carried,  one 
by  each  man,  who  trotted  on  in  the  same  mea- 
sured stf;ps, — each  man,  or  each  two  men 
cmplnyed,  delivering  his  t.r  their  deal  to  one 
especial  man  in  the  barge,  so  that  a  constant 
communication  from  the  ship  to  the  barge 
was  kept  up,  and  the  work  went  on  without 
hitch  or  stojtpage.  This  same  vessel,  on  a 
fonner  occasion,  was  discharged  in  thirty-six 
hours,  which  shows  (as  thei'c  were  between 
17,(KX)  and  18,(KK)  carryings  and  deUveriiigs  of 
the  deals)  how  rapidly  the  work  is  conducted. 
The  timber  is  all  dragged  from  the  liolds  or 
the  between-decks  of  the  ship  by  machines; 
the  lumpers  house  it  from  its  place  in  the 
ship  by  means  of  winches,  tackles,  and  dogs — 
which  latter  arc  iron  hnks  to  lay  hold  of  tlie 
logs.  Three  of  these  winches  and  tackles  are 
stationed  at  equal  distances  on  each  side  of  a 
large  ship,  and  thus  with  the  aid  of  erowbam 
the  several  pieces  of  timber  are  dragged  along 
the  hold  and  then  dropped  gently  into  the 
water,  either  in  the  dock  or  in  the  river,  and 
doated  in  rafts  to  its  destination.  All  **  timber" 


200 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB: 


is  floated,  as  a  rule.  Sometimes  when  tlie  ship 
is  discharged  in  dock,  timber  or  deals  are  let 
down  a  sAde  on  to  a  platform,  and  so  carried 
to  the  pile  or  the  waggon.  Contractors  are 
employed  by  the  ship-owners  in  the  West 
India  Docks,  as  they  will  do  some  ships 
cheaper  by  10/.  than  the  company  could  afford 
to  do  it.  The  ship-owners  bear  the  expense 
of  discharging  the  ship. 

The  following  evidence  of  a  lumper  was 
given  unwillingly,  indeed  it  was  only  by  a 
series  of  cross-questionings  that  any  approxi- 
mation to  the  truth  could  be  extracted  from 
him.  He  was  evidently  in  fear  of  losing  his 
work ;  and  the  tavern  to  which  I  had  gone 
to  take  his  statement  was  filled  with  foremen 
watching  and  intimidating  him.    He  said : 

'*  I  am  a  working  lumper,  or  labourer  at 
discharging  timber  or  deal-ships.  I  have 
been  sixteen  years  at  the  work.  I  should 
think  that  there  are  more  than  two  hundred 
men  at  Deptford  who  are  constantly  engaged 
at  the  work:  there  are  a  great  many  more 
working  lumpers  living  at  Limehouse,  Poplar, 
and  BlackwadL  These  do  the  work  principally 
of  the  West  India  Docks ;  and  when  the  work 
is  slack  there  and  brisk  at  the  Commercial, 
East  Country,  or  Grand  Surrey  Canal  Docks, 
the  men  cross  the  water  and  get  a  job  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  river.  In  the  summer  a 
great  many  Irish  labourers  seek  for  work  as 
lumpers.  They  come  over  from  Ireland  in 
the  Cork  boats.  I  should  say  there  are  al- 
together upwards  of  500  regular  woridng 
lumpers;  but  in  the  summer  there  are  at 
least  200  more,  owing  to  the  number  of  Irish 
who  come  to  England  to  look  for  work  at  that 
time  of  the  year.  The  wages  of  the  regular 
lumpers  are  not  less  when  the  Irish  come  over 
in  the  summer,  nor  do  the  men  get  a  less 
quantity  of  work  to  do.  There  are  more 
timber  and  deal-ships  arriving  at  that  season, 
80  more  hands  are  required  to  discharge  them. 
The  ships  begin  to  arriye  in  July,  and  they 
continue  coming  in  till  January.  After  that 
time  they  lay  up  till  March,  when  they  sail  for 
the  foreign  ports.  Between  January  and  July 
the  regular  working  lumpers  have  little  or 
nothing  to  do.  During  that  time  there  are 
scarcely  any  timber  or  deal  ships  coming  in ; 
and  the  working  lumpers  then  tiy  to  fall  in 
with  anything  they  can,  either  ballasting  a 
ship,  or  canying  a  few  deals  to  load  a  timber- 
carriage,  or  doing  a  little '  tide  work.'  Between 
July  and  Januaiy  the  work  is  very  brisk.  We 
are  generally  employed  every  day  for  those  six 
months.  Sometimes  we  lose  a  day  after 
lightening  a  ship  in  the  river,  while  the  vessel 
is  going  into  dock.  We  call  it  lightening  a 
ship  when  she  is  laden  too  heavy,  and  draws 
too  much  water  to  enter  the  docks.  In  such 
a  case  we  generally  begin  discharging  the 
timber  or  denus  in  the  river,  either  off  Deptford 
or  Blackwall,  according  as  the  ship  may  be 
for  the  docks  on  the  Middlesex  or  Surrey  side. 
In   the  river  we    discharge   the  deals  into 


lighters,  whereas  when  the  ship  is  in  Hie  dock 
we  generally  discharge,  along  a  stage  on  to  the 
shore.  Timber  we  put  overboud  in  both 
cases,  and  leave  it  for  the  raftsmen  to  put  to. 
gether  into  raits,  and  float  into  the  timber- 
ponds  of  the  different  docks.  The  deals  wa 
merely  land.  It  is  our  dutj  to  put  them 
ashore  and  nothing  more.  After  thai  Uie 
deal-porters  take  them  and  sort  them,  and 
pile  them.  They  sort  the  white  from  the  yel- 
low deals,  and  eadi  kind  into  diifierent  lengths, 
and  then  arrange  them  in  piles  all  along  the 
dock. 

**  Our  usual  time  of  working  is  from  six  to 
six  in  the  summer  time  and  from  daybght 
to  dark  in  the  winter.  We  always  work  under 
a  foreman.  There  are  two  foremen  lumpers 
to  almost  every  ship  that  we  discharge ;  and 
they  engage  the  men,  who  work  in  gangs 
under  them.  Each  gang  consists  of  firom  i 
to  12  men,  according  as  the  size  of  the  ship 
is  large,  or  she  is  wanted  to  be  discharged 
quickly.  I  have  known  as  many  as  30  lumpers 
engaged  on  one  ship ;  she  was  1000  tona,  and 
wanted  to  be  got  out  quick,  so  that  she  might 
maJke  another  voyage  before  the  winter  set  in 
abroad. 

**  The  foreman  and  men  are  employed  by 
the  master -limiper.  Some  of  the  master- 
lumpers  are  publicans;  some  others  keep 
chandlers'  shops,  and  others  do  nothing  else 
that  I  know  of.  The  master  pays  the  working 
men  ds.  ^d,  a-day,  and  the  foreman  Is.  extra. 
We  are  settled  with  every  Saturday  night 
We  have  two  draw-nights  in  each  week;  that 
is,  the  master  advances  either  a  part  or  the 
whole  of  our  earnings,  if  we  please,  on  Tuesday 
and  Thursday  nights.  I  work  under  a  publican. 
My  master  has  only  gone  into  the  public  line 
very  lately.  I  don't  think  he's  been  at  it 
more  than  eighteen  months.  He  has  been  a 
master-lumper  I  should  say  for  these  10  or  12 
years  past  I  worked  under  him  before  he 
had  a  public-house.  Then  he  paid  every 
Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday  nights,  at 
the  same  house  he  is  now  proprietor  of.  The 
master-lumper  always  pays  the  men  he  employs 
at  the  pubUc-house,  whether  they  are  publicans 
or  not. 

*<  My  master  employs,  I  should  say,  in  the 
spring  season,  from  80  to  100  hands  regu- 
larly :  and  most  of  these  meet  at  his  house  on 
Tuesday  and  Thursday  nights,  and  all  of  them 
on  Saturday  night,  either  to  be  settled  with  in 
full  or  have  a  part  of  their  wages  advanced. 
We  are  usually  paid  at  7  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
I  have  been  paid  as  late  as  8  o'clock  on  Sunday 
morning ;  but  that  was  some  years  ago,  and  I 
was  all  that  time  in  the  public-house.  We  go 
straight  to  the  public-house  after  we  have  done 
our  work. 

**  At  this  time  of  the  year  we  knock  on 
work  at  dark,  that  is,  at  five  [I  am  informed 
at  the  Commercial  Docks  that  the  usual  hour 
is  four]  o'clock,  and  we  remain  at  our  master^ 
until  pay-time,  that  is  7  o'clock.    This  we  ^ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


291 


for  three  nights  a-week  certain ;  and  after  our 
work  at  other  nights  we  mostly  meet  at  our 
maftter's  pnblic-house.  The  men  generally 
draw  from  2s.  to  45.,  and  on  a  Thursday  night 
the  same  snm  is  advanced  to  them.  The  men 
are  not  enforced  to  spend  anything  in  the 
house.  Each  man  has  a  httle  beer  while  the 
master  is  getting  ready  to  pay  him  on  the 
draw-nights ;  and  ho  generally  remains  in  the 
house  ^fter  ho  has  received  his  money  some 
time,  as  he  thinks  proper.  On  a  draw-night  in 
the  brisk  season  many  out  of  the  hundred  he 
employs  will  stop  drinking  till  10  o'clock. 
Some  go  away  immediately  after  they  have 
drawn  their  money.  At  least  lialf  stop  for 
some  time,  that  is,  till  10  o'clock.  Some  sit 
there  and  spend  all  they  dmw.  All  the  beer 
that  the  lumpers  have  on  board  ship  is  supplied 
by  the  master.  He  supplies  any  quantity  that 
is  wanted.  The  reason  why  be  keeps  the 
public-house  is  to  have  the  right  of  suppUing 
the  men  with  beer.  He  wouldn't,  of  course. 
hke  to  see  us  take  beer  from  any  other  house 
than  his ;  if  we  did  he  would  give  us  the  sack. 
Every  master-lumper  works  out  of  a  public- 
house,  and  the  men  must  have  their  beer  from 
the  house  that  he  works  out  of ;  and  if  they 
don't,  why  they  ain't  wanted.  "VVe  generally 
take  about  two  pots  per  man  a- day  from  the 
house  when  we  go  to  om- work,  in  the  morning. 
On  a  Saturday  night  wo  mostly  stop  longer 
than  on  the  di-aw-uights.  Upon  an  average, 
the  working  lumpers  I  should  say  spend  about 


2ff.  a-day  in  the  season  in  the  pnblic-house. 
[It  will  have  been  seen,  that  the  lumpers* 
wives  whom  I  saw  declare  that  the  men  spend 
20a.  out  of  every  24«.]  After  a  hard  week's 
work  I  think  they  have  generally  85.  or  95.  out 
of  the  1/.  45.  that  they  earn  at  the  busiest  time 
of  the  year.  I  myself  have  taken  homo  as 
little  as  b$.  [According  to  this  statement, 
assuming  that  there  arc  100  hands  —  many 
say  that  there  are  more — regularly  employed 
out  of  this  public- liouse  in  the  spring  season, 
and  spending  each  upon  an  average  from  125. 
to  20*-.,  or  say  10s.  a- week,  as  much  as  80/.  a- 
week  is  squandered  in  beer.]  I  should  say, 
taking  all  the  year  round,  the  men  make 
10*.  Orf.  a-week.  For  at  least  four  months  in 
the  5'ear  there  is  no  work  at  all ;  and  for  two 
months  more  it  is  very  slack.  I  am  a  married 
man  ^rith  one  child :  when  I  am  in  full  work 
I  take  home  bs.  a-week  at  the  least.  My  wife 
and  child  has  to  suffer  for  it  all," 

Let  mo  now  cite  the  following  table,  which 
I  have  been  at  considerable  trouble  in  obtain- 
ing, as  the  only  means  of  arriving  at  a  correct 
estimate  as  to  the  collective  earnings  of  the 
"journeymen  lumpers,"  or  men  generally 
engaged  in  discharging  the  cargoes  of  the 
British  timber  and  deal  ships.  The  infor- 
mation has  in  the  three  i>rincipal  instances 
been  derived  directly  from  the  hooks  of  tho 
Dock  Companies,  through  the  courtesy  and 
consideration  of  the  superintendents  and  di- 
rectors, to  whom  I  am  greatly  indebted. 


i^UMBER  OF  SHIPS  WOOD-LADEN  DISCHARGED  AT  THE  DIFFERENT 

DOCKS  IN  1849. 


West  India  Docks 
Commercial  Docks 
Grand  Surrey  Canal 
East  Cotmtry  Docks 
Regent's  Canal 


Byt 


tmpany. 


Ships.  Tonnago. 

MO      22,050 

2        1,180 


38     23,742 


By  Lumpers. 


Ships.  Tonnage. 


69 
154 
153 

U 
2 


24,.*)17 

03,213 

45,900 

3,400 

GOO 


389     137,400 


By  Crews. 


Ships.  Toniia^. 

24        6,791) 

259  •  75,000 

59      17,000 

04     19,091 


400     117,983 


Total. 


Ships.  TonxumfO. 
129      53,099 
139,495 
02,900 
22,500 
000 


415 

212 

75 

2 


833     279,194 


By  the  above  returns  it  will  be  seen,  that  in 
the  course  of  that  year  380  timber  and  deal 
ships,  of  137,469  tons  burthen  collectively, 
were  discharged  by  lumpers.  This  at  9(/.  per 
ton,  which  is  the  price  usually  given  by  the 
Dock  Companies,  would  give  5,155/.  I5.  9rf.  as 
the  gross  amount  paid  to  the  contractors. 
The  master-liunper  derives  little  or  no  profit 
out  of  this  snm  directly.  This  will  be  evident 
from  the  subjoined  statement.  A  gentleman 
at  the  West  India  Docks,  who  has  been  all  his 
life  connected  with  the  timber  trade,  informs 
ns  that  twenty  men  will  discharge  a  wood-laden 
ship  in  seven  days.    Now, — 


20  men  at  35.  Crf.  per  day  for 

seven  days,  comes  to  .        .  .£'24  10    0 
And  000  tons  at  M.  per  ton,  to    22  10    0 


So  that  the  master-lumper,  by 
this  account,  would  lose  by 
the  job  at  the  veiy  least     .    j62    0    0 

This  statement  is  fully  home  out  by  the  fact 
that  tho  master-lumpers  will  often  agree  to 
discharge  a  ship  for  10/.  less  than  the  com- 
pany  could  possibly  afford  to  do  it  for  with  their 
own  men.  The  question  then  arises,  How  is  it 
that  the  master-lumper  is  enabled  to  do  this 


LOSVOS  LABOUB  ASJ>  THE  LQSBOS  FOOM, 


TIMBEIUBOCK  X.AB01TBESS. 


hI  lire  ?     Tliu  U  eas^y  answered.     He  is  j 

eniTsllj  either  a  ptihliean  himself  or  con-  j 
ected  with  one,  and  the  journeymen  in  hb  !  HATZxa  alxeaJv  giren  an  aeeoimtof  ths  sanftf 
imploj  spend  at  his  public-hou-^.  acourling  i  and  consumption  of  timber  thioogboai  tha 
o  the  account  of  the  wives,  five-sixths  of  tlieir   cuuntry  generally.  I  shall  now  speak  of  tlM  im- 


in  drink,  or  It,  out  of  ever>'  2U.  they 
Say,  however,  that  only  four-liflbs  of 
the  gross  earnings  are  thus  conHninod,  then 
foor  Uioosand  and  odd  out  of  the  ''y.iOO/.  will 
go  to  the  puhlican,  and  one  thousand  and  odd 
|ioands  to  the  men. 


portatioDs  into  London,  and  more  especiaUy 
of  the  condition  of  the  labonrera  conneoted 
witli  the  foreign  and  colonisl  timber  tradiu 

The  quantity  of  colonial  and  fiawiga  T 
that  lias  been  brought  into  the  iiortdT  London 
since  the  year  lt^4'}  has  been  as  foUowa^ — 


1848. 


1819. 


Colonial  deals  nnd  battens  J  2^^^^^^  2,340,000  2^W.000  3,330,000  2,740,000  2,722,000 

(in  pieces).        .         ./    '       '  '       *  '^    '  '      '  »      '  '  — r— ^ 

FoKign     ditto     (in  ditto)  2.130,000  2,2lKM>00  ],21\2,0(>0  1,0:)0,000  2,044,000  1.903,000 

ToUl  pieces          .    4,150,000  4,(J39,0O0  3,.'iU7,000  3,335,000  4,784.(K)0  4,625,0C0 


Colonial  timlior  (in  loads)        57.200        55,800 
Foreign     ditto  (in  do.)   .         5^200        08,100 


53,C00 
80,000 


49,(500 
7U,H10 


3R,300 
«»,0CO 


58.G00 
01.400 


ToUl  loads 


115,400       123,000        130,000        128,700        107,300        100,000 


The  eonsmnption  of  the  metropolis  haa  been 
HtOe  less  than  the  quantity  imported.  In  the 
dx  years  above  enumerated  'the  total  import- 
ation of  f«)reign  and  colonial  deals  and  battens 
was  27.135,000  pieces,  of  which  20,695,573 
were  consumed  in  London;  and  the  total 
hnportatiim  of  foreign  and  colonial  timber 
was  714.000  loads,  of  which  044,224  were 
consumed.  This  gives  an  average  annual 
importation  of  4,522/)00  deals  and  battens,  of 
which  only  7M,238  huve  been  sent  out  of  the 
eountiy  cvciy  year.  Of  Umber,  the  averagi' 
annual  importation  is  110,150  loads,  and 
the  average  annual  exportation  only  11,779 
loads. 

The  number  of  wood-ladon  ships  that  have 
entered  the  port  of  1/indon  since  1840, 
together  with  the  countries  whence  they  conic, 
is  given  below.  I^y  tliis  a'e  shall  p!.Tecivo 
tliat  our  trade  witli  Norway  in  this  rospe«  t,  has 
sunk  to  exactly  one-half  of  what  it  waj  ten 


years  bock,  while  that  with  Sweden  and 
Finland  has  been  very  neariy  doubled  in  the 
some  time.  The  timber -ships  from  the 
Pmssian  ports  have  increased  little  less  than 
one-third,  while  those  from  Bnssia  have  de- 
creased in  tlie  same  proportion.  The  trade 
with  Quebec  and  Montreal  also  appears  to  be 
much  greater  than  it  was  in  1840,  though 
coinpaicd  with  1841  there  has  been  a  con- 
siderable falling  off;  that  of  New  Brunswick 
ami  Nova  Scotia  remains  very  nearly  tlie 
same  as  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  de- 
cennial period.  Altogether  the  great  change 
appears  tr)  have  been  the  decline  of  the  Nor- 
wegian  and  Ilussian  timber-trade,  and  the 
increase  of  that  mth  Sweden  and  Prussia. 
It  is  also  woilhy  of  notice,  that  notwithstanding 
the  increase  of  population,  the  number  of 
wood-laden  ships  entering  the  port  of  London 
every  yetir  has  not  materially  increased  within 
the  last  ten  years. 


THE  NUMBKU  OF  CARGOES  OF  TIMBER,  DEALS,  AND  BATTENS, 
IlirOKTED  INTO  LONDON  IN  THE  FOLLOWING  YEARS. 


1840. 

1841. 

1842. 

1843. 

1844. 

184l>. 

1846. 

1847. 

1848.  1  1S4». 

Christiana  and  C^ristlansund  . 

40 

50 

47 

27 

30 

27 

22 

32 

30 

23 

OUier  ports  of  Norway      . 

52 

43 

3s 

30 

40 

39 

17 

28 

25 

27 

(iotlienburg      .... 

01 

04 

4!) 

50 

69 

00 

30 

07 

5.-)  1     41 

Swedish  ports  and  Finland 

85 

84 

s.-) 

102 

90 

149 

103 

101 

l;3S  1  154 

Russian  ports  .... 

181 

108 

VM) 

119 

103 

115 

140 

91 

113 

]:a 

I*rus8iau  ports 

70 

70        5  J 

KU 

143 

124 

109 

107 

10b 

lOO 

Quebec  and  Montreal 

n;8 

2'.'t      IHS 

230 

200 

24X) 

100 

210 

179 

lo;^ 

New  Bnmswick  and  Nova  Scotia 

101 

1)7        Cri 

134 

90 

102 

127 

145 

108 

10{^ 

Sierra  Leone,  Mauhnein,  <fec.    . 

lU 
780 

20  ;     21) 

31 

' 

10 

20 

21 

13 

20 

700 

0«1 

M2 

s-ll 

S3H 

740 

KOS 

778 

709 

LOKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


2M 


The  aezl  step  in  our  inoiuiy  is.  What  be- 
comes of  the  800  wood. laden  ships  that 
annnaOy  enter  the  port  of  London  f  >Vhither 
do  thej  go  to  be  unladen  ?  to  what  docks,  or 
places  of  **  special  security,"  are  they  consigned 
to  be  discharged  and  to  have  their  cargoes 
delivered  or  bonded  ? 

For  this  purpose  there  are  flye  docks,  three 
of  which  lie  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  river. 
These  three  are  the  Commercial  Docks,  tlic 
Grand  Surrey  Canal  Dock,  and  the  Ka&t 
Country  Dock,  and  they  are  almost  contiguous 
to  each  other,  the  Surrey  Canal  Dock  lying 
Immediately  alongside  the  Commercial,  and 
the  East  Conntry  at  the  upper  end  of  it. 
Thfiiy  are  situated  in,  and  indeed   occupy. 


nearly  the  whole  of  that  small  eape  of  land 
which  is  formed  by  the  bending  of  the  river 
between  the  Pool  and  limehouse  Beaoh. 
The  docks  on  the  Middlesex  side  of  the  river, 
which  are  used  for  the  reception  and  unlading 
of  tunbur-ships,  are  the  West  India  and  tha 
Regent's  Dock,  or  the  entrance  to  the  Regent's 
Canal. 

The  number  of  wood-laden  ships  that  hava 
entered  the  three  principal  docks  for  the  last 
ten  years  is  given  below.  I  am  informed  by 
Mr.  Jones  of  the  Commercial  Docks,  that  for 
every  ship  above  100  tons  six  men  are  re« 
quired  to  sort  and  pile  away.  Rafting  ftom 
ships  of  the  above  burden  requires  one  or  two 
men  daily,  according  to  circumstances. 


THE  NUMBER  OF  WOOD-LADEN  SHIPS  WHICH  ENTERED  THE  DIFFERENT 
DOCKS  UNDERMENTIONED  IN  THE  FOLLOWING  YEARS. 


Tear. 

Woii  India  Dookfl. 

Oommereial  Dooka. 

Oxand  Burrej  Dookft 

YeMolfc             Tods. 

YMfloU. 

Tona. 

V<M80l>. 

Tom. 

If^lO 

155             62,024 

211 

05,809 

135 

40,447 

IHII 

201             82,106 

265 

70,4iJ8 

114 

34,M)1 

18i2 

136             54,931 

250 

87,124 

100 

29,500 

l»4d 

109             71,211 

308 

121.840 

108 

31,290 

le^ 

121             58,581 

480 

142,223 

173 

4H.80d 

1845 

149             70,514 

424 

137.047 

155 

4:J.211 

1640 

182             88,308 

351 

111,180 

lt)5 

50,0(»d 

IfJUT 

228            124,114 

423 

143,060 

226 

02.483 

1»48 

138              76,050 

412 

132,406 

105 

53,423 

I64» 

138              07,bG0 

410 

136,329 

212 

58,780 

Total 

1,017           751,380 

3,544 

1,148,377 

1,613 

453,587 

ATcnmNui 
rf  Bhipa 

nberA 

Tcv.fuid 

tlfeir  f.  101                 4404 

354 

324 

161 

281 

iTMtlJp* 

lua- 

luipe 

'^ 

The  foruign  and  colonial  timber  trade  is, 
then,  confined  to  five  of  the  seven  docks  be- 
longing to  the  port  of  London.  Of  these  five, 
three — the  Commercial,  the  Grand  Siurey 
Caual,  and  tlie  East  Country — are  situate  on 
the  Sum»y  side  of  the  river,  occupying  nl- 
togethor  an  area  of  172J  acres,  of  which  1004 
are  water  and  72  land,  and  oifering  accommo- 
dation and  protection  for  no  less  than  678 
Tessels.  Here  the  principal  part  of  the 
timber  and  deal  trade  is  carried  on,  the 
Commercial  receiving  the  greatest  number  of 
wood-laden  vessels,  perhaps  greater  than  any 
otiier  (lock  in  the  world.  These,  together 
witli  that  portion  of  the  West  India  Dock 
which  is  devoted  to  the  some  purpose,  moke 
the  entire  extent  of  the  timber  dix;ks  attached 
to  the  port  of  London  about  250  acres,  of 
which  upwards  of  140  are  water — a  spoco  suf- 
ficirnit  to  give  berths  to  no  less  than  040  ships. 

I  now  come  to  speak  of  the  condition  and 
earnings  of  the  labourers  connected  with  the 


timber  and  hard-wood  trade.  Of  these,  it 
appears  there  are  1030  men  casually  em- 
ployed  at  all  the  timber  docks^  of  whom  only 
132  obtain  work  all  tlie  year  roimd.  How  the 
OlX)  casual  deal-porters  and  rafters  live  during 
the  six  months  of  tlie  year  that  tlie  slack 
season  usually  lasts  in  the  timber  trade,  I 
cunnot  conceive.  As  not  a  sixpence  of  their 
earnings  is  saved  in  Uie  brisk  season,  their 
fate  in  the  winter  is  to  suffer  privations  and 
alHictions  which  they  only  know. 

I  shall  begin  with  tlie  slate  of  the  dock- 
labourers  employed  at  tlie  foreign  and  hard- 
wood trade.  This  trade  is  confinetl  mainly,  if 
not  solely,  to  the  We^t  India  Dock. 

Concerning  tliis  branch  of  tho  wood  ti'ode, 
I  give  below  the  statement  of  a  man  who  has 
worked  at  it  for  many  years,  and  in  doing  so, 
I  wish  to  draw  attention  to  tlie  latter  part  of 
Uie  narrative,  as  a  proof  of  what  I  have  re- 
peatedly asserted  respecting  the  regard  ex- 
hibited by  the  authorities  of  the  West  India 


2J4 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Dock,  and  in  particular  hy  Mr.  Knight,  the 
superintendent,  for  tlio  weirore  of  all  tlie  men, 
whether  directly  or  even  indirectly  employed 
by  them. 

This  indirect  employment  of  workmen, 
however,  is  the  great  bune  of  the  industrious 
classes.  Whetlier  the  middleman  goes  by  the 
name  of  sweater,  chainber-ni  sister,  lumper,  or 
contractor,  it  is  this  trading  o])erative  who  is 
the  great  melius  of  reducing  the  wages  of  his 
fellow  working-men.  To  nnik(j  a  profit  out  of 
the  employment  of  his  bi-other-uperatives  ho 
must  obtain  a  lower  class  labour.  He  cares 
nothing  about  the  quality  of  the  work,  so  long 
OS  tho  workmen  can  g^^t  through  it  somehow, 
and  will  labour  at  a  cheaper  rate.  Hence  it 
becomes  a  business  with  him  to  hunt  out  the 
lowest  grades  of  working  men — the  dnmken, 
the  dishonest,  the  idle,  the  vagabond,  and  the 
unskilful  men — becauso  these,  being  unable 
to  obtain  emph)yment  at  the  regular  wages  of 
the  sober,  honest,  industrious,  and  skilful 
portion  of  the  tnule,  ho  can  obtain  their 
labour  at  a  lower  ruto  than  what  is  usuidly 
paid.  "  Boy -labour  or  thief-labour."  said  a 
middleman  on  a  large  scale,  "  what  do  I 
core,  so  long  as  I  can  got  my  work  done 
cheap."  I  have  alreivly  shown  that  the 
wives  of  tlie  sweaters  not  only  parade  the 
streets  of  London  on  tlio  look-out  for  youths 
raw  from  the  country,  but  that  they  make 
perioilical  trips  to  the  poorest  provinces  of 
Ireland,  in  order  to  obtain  workmen  at  the 
lowest  possible  rate.  I  have  shown,  moreover, 
that  foreigners  ore  aimually  imported  from 
the  Continent  for  the  same  purpose,  and  that 
among  the  chamber-masters  in  the  shoe  trade, 
the  child-market  at  Bethnal-green,  as  well  as 
the  workhouses,  ore  continuiLliy  ransacked  for 
the  means  of  obtaining  a  cheaper  kind  of 
labour.  All  my  investigations  go  to  prove 
that  it  is  chiefly  by  means  of  the  middleman - 
system  tliat  the  wages  of  the  working  men 
are  rcduce<L  This  contractor — this  trading 
operative — uses  the  most  degraded  of  the 
class  as  a  means  of  underselling  the  worthy 
and  skilful  labourers,  ainl  of  ultimately  drag- 
ging the  better  down  to  the  abasement  of  the 
worst.  If  men  cannot  subsist  on  lower  prices, 
then  he  takes  apprentices  or  hires  children ; 
or  if  workmen  of  character  and  worth  refuse 
to  work  at  leas  than  the  ordinar}'  rate,  then 
he  seeks  out  the  moral  refuse  of  the  trade, 
those  whom  none  else  will  employ ;  or  else  he 
Hies  to  the  workhouse  and  the  gaol  to  And 
labour  meet  for  his  purpose.  Backed  by  this 
cheap  and  refuse  labour,  he  offers  his  work  at 
lower  prices,  and  so  keeps  ou  reducing  and 
vtducing  the  wages  of  his  bretliren  until  all 
sink  in  poverty,  wretchedness,  and  vice.  I  am 
therefore  the  more  anxious  to  impress  upon 
the  minds  of  those  gentlemen  who  ore  actuated 
by  a  sincere  regard  for  the  interesti^  and  com- 
forts of  the  men  in  their  employ,  the  evils  of 
such  a  system ;  for,  however  great  may  be  tljo 
saving  of  trouble  effected  by  it,  yet,  unless  it 


be  strictly  watched  (as  I  must  confess  it  is  at 
the  West  India  and  Commercial  Docks)  it  can 
only  be  maintained  by  the  employment  of  a 
cheaper  and  worse  class  labourer,  and  therefore 
must  result  in  the  degradation  of  the  woi^- 
men.  I  have  said  thus  much,  because  I  find 
this  contract  system  the  general  practioe  at 
all  the  wood-docks,  and  because  I  am  conTinced 
that  the  gentlemen  to  whom  the  maDagement 
of  those  docks  is  entrusted,  Mr.  Knight,  Mr. 
Jones,  and  .Mr.  Cannan,  have  the  welfiire  of 
the  men  in  their  employ  sincerely  at  heart. 

Of  the  evils  of  lumping,  or  discharging  wood- 
ships  by  couti-act,  I  have  already  treated  at 
considerable  length.  Under  that  system,  it 
will  be  remembered,  I  showed  that  the  contrac- 
tor, who  is  commonly  a  publican,  makes  hii 
profit,  not  by  cheapening  the  labourer,  bat  by 
intoxicating  him.  Like  the  contractor  for 
ballast,  ho  gets  his  money  out  of  the  drank* 
enuess  of  the  workmen,  and  by  this  means  it 
enabU^d  to  undersell  the  dock  proprietors;  or, 
in  other  words,  to  discharge  the  wood-laden 
ships  at  a  less  rate  tlian  Uiey  could  possibly 
afford  to  do  it  for  by  the  fair  and  honourable  em- 
ployment of  their  men.  Of  the  effeots  of  this 
system — Uie  drunkenness  of  the  men,  the 
ston-ation  of  the  wives,  the  squalor  and  igno- 
rance of  the  children,  the  wretchedness  and 
desolation  of  the  homos,  I  have  already  treated 
at  some  length :  and  it  will  be  seen  hereafter 
that  in  those  docks  where  Uie  superrision  that 
is  maintained  at  the  West  India  and  Com- 
mercial is  not  kept  up,  tlie  labourers  are 
reduced  to  almost  the  same  state  of  poverty 
and  destitution. 

But  to  return.  A  man  living  in  a  smsll 
room  in  a  poor  neighboiurhood,  but  in  a  tidy 
apartment,  and  with  a  well  kept  little  garden 
at  the  back,  gave  me  the  following  account  of 
Ills  .earnings  and  laboiur  in  the  mahogany 
department  of  the  West  India  Docks : — 

**  I  have  worked  in  the  West  India  Docks  for 
eleven  years,  and  for  the  last  half  of  that  time 
in  the  maliogany  part  of  the  wood-yard.  Before 
that,  I  was  deven  years  in  the  merchant  ser- 
vice as  able  seaman ;  but  I  got  married,  and 
thought  I  could  do  better  in  the  docks ;  for» 
afler  all,  what  is  18/.  a-year,  supposing  I  had 
the  luck  to  be  at  sea  nine  montiis  every  year 
at  2/.a-month — what  is  18/.  a-year,  sir,  to  keep 
a  wife  and  family  on,  as  well  as  a  man  himsellr 
when  he's  ashore  ?  At  the  West  India  Docks, 
we  unload  the  mahogany,  or  logwood,  or  fancy 
wood  from  the  ships,  and  pile  them  wherever 
they're  ordered.  We  work  in  gangs  of  six  or 
seven,  with  a  master  at  the  In. 'ad  of  the  gang; 
the  logs  are  got  out  of  the  hold  with  a  pur- 
chase and  a  jigger,  and  heaved  ashore  by  a 
crane  ou  to  a  ti-uck,  and  we  drag  the  truck  to 
the  place  to  stow  the  timber.  In  the  wood- 
yards  a  machine  lifts  the  timber  up,  by  us  men 
turning  handles  to  work  the  machine,  and  puts 
it  into  its  place  in  the  warehouse.  We  are  paid 
2*.  Orf.  a-day,  working  from  eight  to  four.  If 
only  employed  for  four  hours  —  and  we're  not 


LOSJ>OS  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOSDOS  POOR,  .tj^i 


M:L  to  vork  for  Ins*  th«i  fonr  hours — we  bare  l  to  Mr.  Jones»  tho  intelligent  and  conrteona 
U  4v.'.  It' I  could  get  2ji.  %d.  a-day  all  the  year  siipenuteiu)eut»  ibr  mucli  valuable  iiit'or.u:i- 
c!irika*^'h,  I'd  be  a  ba^ipy  man ;  but  I  cnu't.    tion. 

31  J.  aud  ttiich  a^  me,  eamd  lOt.,  XU^  or  as  far  |  Tlu'  Avorldng  lumpers,  as  I  before  ei^iiiaiiKMl, 
ii»  ITm.  a- week  when  we  aro  wanted.  13at  take  an?  the  labourfrs  employed  t.)  disi'hni>;i*  ull 
Liioyear  tbrougb,  1  make  between  Ji.'.  and  l().t.  ,  woo«l-l.'ideuYess«.'ls,  except  f"rcijjrushli>«,wbicli 
a-weck;  nut  of  that  I  have  to  keep  a  wife  and  are  discharged  Ijy  their  own  cn'ws;  tho  vessi)!.-* 
f  lu- children.  I've  lost  one  childf  and  my  wile  unkili'U  by  tlie  lumptrs  are  discliaii?e«l  some- 
.  :r.  .u'ot  httlc  or  nothiu^  most  times  to  do  with  :  thiK-s  in  the  dock,  and  sometimes  (wlieu  im 
iit-r  ne»:Hlle;  and  if  she  docs, '/et  work,  what  i.':m  I  heavily  bulen)  in  tlio  riv^T.  The  c^ivoes  of 
^lle  UAiike  at  five  fiu-tliiii;;s  or  thitfe-hidrpeiice  ,  wood-ladi'n  vess^'lH  are  tuiiied  cith-r  landed 
a  shirt  for  the  slop-shops?  My  ehlo-^t  child,  |  or  raftoil so'hIs ;  the  ** landed"  goods  au*o  deals, 
however,  does  make  I.*,  or  I5.  Orf.  a-woek.  I  butti-iis,  sleeiitr^wninscot  logs,  and  hide(d  all 
hve  ou  bread  and  butter,  with  a  dr«»p  of  beer  .  hut  hewu  tuaber,  which  is  "roftecL"  When  a 
Do^  ami  t]ien,  six  days  out  of  the  seven.  On  |  ves^^tl  is  miladen  in  the  river,  the  landed  goods 
Sundays  \\c  mostly  have  a  shilling's  wortli  of ,  we  discharged  by  lumpers,  who  also  load  the 
meat — buUo;.-k's  head  generally.  Sometimes  [  lighters,  whereas  in  thick  tlie  lumpei-s  dis- 
oiur  work  is  very  hard,  witii  hi-iwy  liftiu'-.;-  A  ehnr^'e  tlunn  into  the  company's  barges,  which 
weakly  man's  no  u«4e,  and  I've  wumlcred  how  1  1  are  loavleJ  by  them  as  well,  "With  smaller 
have  the  strongtJi  1  have  on  bread  and  butter,  vessels,  however,  which  occasionally  go  along- 
Weare  allpaid  iuthe  dock,fmdthoii-'sni>body  I  side,  the  lumpers  discharge  directly  to  the 
allowed  to  get  the  men  to  drink,  or  to  tratlic  j  shme,  where  the  ^'•)ods  an;  received  by  the 
with  them  anyhow,  but  in  a  fair,  regular  way.  I  con:paiiy's  porters.  The  lumpers  never  work 
There's  plenty  hung  al>out  every  day  wlio  would    on  shore.     Of  the  portei-s  working  on  shore 


work  a  day's  work  iovil^. :  theiv's  a  gocnl  many 
Iiisli.  I  don't  know  that  there's  any  foreigners, 
without  it  be  on  the  sugar  sMe.  Sometimes  a 
homlred  men  are  employed  iu  our  pail  of  tlie 
buMueas ;  to-day  thei'e  wus  from  forty  to  lifiy 
at  wurk,  and  a  huuilred  more  was  to  be  hud  if 


there  ai-e  two  kind'^,  viz.  deal  and  stave -porters, 
w!iose  duty  it  is  to  receive  the  landed  goods 
aiul  to  pile  ami  sort  tlicin,  either  along  tho 
quay  or  in  the  buildiag  ground,  if  duty  has  to 
l;e  paid  upon  tliem. 
The  hewn- timber,  or  rafted  goods  the  lump- 


tbey'd  been  wanted.  Jobs  (»l'ten  come  in  in  a  •  ei-s  tlinist  thron;:li  the  porthole  into  tlie  water, 
Imap — all  at  once,  or  n«>ne  ai  all ;  v;  ry  often  I  anil  there  tho  raftsmim  receives  them,  puts 
ifith  tlie  wind.  "NVe  run  backwards  and  for- j  th(;m  in t*»  lengths  and  sizes,  and  then  aiTanges 
wards  to  the  sugar-side  or  the  Siurny  I)o:k,  as  ,  tliem  iu  fluats — tlh-rc  being  eighteen  pieces  to 
we  expect  to  be  wanted.  AVe  don't  kn»\v  wliat.  |  a  lloat.  If  the  '^hip  is  discharged  in  Uie  river, 
the  foremen  of  tlie  gongs  get,  but  the  c'.inpnny  the  rafter  lloats  th?  limber  to  the  docks,  and 
won't  allow  them  to  underpay  us  ;  and  I  have  .  ilieii  to  tlm  pi>nus  of  the  company.  If,  liow- 
notliing  to  comphun  about,  either  of  them  or  ;ver,  the  :.liii)  is  disj'har4e«l  in  d'jck,  thi?n  tho 
tlie  company,  though  were  had  irif.  Tlje  lore- .  ridtnim  Ht^uts  the  limbor  only  from  the  main 
man  can  pick  his  laen.     ^lany  of  us  has  to  go  |  (Utik  to  the  pumls. 

ti>  tlie  parish.  Once  I  earned  only  ;'«,-.  in  three  \  The  raficrs  ai-e  rdl  frciMnen,  for  otherwise 
weeks.  Our  best  time  is  from  junn  or  July,  1  they  couhl  notw.rk  ou  the  river;  they  must 
c'ntinuing  on  for  two,  three,  foiu",  or  live  have  served  seven  ye.u'S  to  a  waterman,  and 
uionilis  as  happens.  We  live  half  ilio  yi»ar  I  ihey  m'k\  ohligr-d  to  pay  3«.  a-year  totlieWater- 
f.nd  starv'e  tlie  fothi-r.  I'liere's  very  I'cv,-  tee-  man's  Company  for  a  license.  There  are  six- 
tuuders  among  us — in'ii  want  betr  if  they  |  toen  or  seventeen  rafters  (all  preferable  men) 
hve  upon  bread  and  but  tor;  iIk  re's  muny  i  rnipl-iyed  by  tlie  (.'•■nuiiei'cial  iVxrk  Company, 
know  lives  on  a  meal  a-day,  an  I  tlial's  bread  1  and  in  busy  ihiies  there  ure  occa-lonaily  as 
.'ind  butter.  There's  no  drunkards  amonu  our  I  many  as  forty  crisual  raftiirs,  or  ''pol.ers,"  us 
men.  We're  mostly  marrietl  m<n  with  fami-  they  an*  calh-d,  from  tln.ir  p(»kin^  about  the 
li'-s  ;  most  pf>or  ni^^i  is  married,  1  think.  '  d<icks  for  a  Job:  these  casual  men  aro  not 
Poor  as  I  am,  a  wife  and  family'*  sojnething  ,  <*!ij)iible  of  raiting  a  ship,  nor  are  tluy  free 
10  cling  to  like."  watenn^-n.  tiny  are  oidy  employed  to  lloat  the 

timber  from  the  ship  up  to  the  ponds  and  stow 
The  Timbeh  and  Deal  Tiiade.  i  it,  (»r  to  am^nd  to  deliviries.    The  skill  of  tho 

I  rafter  lies  in  ganging  and  sorting  tho  tunher 
I  N«-w  come  to  the  timbir  and  deal  trade.  |  acc'.rdiug  to  size,  quality,  and  own" -i-s  hi  p.  and 
Th.' lab<.»urers  connected  with  this  portion  of  making  it  up  intt»  lloats*  It  is  only  (i.i  expe- 
thc  trade  aro  rafters  or  raftsmen,  and  deal  or  |  rit-ncc'ii  nifter  who  can  t.-ll  the  dilVi-iiit  sizes, 
stave-porters;  these  are  either  jM.rmanently  or  quidities,  and  own.'i-s  of  the  timber;  this  the 
oa^ually  employed.  I  shall  give  an  account  of ,  ])ok«*rs,  or  ciu>ual  ndlcrs,  ai"e  miabl.*  to  tlo. 
C!i.h,  as  well  as  of  the  system  pm-sued  at  (.'ach  The  pokers,  again,  cannot  lloat  the  timl.-er 
<Jl'ihe  docks,  bei,'inning  with  the  Commercial, ,  from  the  river  to  tlie  ponds;  this  is  o^iing  to 
Iccause  it  does  the  most  ext«'n-ive  business  in  two  reasons:  lirst,  they  are  imt  allowed  to  do 
liiis  branch  of  the  wood-truilf  ;  and  here  let  j  so  on  account  of  not  b«'iiig  freti  watennen ; 
hie  acknowledge  the  obhgations  I  am  under  ,  and,  sovondly,  they  are  unable  to  do  so  from 


add 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TUB  LONDON  POOR. 


the  difficulty  of  navigation.  The  pokers  work 
exclusively  in  the  docks;  neither  the  rafters 
nor  pokers  work  nnder  contractors,  hut  the 
deal  and  stave-porters  invariably  do. 

The  following  statement  of  a  rafter  at  the 
Commercial  Dock  I  had  from  a  prudent,  well* 
behaved,  sober  man.  He  was  in  company  with 
another  man,  employed  in  the  same  capacity 
at  the  same  docks,  and  they  both  belonged  to 
the  better  class  of  labouring  men : — 

**  I  am  a  rafter  at  the  Commercial  Dock.  I 
have  been  working  at  that  dock  for  the  last  six 
years,  in  the  same  capacity,  and  before  that  I 
was  rafter  at  die  Surrey  Dock  for  between  five 
and  six  years.  I  served  my  apprenticeship  to 
a  waterman.  I  was  bound  when  I  was  sixteen. 
We  are  not  allowed  to  work  till  we  have  served 
two  years.  In  my  apprenticeship  I  was  con- 
tinually  engaged  in  timber-towing,  lightering, 
and  at  times  sculling;  but  that  I  did  only 
when  the  other  business  was  slack.  After  my 
time  was  out  I  went  Ughtering ;  and  about  a 
dozen  years  after  that  I  took  to  rafting.  I  had 
been  a  rafter  at  the  Surrey  Canal  before  then 
— while  I  was  in  my  apprenticeship  indeed. 
I  had  18s.  a-week  when  I  tirst  commenced  raft- 
ing al  the  Surrey  Canal ;  but  that,  of  course, 
all  went  to  my  master.  I  was  with  the  Surrey 
Canal  about  two  years  as  rafter,  and  then  I 
joined  another  party  at  SOs.  a-weck  in  the 
same  capacity ;  this  party  rented  a  wharf  of 
the  Surrey  Canal  Company,  and  I  still  worked 
in  the  dock.  There  I  worked  longer  time — 
four  hours  longer ;  the  wages  would  have  been 
as  good  at  the  Surrey  Canal  at  outside  work 
as  they  were  with  the  second  party  1  joined. 
The  next  place  that  I  went  to  as  rafter  was  the 
Commercial  Dock,  where  I  am  now,  and  have 
been  for  the  last  six  years.  I  am  paid  by  the 
week.  When  I  work  at  the  dock  I  have  1/.  1$. 
a-week,  and  when  I  am  rafting  short^hour 
ships  (i.«.  ships  from  which  we  work  only  from 
eight  till  four)  I  get  is,  per  day.  When  I  am 
working  long-hour  ships  (t.f.  ships  at  which 
the  working  lasts  firom  six  till  six)  I  get  0«. 
a-day ;  the  other  rafters  employed  by  the  com- 
pany are  paid  the  same.  Our  wages  have 
remained  the  same  ever  since  I  have  been  in 
the  business;  all  the  other  men  have  been 
lowered,  such  as  carpenters,  labourers,  watch- 
men, deal-porters  and  the  like ;  but  we  are  not 
constant  men,  or  else  I  dare  say  ours  would 
have  been  reduced  too.  They  have  lowered 
the  wages  of  the  old  hands,  who  have  been 
there  for  years,  1«.  a-week.  Formerly  they 
had  1/.  Is.,  now  tliey  get  1/. ;  the  men  are  dis- 
satisfied. The  wages  of  the  casual  dock-la- 
bourers  have  been  reduced  a  great  deal  more 
than  those  of  the  constant  men ;  three  months 
ago  they  all  had  IBs.  a-weck,  and  now  the 
highest  wages  paid  to  the  casual  labourers  is 
15s.  The  reason  why  the  wages  of  the  rafters 
have  not  been  lowered  is,  I  take  it,  because  we 
are  freemen,  and  there  are  not  so  many  to  be 
had  who  could  supply  our  places.  Not  one  of 
a  hundred  lightermen  and  watermen  are  able 


to  raft  We  are  only  emplayed  at  certain  tiroes  i 
of  the  year.  Our  busy  time  begins  at  July, 
and  ends  in  October.  We  are  fimy  employed 
about  four  months  in  the  year,  and  get  during 
that  time  from  1/.  Is.  to  30s.  a-week,  or  say 
25s.  upon  an  average.  The  rest  of  our  time 
we  fills  up  as  we  can.  Some  of  the  rafters  has 
boats,  and  tbey  look  out  for  a  job  at  sculling; 
but  that's  poor  enough  now." 

"  Ah,  very  poor  work,  indeed,"  said  an  old 
weatlier- beaten  man  who  was  present,  and  had 
had  40  years'  experience  at. the  business.. 
*'*'  When  I  first  joined  it,  it  was  in  the  war 
time,"  he  added,  "  and  then  I  was  scarcely  a 
day  idle,  and  now  I  can't  get  work  for  better ; 
than  half  my  time."  \ 

"  For  the  other  eight  months,"  continued  the  ^ 
other  man,  **I  should  think  the  rafters  npon' 
an  average  make  5s.  a-week.  Some  of  them  \ 
has  boats,  and  some  gets  a  job  at  timber-towing;  \ 
but  some  (and  that's  the  greatest  number]  has ' 
nothing  at  all  to  turn  their  hands  to  excepting ' 
the  casual  dock  labour ;  that  is,  anything  they 
can  chance  to  get  hold  of.  I  don't  think  those 
who  depend  upon  the  casual  labour  of  the 
docks  after  the  fall  season  is  over  (the  fall 
ships  are  the  last  that  come)  make  5s.  a-week, 
take  one  man  with  another.  I  should  say, 
more  likely,  tlieir  weekly  earnings  is  about  ii.- 
There  are  about  10  rafters  at  the  Commercial. 
Docks,  and  only  one  single  man  among  the. 
number.  They  none  of  them  save  any  money' 
during  the  busy  season.  They  are  in  debt' 
when  the  brisk  time  comes,  and  it  tidces  themj 
all  the  summer  to  get  clear;  which  peihapsi 
they  does  by  the  time  the  fall  ships  have  done^l 
and  then,  of  course,  they  begin  going  on  in  the: 
old  strain  again.  A  rafter's  life  is  merely, 
getting  into  debt  and  getting  clear  of  it,—: 
that  is  it — and  that  is  a  great  part  of  the  life 
of  all  the  labourers  along  shore."  ; 

He  then  produced  the  following  account  of! 
his  earnings  for  the  last  year :  — 


1st  week     . 

.          .      Jgl 

1     0 

2d 

)>        • 

1 

8    0« 

8d 

»»        • 

1 

4    0 

4th 

n           • 

1 

5    0 

5th 

>»           •           • 

0 

0    0 

6th 

»           •           < 

1 

1    0 

7th 

>}            •           ■ 

0 

0    0 

8th 

l»            • 

1 

1    0 

9th 

l»           •           • 

0 

0    0 

10th 

»»           •            « 

1 

1    0 

11th 

l>            •           • 

0 

4    Of 

12th 

}>            *            * 

1 

1    0 

Idth 

»»            • 

0 

4    Of 

14th 

f}            •           * 

0 

7    6 

15th 

»»            •            " 

0 

0    0 

16th 

»i           •            • 

0 

0    0 

17th 

>f            •            • 

1 

1    0 

18th 

If            •            " 

0  10    Of 

19th 

n         •          • 

1 

4    0 

20th 

»»          •          • 

0  17    6t 

•Outride  work. 

t  J 

Nwhlg* 

LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


297 


filstweek    . 

.     ^  13    0 

22d    „       . 

0    7    0 

23d  :    , 

.        110 

24th    M 

0  10    Of 

25th    ^ 

0    2    0 

26th    ,. 

0    4    0 

27th    « 

0     1     0 

28th    „ 

1     1    0{ 

29th    „ 

1     4    0 

80th    „ 

13    0 

Slst    „ 

.        110 

82d     ^ 

16     0 

asd    „ 

13     0 

34th    „ 

110 

9&th    ., 

0  14    0 

36th    „ 

17    0 

87th    „ 

2    0    0 

38th    „        , 

1     5    Of 

39th    „ 

1     0     6 

40th    „ 

14    0 

4l«t    „        . 

1  10    0 

42d     „        , 

14    0 

43d     ,,        . 

1  10    0 

44th    „ 

1  14    0 

45th    „ 

15    6 

46th    „        . 

I  10    4 

47lh    „        . 

0    5    0 

48th    „        . 

1  10    0 

49th    ,. 

1  10    0 

60th    „        , 

1  10    0 

6l8t     „          , 

17    0 

52d     , 

110 

1( 

m. 

Istweek    . 

.  jei  10  0 

2d     „ 

.        0  10    6 

3d    n 

.        110 

4th   „ 

.        0  12     6 

5th    H 

2  10     6|| 

6th   „        , 

1     1     0 

7th   „        , 

17     0 

8th    „        , 

1     8     0 

9th    ., 

0  10    0 

10th    „ 

1   1   oir 

11th    .. 

0    3     Of 

J2th    ,. 

0  18   oir 

13th    ^ 

0  10    Of 

Uth    „        . 

0    0    0 

15th    „ 

10    0 

16th    „        . 

0  12     0 

17th    ,. 

1     1     0 

18th    „         . 

1   5   oir 

19th    „        , 

10    0 

20th    ^ 

0    0    0 

This  gives  an  ayerage  for  the  seventy-two 
reeks  above  cited  of  18«.  6}  J.  per  week. 

"  Where  I  get  1/."  the  man  continued,  after 
■  hid  copied  his  accounts,  "  many  don't  get 
«.  I  know  many  fiiends  on  the  river,  and  I 
let  a  number  of  odd  jobs  which  others  can't, 
n  the  last  six  years  my  earnings  have  been 
loeh  about  the  same ;  but  others,  I  am  sure, 
OD't  make  half  what  I  do — ^I  have  earned 


Mi 


fobbing.  t  Biuj  time  bogina 

I  Working  Bund«y  and  uiffhts. 
I  Contract  Job  on  river.  1  Dock  work. 


17.  8«.  when  I  know  they  have  been  walking 
about  and  not  earned  a  penny.  In  busy 
times,  as  many  as  forty  pokers  are  employed; 
sometimes  for  as  many  as  five  weeks  in  the 
year.  They  get  3«.  6</.  a-day  from  six  to  six. 
After  they  are  out  of  work  they  do  as  best 
they  can.  It's  impossible  to  tell  how  one-half 
of  them  live.  Half  their  time  they  are 
starving.  The  wives  of  the  rafters  go  some 
of  them  charing ;  some  arc  glove-makers,  and 
others  dressmaikers.  None  that  I  know  of  do 
slopwork.** 

I  now  come  to  the  deal  and  stave-porters, 
first,  as  to  those  employed  at  the  Commercial 
Docks. 

From  a  man  who  has  an  excellent  character 
given  to  him  by  his  employers  I  had  the  fol- 
lowing account : — 

"  At  our  dock,"  he  said,  "  timber  and  com 
are  the  principal  articles ;  but  they  are  distinct 
branches  and  have  distinct  labourers.  I  am 
in  the  deal  part ;  when  a  foreign  timber-ship 
comes  to  the  dock,  the  timber  is  heaved  out  of 
the  porthole  by  the  crew  themselves.  The 
deal  ships,  too,  are  sometimes  unloaded  by  the 
foreigners  themselves,  but  not  often ;  three  or 
four  out  of  a  dozen  may.  Ours  is  very  dan- 
gerous work:  we  pile  the  deals  sometimes 
ninety  deals  high — higher  at  the  busiest  time, 
and  we  walk  along  planks,  with  no  hold,  carry- 
ing the  deals  in  our  hands,  and  only  our  firm 
tread  and  our  eye  to  depend  upon.  We  work 
in  foggy  weather,  and  never  stop  for  a  fog;  at 
least,  we  haven't  for  eight  or  nine  years,  to  my 
knowledge.  In  that  soil  of  weather  accidents 
are  frequent.  There  was  last  year,  I  believe, 
about  thirty-five  falls,  but  no  deaths.  If  it's  a 
bad  accident,  the  deal-porters  give  %d,  a-piece 
on  Saturday  night,  to  help  the  man  that's  had 
it.  There's  no  fund  for  sickness.  We  work  in 
gangs  of  five  usually,  sometimes  more.  We 
are  paid  for  canying  100  of  12.feet  deals. 
Is.  9<f. ;  14  feet,  2«.  2d, ;  20  and  21  feet,  3«. ; 
22  feet,  3s.  8 J. ;  andfh)m  24  to  27  feet,  4s.  8</. 
That's  at  piece-work.  We  used  to  have  3</. 
per  100  more  for  eveiy  sort,  but  it  was  re- 
duced three  or  four  months  back,— or  more, 
may  be.  In  a  general  way  we  are  paid  nothing 
extra  for  having  to  carry  the  deals  beyond  an 
average  distance,  except  for  what  we  call  long 
runs:  that's  as  far,  or  about  as  far,  as  the 
dock  extends  from  the  place  we  start  to  cany 
the  deals  from.  One  week  with  another,  the 
year  through,  we  make  from  12s.  to  15s. ;  the 
15s.  by  men  who  have  the  preference  when 
work  is  slack.  We're  busiest  Arom  July  to 
Christmas.  Fm  tlie  head  of  a  gang  or  team 
of  five,  and  Fm  only  paid  as  they  are ;  but 
I  have  the  preference  if  work  is  slack,  and 
so  have  the  men  in  my  team.  Five  men 
roust  work  at  the  Commercial,  or  none  at  all. 
We  are  paid  in  the  dock  at  the  contractor's 
office  (there  are  three  contractors),  at  four 
o'clock  every  Saturday  evening.  Drinking  is 
kept  down  in  our  dock,  and  wiUi  my  contractor 
drunkards  are  discharged.    The  men  axe  all 


V!UM 


LOSDOS  LABOra  JKD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


suUsfiod  lut  for  tlie  lowering  of  their  wages. 
Ko  doubt  they  caii  get  labour  cheaper  stilly 
there's  so  many  idlers  about.  A  dozen  years 
back,  or  so,  they  did  pay  us  in  a  public-house. 
Our  deal-porters  are  generally  sober  men. 
The  bccr-uieu  only  come  into  the  dock  twice 
a-day — ten  in  the  morning,  and  half-past 
three  in  the  afternoon — and  the  men  never 
exceed  a  pint  at  a  time." 

An  older  man,  in  the  same  employ,  said: — 

"  I've  known  deal-portering  for  twenty  years 
back,  and  then,  at  the  Commercial  Dock,  men 
was  paid  in  a  public-house,  and  tliero  was  a 
good  deal  of  drunkenness.  The  men  weren't 
compelled  to  drink,  but  was  expected  to.  In 
tliat  point  it's  far  better  now.  When  I  was 
first  a  deal  porter  I  could  make  half  as  much 
m<iro  as  I  do  now.  I  don't  complain  of  any 
bo<ly  about  the  dock ;  it  ain't  Uieir  fault ;  but 
I  do  oompluin  uncommon  about  the  times, 
there's  so  little  work  and  so  many  to  snap 
at  it.' 

From  a  stare-porter  at  the  same  dock  I  had 
the  f<)lli>wiug  ai^couut: — 

"  AVe  are  paid  by  the  piece,  and  the  price 
varies  acoordiug  to  size  from  Is.  0<^.  to  10s.Uie 
thousiuid.  Quebec  staves,  (!  feet  long  by  2 
inches  thick  and  a  few  inches  broad,  arc  10.s-.  the 
thousand;  and  other  sizes  ore  paid  in  the 
same  proportion,  down  to  1».  (Jrf.  We  pack  the 
bigger  staves  about  our  shoulders,  restuig  one 
stave  on  another,  more  like  a  Jack-in-the-green 
than  anything  else,  as  our  head  comes  out  in 
tlie  middle  of  em.  Of  the  biggest,  live  is  a 
good  load,  and  wc  pack  all  sizes  alike,  fnldiug 
our  arms  to  hold  the  suialler  staves  better. 
Take  it  altogether,  we  make  ut  stave-work  what 
the  deal-portei's  do  at  tlieir  work ;  and,  indeed, 
wc  are  deal -porters  when  staves  isn't  in. 
There's  most  staves  comes  to  the  Suirey  Canal 
Dock." 

A  man  who  had  worked  at  tlie  West  India 
Dock  as  a  deal-i>orter  informed  me  that  the 
prices  paid  were  the  same  as  were  paid  by  the 
Commercial  and  East  Country  Dock  Companies 
before  the  reduction  ;  but  the  supply  of  labour 
was  uncertain  and  irregular,  chiefly  at  the 
spring  and  fall,  and  in  British-.\merioun  ships. 
As  many  as  100  men,  however,  my  informant 
stated,  had  been  so  employed  at  this  dock, 
making  from  15«.  to  25«.  a-wcck,  or  as  much 
as  i30«.  on  occasions,  and  without  the  drawback 
of  any  compulsory  or  "  expected  drinking." 
Such,  as  fur  as  I  could  learn,  is  the  condition 
of  the  labourers  employed  at  these  timber 
docks,  where  the  drinking  system  and  the  pay- 
ment of  men  in  public- houses  are  not  allowed. 
Concerning  the  state  of  the  men  employed  at 
the  other  docks  where  the  public-house  system 
stiH  continues,  I  had  the  following  details. 

A  deal-porter  at  tlie  Surrey  Canal  Dock 
stated :  "  1  have  worked  a  good  many  years  in 
tlie  Surrey  Dock.  There  were  four  contractors 
at  the  Surrey  Canal,  but  now  there's  one,  and 
he  pays  the  publican  where  we  gets  our  beer 
all  that's  owing  to  us  deal-porters,  and  the 


publican  pays  us  ever^-  Saturday  night  I  can*t 
say  that  we  are  compelled  to  take  beer,  cer- 
tainly not  when  at  our  work  in  the  doek,  but 
we're  expected  to  take  it  when  we*re  waiting. 
I  can't  say  either  that  we  are  discharged  if  we 
don't  drink,  but  if  we  don't  we  are  kept  waiting 
late  on  a  Saturday  night,  on  an  excuse  of  the 
publican's  having  no  change,  or  something  like 
that;  and  wo  feel  that,  somehow  or  other,  if  we 
don't  drink  we'll  be  left  in  (he  back-groand. 
Why  don't  the  superintendent  see  ns  paid  in 
the  dock  ?  He  pays  the  company's  labouren 
in  the  dock ;  they're  corn-turners  and  niterf, 
and  they  are  paid  early,  too.  W^e  now  have 
4j.  4rf.  a  day  of  from  8  to  4,  and  9s.  8cC  f^m 

0  to  6.    It  used  to  be,  till  four  months  back, 

1  think,  4<.  10</.  and  G«.  4</.  In  slack  times, 
say  six  montlis  in  the  year,  we  earns  f!rom  lOi. 
to  12s.  a-week;  in  the  brisk  time  30s.,  and 
sometimes  more ;  but  30s.  is  about  the  average. 
We  are  all  paid  at  the  public-house.  We 
gathers  from  after  five  or  so  on  the  Saturday 
night.  We  are  kept  now  and  then  till  12,  and 
after  12,  and  it  has  been  Sunday  morning 
before  we've  got  paid.  There  is  more  monej 
spent,  in  coui-se,  up  to  12  than  up  to  10.  To 
get  away  at  i  past  9  is'  very  early.  I  should 
sny  tliat  half  our  earnings,  except  in  our  best 
weeks,  goes  to  the  ])ubru*au  for  drink — more 
tlian  half  oft  enough  ;  if  it's  a  bad  week,  all 
our  earnings,  or  more.  When  it  waxes  late 
the  ^-ives,  who've  very  likely  been  without 
Saturday's  dinner  or  tea,  will  go  to  the  publi- 
can's for  their  husbands,  and  they'll  get  to 
scold  very-  likely,  and  then  they'll  get  beaten 
very  likely.  We  ore  chiefly  married  men  with 
families.  Tretty  well  all  the  deal-parters  at 
the  dock  are  <lrunkards;  so  there  is  miseiy 
enough  for  their  familie?.  The  pubUcon  gives 
credit  two  following  weeks,  and  encourages 
drinking,  in  course  ;  but  he.  does  it  quietly. 
He'll  advance  any  man  at  work  ]«.  a  night  in 
money,  besides  trusting  him  for  drink.  I  don't 
know  how  many  we  are ;  I  should  say  from  50 
to  200.  In  old  age  or  accident,  in  course,  ve 
comes  to  the  parish." 

Other  men  wli(»iii  I  saw  corroborated  this 
statement,  and  some  of  their  wives  expressed 
great  indignation  at  the  system  piursued  in 
paying  the  labourers,  lione.of  them  olgected 
to  their  husbands  having  four  pints  of  beer 
when  actually  at  their  work  in  tlie  dock;  it  was 
against  the  publicans'  temptations  on  Saturday 
and  other  nights  that  they  bitterly  inveighed. 

At  the  earnest  entreaty  of  a  deal-porter's 
wife,  I  called  on  Saturday  evening  at  the  pnblio 
house  where  the  men  were  waiting  to  be  paid. 
I  walked  into  the  tap-room  aa  if  I  had  called 
casually,  and  I  was  then  unknown  to  all  the 
deal-porters.  The  tap- room  I  found  small, 
dark,  dirty,  and  ill- ventilated.  What  with  the 
tobacco -smoke  and  the  heat  of  the  weather, 
the  room  was  most  disagreeably  dose  and  hot 
As  well  aa  I  could  count — for  ahhoogh  it  was 
a  bright  summer^  evening  the  smoke  aad 
gloom  rendered  it  somewiiBt  difllciilt — there 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


2U0 


vere  24  men  in  this  tap-room,  which  is  fitted 
up  Tith  boxes,  oud  thenumber  completely  filled 
tbe  apsrtment.  In  an  adjoining  room,  where 
YM  a  small  bar,  there  were  some  six  or  eight 
moie  deal-piirters  lounging  abouL  These 
nnmbera,  however,  fluctuated,  for  men  kept 
eoming  in  and  going  out ;  but  all  the  time  I 
vaanceaent  there  might  have  been  thirty  men 
in  the  two  hot,  dirty  little  rooms.  They  were 
strong-looking  men  enough,  and  all  sun-burnt ; 
but  amongst  them  were  some  with  pinched 
featBTSi  and  white  lips.  There  they  sat,  each 
man  with  his  beer  before  him ;  there  was  not 
fhe  diglitest  hilarity  amongst  them:  there 
vas  not  the  least  semblance  of  a  convivial 
Satnrdaj- night's  gathering.  The  majority 
Ml  in  silence.  Some  dozed ;  others  drank  or 
lipped  at  their  pint  measures,  as  if  they  must 
do  it  to  while  away  the  time.  These  deal- 
porters  were  genendly  dressed  in  corduroy, 
lostian,  or  strong,  coarse,  blue  woollen  jackets, 
vith  trousers  of  similar  material,  open  big 
woollen  waistcoats,  and  with  coloured  cotton 
haadkerchiefe  rolled  round  some  thick  sub- 
stance in  the  way  of  a  stock,  and  tied  loosely 
ronnd  their  necks  over  a  striped  cotton  or 
loose  linen  shirt  All  hod  rough  bristly  beai-ds, 
intimating  that  tlieir  shaving  was  confined  to 
the  Sunday  mornings.  WiSi  respect  to  the 
system  pursued  at  this  dock  in  the  payment 
of  the  deal-porters,  it  is  right  that  1  should 
state  that  I  heard  from  many  deal-porters 
praises  of  the  superintendent,  though  certainly 
not  of  the  contractor  or  the  pubUoan.  I  am 
glad  to  be  able  to  state,  however,  that  it  is  the 
dfltomination  of  the  company  to  attempt — 
and  that,  indeed,  they  are  now  atttuupting  — 
the  aboUtiou  of  the  system  of  public-house 
payment.  Mr.  M*Cannan,  the  superintendent 
of  these  docks,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
many  favours  and  courtesies,  informed  mo  that 
an  anangement  was  once  made  for  the  pay- 
ment of  the  deal-porters  in  "  on  old  box"  (a 
sort  of  wooden  office)  within  the  dock ;  but  the 
impatience  and  struggling  of  the  men  who  had 
to  wait  a  little  while  for  their  week's  eai-uings 
almost  demolished  tlie  frail  timliers  of  the  old 
box,  and  the  attempt  was  abandoned.  AVithin 
tlie  dock  the  supply  of  beer  is  now  limited  to 
three  times  a-day,  with  a  **  vend  "  of  half-a-pint 
a  man  each  visit. 

A  middle-aged  man,  sunburnt  and  with 
niQch  of  the  look  of  a  seaman,  gave  me  an  ac- 
coont  of  his  labour  as  a  dcid-porter  at  the 
East  Country  Dock.  His  room,  and  he  with 
his  wife  and  cliildren  hod  but  one,  was  very 
Hparely  fuminhcd,  the  principal  article  being  a 
large  clean  bed.  He  complained  that  his  po- 
verty comi>elled  him  to  hve  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  some  low  lodging-houses,  which  caused 
all  sorts  of  bad  characters  to  resort  to  the  lo- 
cality, while  cries  of  ^  murder"  were  not  un- 
common in  the  nisht. 

**  I  have  been  a  deal-porter,**  he  said, "  nearly 
twenty  years,  and  for  the  last  few  years  I  have 
VQcked  at  the  East  Ck>untt7  Dock.  Sometimes 


we  work  single-handed,  sometimes  in  gangs  of 
two,  three,  or  four.  The  distance  the  deals 
have  to  be  carried  has  a  good  deal  to  do  witli  it, 
as  to  the  number  of  the  gang.  We're  paid  no- 
thing extra  for  distance.    Mr. contracts 

with  the  Dock  Company  to  do  all  the  deol- 
portering.  There  are  three  gangs  regularly 
employed,  each  with  a  master  or  foreman,  or 
ganger,  over  them.  They  have  always  the 
preference.  If  three  ships  was  to  unload  in 
one  day,  there  would  be  one  for  each  gang, 
and  when  more  hands  are  wanted  the  men  of 
the  regular  gangs  are  put  over  dead -porters 
such  as  me,  who  are  not  regularly  employed, 
but  on  tho  look-out  for  piece-work  or  a  day's 
work.  We  reckon  when  Uiat  happens  that  the 
gangers'  men  have  Os.  for  our  U,  We  ai'e  paid 
at  a  public-house.  The  house  belongs  to  the 
company.  We  pay  Ad.  a-pot  for  our  beer,  and 
we're  expected  to  drink  not  less  than  four  pints 
a-day.  We're  not  obliged,  you  understand* 
but  we're  expected  to  drink  tliis ;  and  if  we  don't 
do  as  we're  expected,  why  we're  not  wanted 
next  time,  that's  all.  But  we're  only  expected 
to  take  our  regular  beer  when  work's  brisk. 
We're  not  encouraged  to  run  into  debt  for 
drink  and  work  it  out.  Indeed,  if  a  man  l)0 
\s.  or  l5.  Orf.  in  debt  to  the  publican,  he  can't 
get  credit  for  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese,  or  a 
(iriuk  of  beer.  We  have  good  beer,  but  some- 
times we'd  rather  be  without  it.  But  we  cant 
do  without  some.  Alauy  deal-porters,  I  know, 
arc  terrible  drunkards.  We  ore  paid  the  same 
as  at  tlie  Commercial  Dock,  and  were  roduced 
about  the  same  time.  If  I  had  a  regular 
week's  work  now  and  no  stop,  I  could  moke 
5iC<.,  less  by  8rf.  a-day,  or  4*.  a- week,  for  bt'cr. 
We're  not  expected  to  diink  any  gin.  Before 
wages  came  down  I  could  have  made  3(l«. 
Our  beer-money  is  stopped  out  of  our  <?aruings 
by  the  masters  and  paid  to  tlie  publican.  It's 
very  seldom,  indeed,  we  get  a  regular  week's 
work,  and  take  it  tho  year  through  I  don't 
clear  VZs.  a-week.  To-day,  there  was  only  10 
men  at  work,  but  sometimes  there's  80.  Fn)m 
June  to  Christmas  is  the  best  time.  Some- 
times we  may  wait  three  or  four  days  for  a 
job.  The  regular  pay  for  the  Custom-house 
hours,  from  8  to  4,  is  -ks.  a-day  to  a  deal-por- 
ter,  but  there's  plenty  to  do  it  for  what  they 
can  catch.  Lots  of  Irish,  sir?  they'll  work  for 
anything,  and  is  underselling  all  of  us,  because 
an  Englishman  and  his  family  can't  live  like 
them.  In  the  winter  my  family  and  me  lived 
on  U.  or  5«.  a-week,  but  I  kept  clear  of  tlie 
parish,  though  plenty  of  us  have  to  come  on  tlie 
parish.  Much  in  pawn,  sir?  I  have  so;  look 
at  my  place.  It  was  a  nice  place  once.  Most 
of  what  you  may  call  the  regular  hands  has 
been  brought  up  as  deal-porters.  I  don't 
know  how  many  you  may  call  regular  at  our 
dock,  it  varies;  working  and  waiting  for  a 
turn;  but  we've  no  regular  turn  at  work; 
there's  100  perhaps,  or  near  about  it.  Ours  is 
veiy  hard  and  very  dangerous  work.  Last 
year  one  man  was  killed  by  a  fall,  and  two 


aoo 


LONDON  LAIiOlR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


had  broken  Ic^,  and  two  had  broken  thighs ; 
Ijut  it  was  on  easy  year  for  accidents.  There 
is  no  fund  to  help  or  to  bury  us,  only  the 
parish.  In  a  bad  case  we're  carried  to  the 
Dreadnought,  or  some  hospital.  We  are  all  of 
us  dissatisfied.  I  wish  I  could  have  13«.  0</. 
a-duy  for  regular  work,  nnd  I'd  live  :20  years 
loiigt?r  than  I  bhall  now,  with  nothing  t*)  do 
oni.'  (l:iy  and  tearing  my  suul  out  witli  slaving 
work  the  others." 

The  n>sult  of  all  my  inrpiiries  shows  that  the 
deal-porters  in  nowise  cxngqcrated  tlie  hard- 
ness or  the  danger  of  their  labours.  I  saw 
them  at  work,  walking  along  planks,  some 
filofiing  from  an  elevated  pile  of  timber  to  one 
somewhat  more  elevate«l,  the  plonk  'vibrating 
as  two  men  carrying  a  d«'al  trod  slowly  and 
in  measure  along  it,  and  so  they  proceed 
from  one  pile  to  anotlier,  beginning,  perhaps, 
frtjm  the  barge  until  tlie  deals  have  been  duly 
deposited.  From  a  distance,  when  only  the 
dimini<<liod  thickness  of  the  plank  is  visible, 
they  appear  to  be  walking  on  a  mere  stick ; 
the  s})ace  so  traversed  is  generally  short,  but 
the  mode  of  conveyance  seems  rude  and 
primitive. 

Account  of  the  Casual  Labourers. 

In  the  foregoing  narratives  frequent  men- 
tion  has  been  made  of  the  Casual  Labourers  at 
the  timber-docks ;  and  I  now  ])roceed  to  give 
some  short  account  of  the  condition  and  earn- 
ings of  this  most  wretched  class.  On  the 
platform  siuroimding  the  Commercial  Dock 
basins  ore  a  number  whom  I  Imve  heard  de- 
scribed OS  "  idlers,"  "  pokers,"  and  "  casual 
labourers."  These  men  are  waiting  in  hopes 
of  a  job,  which  they  rarely  obtain  until  all  the 
known  hands  have  been  set  to  work  before 
them.  'I'lie  casual  labourers  confine  them- 
selves to  no  particular  dock,  but  resort  to  the 
one  which  they  account  tlie  most  likely  to 
want  hands ;  and  some  even  of  the  more  re- 
gularly employed  deal -porters  clionge  their 
docks  occasionally  for  the  same  reason.  These 
changes  of  locality  pu7.zle  the  regulai*  deal- 
porters  in  the  estimation  of  the  number  of 
hands  in  their  calling  at  the  respective  docks. 
On  my  visits  the  casual  labourers  were  less 
num<  rouK  than  usual,  as  the  summer  is  the 
season  when  such  persons  consider  that  they 
have  the  best  chance  in  the  country.  But 
1  saw  groups  of  10  and  *<^0  waiting  about 
the  docks;  some  standing  alone,  and  some 
straggling  in  twos  and  threes,  as  they  waited, 
all  looking  dull  and  listless.  These  men, 
thus  W(*arisomely  waiting,  coidd  not  be  called 
ragged,  for  they  wore  mostly  strong  canvas 
or  fustian  suits — large,  ond  seemingly  often 
washed  jackets,  predominating ;  and  rents,  and 
tatters  are  far  less  common  in  such  attire 
than  in  woollen-cloth  garments.  From  a 
man  dressed  in  a  lai^ge,  coarse,  canvas  jacket, 
with  worn  corduroy  trousers,  and  very  heavy 
and  very  brown  laced-lcather  boots,  1  had  the 


following  statement,  in  a  somewfaat  provincial 
tone: — 

**  My  father  was  a  small  farmer  in  DorseU 
shire.     I  was  middling  educated,  aod  may 
thank  the  parson  for  it.    I  can  read  the  Bible 
and  spell  most  of  the  names  there.    I  vat 
left  destitute,  and  I  had  to  shift  for  myaelf — - 
that's  nine   year  ago,    I  think,      r^e  hun- 
gered, and   I've  ordered  my  bottle  d  wine 
since,  sir.     I  got  the  wine  when  railways  wat 
all  the  go ;   and  I  was  a  navvy ;  bni  I  didn't 
like  wine-drinking ;  I  drank  it  just  for  theftm 
of  the  tiling,  or  mayhap  because  gentlemen 
drink  it.     The  port  was  like  rather  rough 
beer,  but  stronger,  certainly.    Sherxy  I  oo^ 
had  once  or  twice,  and  liked  good  ale  better. 
I  shifted  my  quarters  every  now  and  then  tiU 
within  two  or  three  years  ago,  and  then  I  tried 
my  hand  in  London.     At  first  Mr.  — ^  (a 
second  cousin  of  my  father  he  was)  helped  ue 
now  and  then,  and  he  gave  me  odd  jobs  tft 
portering  for  himself,  as  he  was  a  grocer,  and 
he  got  me  odd  jobs  from  other  people  beiidM.  • 
When  I  was  a  navvy  I  should  at  the  best  tinM 
have  had  my  50ji.  a- week,  and  more  if  it  hadnt 
been  for  the  tommy-shops;  and  I've  had  my 
1 5s.  a- week  in  portering  in  London  for  ittj 
cousin ;  but  sometimes  I  came  down  to  lOa, 
and  sometimes  to  5s.    My  cousin  died  soddo^ 
and  I  was  very  hard  up  after  that    I  midi 
nothing  at  portering  some  weeks.    I  had  no 
one  to  help  me ;  and  in  the  spring  of  last  year-* 
and  very  cold  it  often  was — I've  walked  after 
10,  11,  or  12  at  night,  many  a  mile  to  he 
down  and  sleep  in  any  bye-place.    I  never 
Ktole,   but  have   been   hard   tempted.     Pre 
thought  of  drowning  myself,  and  of  hanging 
myself,  but  somehow  a  penny  or  two  came  is 
to  stop  that    Perhaps  I  didn't  seriously  intend 
it.      I  begged  sometimes  of  an  evening.    I 
stayed  at  lodging-houses,  for  one  can't  aleap 
out  in  bad  weather,  till  I  heard  from  one 
lodger  that  he  took  his  turn  at  the  Commerciil 
Dock.    He  worked  at  timber,  or  com,  or  any- 
thing ;  and  so  I  went,  about  the  cholera  time 
last  year,  and  waited,  and  run  from  one  doefc 
to  another,  because  I  was  new  and  hadnt  • 
chance  like  the  old  hands.     I've  had  14j.  •• 
week  sometimes ;  and  many's  the  week  Vn 
had  three,  and  moro's  the  week  Tve  had  no- 
thing at  all.    They've  said,  *  I  don't  knowyoo.' 
Fve  lived  on  penny  loaves — one  or  two  a-dM*, 
when  there  was  no  work,  and  then  I've  begged. 
I  don't  know  what  the  other  people  waiting  tt 
any  of  the  docks  got    I  didn't  talk  to  then 
much,  and  they  didn't  talk  much  to  me.** 


THE  DOCK-LABOURERS. 

I  SHALL  now  pass  to  the  labourers  at  the 
docks.  This  transition  I  am  indooed  to  make^ 
not  because  there  is  any  affinity  between  the 
kinds  of  work  performed  at  the  two  pUoee; 
but  because  the  docks  constitute,  as  it  woa,  • 
sort  of  home  colony  to  Spitalfields,  to  wbkib 


LONDON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LoSDON  POOJi, 


301 


the  nnemplojod  weaver  migrates  in  the  hope 
of  bettering  his  condition.  From  this  it  would 
le  generally  imagined  that  the  work  at  the 
doeks  was  either  better  paid,  less  heavy,  or 
more  easily,  and  therefore  more  regularly,  ob- 
tained. So  fiir  from  such  being  the  fact,  how- 
ever, the  labonr  at  the  docks  appears  to  be  not 
only  mora  onerous,  but  doubly  as  precarious 
as  that  of  weaving ;  while  the  average  earnings 
of  the  entire  class  seems  to  be  less.  What, 
then,  it  will  be  asked,  constitutes  the  induce- 
ment for  the  change?  Why  does  the  weaver 
abandon  the  ealling  of  his  life,  and  forsake  an 
oeeopation  that  at  least  appears  to  have,  and 
aetttally  had  iu  the  days  of  better  prices,  a 
refining  and  intellectual  tendency  ?  Why  does 
he  quit  his  graceful  art  for  the  mere  muscular 
labour  of  the  human  animal  ?  This,  wo  shall 
find,  ahses  porely  from  a  desire  for  some  out- 
oMoor  employment.  And  it  is  a  consequence 
of  all  skilled  labour — since  tlie  acquirement  of 
Iba  skill  is  the  result  of  long  practice — that  if 
the  srt  to  which  the  operative  has  been  edu. 
eated  is  abandoned,  he  must  take  to  some  un- 
ddlled  labour  as  a  means  of  subsistence.  I 
pass,  then,  to  the  consideration  of  the  iu- 
eomings  and  condition  of  the  dock-la1)ourei*s 
of  the  metropolis,  not  because  the  cliiss  of 
labour  is  similar  to  that  of  weaving,  but  because 
tke  two  classes  of  labourers  ai*e  locally  associ- 
ated. I  would  rather  have  pursued  some 
noce  systematic  plan  in  my  inquiries ;  but  in 
the  present  state  of  ignorance  as  to  the  general 
oeeopation  of  tlie  poor,  system  is  impossible. 
lam  unable  to  generalise,  not  being  acquainted 
with  the  particulars ;  for  each  day's  investi- 
gilion  brings  me  incidentally  into  contact  with 
i  means  of  living  utterly  unknown  among  tho 
weiLfed  portion  of  society.  All  I  can  at  pre- 
sent assert  is,  that  the  poor  appear  to  admit 
of  being  classified  according  to  their  employ- 
ments under  three  heads — artiznns,  labourers, 
ind  petty  traders ;  tho  first  class  ronsit^tiug  of 
skilled,  and  tho  second  of  unskilled  workmen ; 
vhile  the  third  comprises  hawkers,  coster- 
mongers,  and  such  other  small  dealers,  who 
•re  contradistinguished  from  the  larger  ones 
by  brin^g  their  wares  to  the  consumer  instead 
of  leavmg  (he  consumer  to  seek  the  wares. 
Of  the  skilled  workmen  few  are  so  poorly  paid 
for  their  labour  as  not  to  obtain  a  sufhciency 
for  the  satiafaction  of  their  wants.  The  amount 
of  wsges  is  generally  considered  above  the 
nun  required  for  tho  positive  necessaries  of 
life ;  that  is  to  say,  for  appeasing  an  appetite 
or  allaying  a  pain,  rathor  than  gratit^ing  a 
desire.  The  class  of  Spitalfields  weavers,  how- 
ever, appear  to  constitute  a  striking  execpiioii 
to  the  rule,  from  what  cause  I  do  not  even 
venture  to  conjecture.  But  with  the  imskilled 
labourer  the  amount  of  remuneration  is  seldom 
much  above  subsistence-point,  if  it  be  not  very 
f^nently  below  it  Such  a  labourer,  com- 
mercially considered,  is,  as  it  were,  a  human 
steam-engine,  supplied  with  so  much  f\iel  in 
the  shape  of  food,  merely  to  set  him  in  motion. 


If  lie  can  be  made  to  perform  the  saiue  amount 
of  work  with  half  the  consiunption,  why  a 
saving  of  one-half  the  expense  is  supposed  to 
be  effected.  Indeed,  tlie  grand  object  in  the 
labour-market  of  the  [>resent  day  appears  to 
be  to  economise  human  fuel.  If  the  living 
steam-engine  can  be  made  to  work  as  long 
and  as  well  Arith  a  less  amount  of  conl,  just  so 
much  the  better  is  the  result  considered. 

The  dock-labourers  are  a  striking  instance 
of  mere  brute  force  with  brute  appetites.  This 
class  of  hibour  is  as  unskilled  as  the  power 
of  a  hurricane.  ^lere  muscle  is  all  that  is 
needed ;  hence  every  human  locomotive  is  ca- 
pable of  working  there.  All  that  is  wanted  is 
the  power  of  moving  heavy  bodies  from  one 
place  to  another.  JMr.  Stuart  Mill  tells  us 
tliat  labour  in  the  physical  world  is  always 
and  solely  employed  in  putting  objects  in  mo- 
tion ;  and  assuredly,  if  this  be  the  principle  of 
physical  labour,  tho  docks  exhibit  the  perfec- 
tion of  human  action.  Dock-work  is  precisely  ' 
the  ofH(;e  tliat  everj'  kind  of  man  is  fitted 
to  perlbrm,  and  there  we  find  every  kind  of 
man  performing  it.  Those  who  are  unable  to 
live  by  the  occupation  to  which  they  have 
been  educated,  can  obtain  a  living  there  without 
any  previous  training.  Hence  we  find  men  of 
every  calling  labouring  at  the  docks.  There 
are  decayed  and  bankrupt  master- butchers, 
niostor-bakers,  publicans,  grocers,  old  soldiers, 
old  sailors,  Polish  refiii^'ees,  broken-down  gen- 
tlemen, discharged  lawyers'  clerks,  suspended 
government  clerks,  almsmen,  pensioners,  ser- 
vants, thieves — indeed,  every  oue  who  wants  a 
loaf,  and  is  willing  to  work  for  it.  The  London 
Dork  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  the  metro- 
polis where  men  can  get  employment  without 
either  character  or  recommendation,  so  that 
tlie  lal)ourei*s  employed  there  are  naturally  a 
most  incongnions  assembly.  Each  of  the 
docks  employs  sevend  hundred  hands  to  ship 
and  discharge  the  cargoes  of  the  numerous 
vessels  that  enter ;  and  as  there  are  some  six 
or  seven  of  such  docks  attached  to  the  metro- 
polis, it  may  be  imagined  how  largo  a  number 
of  individuals  are  dependent  on  them  for  their 
subsistence.  At  a  rough  calculation,  there 
must  be  at  least  20,000  souls  getting  their 
living  by  such  means. 

The  London  Dock. 

Before  procetding  to  give  an  account  of  the 
London  L)o<'k  itself,  let  me  thus  publicly  tender 
my  thanks  to  Mr.  Powles,  the  intelligent  and 
oblip:iiig  secretary,  for  the  ready  manner  in 
which  he  placed  the  statistics  of  the  company 
at  my  service.  Had  I  experienced  from  the 
deputy- superintendent  tlie  same  courtesy  and 
consideration,  the  present  exposition  of  the 
state  of  the  labourers  employed  in  the  London 
Dock  would,  doubtless,  have  been  more  full 
and  complete.  But  tho  one  gentleman  seemed 
as  anxious  to  withhold  information  as  the 
other  was  to  impart  it    Indeed,  I  found  in 


3U2 


LONJJOS  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


the  first  instanoe,  that  the  orders  given  by  the 
deputy-superiiitendent  thronghout  the  dock  to 
each  of  the  different  ofi&cers  were,  that  no 
answers  shonid  be  made  to  any  inquiries  I 
might  put  to  them ;  and  it  was  not  until  I  had 
communicated  my  object  to  the  secretary  that 
I  was  able  to  obtain  the  least  information  con- 
cerning even  Uie  number  of  hands  employed 
at  different  times,  or  the  amount  of  wages 
paid  to  ihem. 

I  shall  now  give  a  brief  statement  of  the 
character,  rouditinn ,  and  capairity  of  the  London 
Dock.  After  which,  Uie  doscripti<in  of  the  kind 
of  labour  performed  there ;  and  then  the  class 
of  labourers  performing  it  will  follow  in  due 
order. 

The  London  Dock  occupies  an  area  of 
ninety  acres,  and  is  situated  in  the  three 
parishes  of  St.  George,  Shudwell,  and  Wap- 
ping.  The  population  of  those  three  parittheH 
m  1H41  was  Ad.DUO,  and  the  number  of  inha- 
bited houses  80()0.  which  covered  a  space  equal 
to  3.'38  acres.  ThiH  is  in  the  proiKirtion  of 
twenty- tliree  inhabited  houses  to  an  acre  and 
seven  individuals  to  each  house.  The  number 
of  persons  to  each  inhabited  house  is,  despite 
of  the  crowded  lodging-houses  with  which  it 
abounds,  not  beyond  tlie  average  for  all  Lon- 
don. I  have  already  shown  that  Dethnal- 
green,  which  is  said  to  possess  the  greatest 
number  of  low-rented  houses,  hod  only,  upon 
an  average,  seventeen  inhabited  houses  to  each 
acre,  while  the  avemge  through  London  was 
but  3'«)  houses  per  acre.  So  that  it  appears  that 
in  tlie  three  parishes  of  SL  George's-in-the- 
East,  Shadwvll,  and  Wapping,  the  htuises  are 
more  tlian  four  times  more  crowded  than  in  the 
other  parts  of  London,  and  more  numerous  by 
half  as  many  again  than  those  even  in  Uie  low. 
rented  diHtrictof  Betlmal-green.  This  affords 
us  a  good  criterion  as  to  the  character  of  tlie 
neigh  bourhootl,and,  consequently,  of  the  people 
living  in  the  vicinity  of  the  London  Dock. 

The  courts  and  dleys  round  about  the  dock 
swarm  with  low  lodging-houses;  and  are  in- 
habited either  by  the  dock-labourers,  sack- 
makers,  watermen,  or  that  peculiar  class  of  the 
London  poor  who  pick  up  a  living  by  the 
water-side.  The  open  streets  themselves  have 
all  more  or  less  a  maritime  character.  £ver>' 
other  shop  is  either  stocked  witli  Rear  for  the 
ship  or  for  tlie  sailor.  The  windows  of  one 
house  ore  filletl  with  quadrants  and  bright 
brass  sextants,  chronometers,  and  huge  mari- 
ners' compasses,  ^-ith  Uieir  cards  trembling 
with  the  motion  of  the  cabs  and  waggons  pausing 
in  the  street.  Then  comes  the  sailors'  cheap 
shoe-mart,  rejoicing  in  tlie  attractive  sign  of 
**Jack  and  his  Mother."  Kver>' public- house 
is  a  **  Jolly  Tar,**  or  something  equally  taking. 
Then  come  aailmakers,  their  windows  stowed 
with  ropes  and  Unes  smelling  of  tor.  All  the 
grocers  are  pro\i8ion-agents,  and  exhibit  in 
their  windows  the  cases  of  meat  and  biscuits ; 
and  every  article  is  warranted  to  keep  in  any 
climate.    The  comers  of  the  streets,  too,  are 


mostly  monopolised  by  dopselkii ;  their  win- 
dows parti-oolonred  with  bright  red-aad-blua 
flannel  shirts;  the  doors  neariy  blocked  np 
with  hammocks  and  ^  well-oiled  noi^-wesfiers;" 
and  the  front  of  the  house  itself  aeariy  covered 
with  canvas  trousers,  rough  pilot-eoate,  nd 
shiny  black  dreadnoughts.  The  paasengen 
alone  would  tell  you  that  yon  were  in  tihe 
maritime  districts  of  London.  Now  yon  meet 
a  satin-waisteoated  mate,  or  a  black  saUorwith 
his  large  frur  cap,  or  else  a  Custom-house  ofllcer 
in  hit*  brass-buttoned  jacket. 

The  London  Dock  can  accommodate  JtOO 
ships,  and  the  warehouses  will  contain  383^ 
tons  of  goods.  The  entire  structure  eoit 
4,0(X),U()0/.  in  money :  the  tobacco  warehoom 
alone  cover  five  acres  of  ground.  The  widl 
surrounding  the  dock  cost  05,000/.  One  of 
the  wine-vaults  has  an  area  of  seven  acres,  tad 
in  the  whole  of  them  there  is  room  for  stowing 
00,000  pipes  of  ?rino.  The  warehouses  roond 
the  wharfs  are  exposing  fVom  their  extent,  but 
are  much  less  lofty  than  those  at  St.  Kathe- 
rine's;  and  being  situated  at  some  distanee 
fh>ra  the  dock,  goods  cannot  be  craned  ovt 
of  the  ship's  hold  and  stowed  away  at  OM 
operation.  According  to  the  last  half-yeulj 
report,  the  number  of  ships  which  entered  the 
dock  during  the  six  mouths  ending  the  Slst 
of  May  last  was  704,  measuring  upwards  of 
105,000  tons.  The  amount  of  ewninge  during 
that  period  was  230,000/.  and  odd,  and  the 
amount  of  expenditure  nearly  12l/)00/.  The 
stock  of  goods  in  the  warehouses  last  May  wti 
upwards  of  170,000  tons. 

Aa  you  enter  the  dock  the  sight  of  the  forest 
of  masts  in  the  distance,  and  the  tall  chimneys 
vomiting  clouds  of  black  smoke,  and  the  many 
coloured  flags  fljing  in  the  air,  has  a  most 
peculiar  etiect;  while  the  sheds  with  the 
monster  wheels  arching  through  the  reoti 
look  Uke  the  paddle-boxes  of  huge  steamen. 
Along  the  quay  you  see,  now  men  with  their 
faces  blue  with  indigo,  and  now  gaugen,  with 
their  long  brass-tipped  rule  dripping  with 
spirit  fh)m  the  caak  they  have  been  probnig. 
Then  will  come  a  group  of  flaxen-haired  sailofl 
chattering  German;  and  next  a  black  saikr, 
with  a  cotton  handkerchief  twisted  turban-like 
round  his  head.  Presently  a  blue-smocked 
butcher,  with  fresh  meat  and  a  buneh  of  cab- 
bages in  the  tray  on  his  shoulder ;  and  shortlff 
afterwards  a  mate,  with  green  paroquets  in  a 
wooden  cage.  Here  you  will  see  sitting  on  a 
bench  a  sorrowfkd.looking  woman,  irith  new 
bright  cooking  tins  at  her  feet,  telling  yon  she 
is  an  emigrant  preparing  for  her  voyage.  As 
you  pass  along  this  quay  the  air  is  pungent 
with  tobacco ;  on  that  it  overpowers  you  wifli 
the  fumes  of  rum ;  then  you  are  nearly  sirk- 
nned  with  the  stench  of  hides,  and  huge  bins 
uf  horns ;  and  shortly  afterwards  the  atmo- 
sphere is  frngrant  with  coffee  and  spice. 
Nearly  everywhere  you  meet  stacks  of  cork,  or 
else  yellow  bins  of  sulphur,  or  lead-colomed 
ci*pper-ore.    As  you  enter  this  warehoose,  the 


■} 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


803 


flooring  is  sticky,  as  if  it  had  been  newly 
taiTCMi,  with  the  sugar  that  has  leaked  through 
the  cakks ;  and  as  you  descend  into  the  dark 
TfioUs,  you  see  long  lines  of  lights  hanging 
from  Uie  black  arches,  and  lamps  flitting  about 
midwaj.  Here  you  sniif  the  fumes  of  the 
wine,  and  there  the  peculiar  fungus-smell  of 
dry  rot;  then  the  jumble  of  sounds  as  you 
pass  along  the  dock  blends  in  anything  but 
sweet  concord.  The  sailors  are  singing  bois- 
tooos  nigger  songs  from  the  Yankee  ship  just 
entering ;  Uie  cooper  is  hammering  at  the 
easks  on  the  quay ;  the  chains  of  the  cranes, 
]oo8«d  of  their  weight,  rattle  as  they  fly  up 
op  again ;  the  ropes  splash  in  the  water ;  some 
captain  shonts  his  orders  through  his  hands  ; 
a  goat  bleats  from  some  ship  in  the  basin ; 
and  empty  casks  roll  along  the  stones  with  a 
keary  drum-like  sound.  Here  the  heavUy-luden 
ihips  are  down  fiu:  below  the  quay,  and  you 
descend  to  them  by  ladders ;  whilst  in  anoUier 
basin  they  are  hi^  up  out  of  the  water,  so 
that  their  green  copper  sheathing  is  almost 
krel  with  the  eye  of  the  passenger;  while 
ibovehis  head  a  long  line  of  bowsprits  stretches 
&r  OTcr  the  quay ;  and  from  tliem  hang  spars 
and  planks  as  a  gangway  to  each  ship. 

This  immense  establishment  is  worked  by 
from  one  to  three  thousand  hands,  according 
as  the  business  is  either  brisk  or  slack.  Out 
of  this  number  there  are  always  400  to  000 
permanent  labourers,  receiving  on  an  average 
16s.  64/.  per  week,  with  the  exception  of 
eoopers,  oarpenters,  smiths,  and  other  me- 
chanics, who  are  paid  the  usual  wages  of 
those  crafts.  Besides  these  are  many  hun- 
dred—  frxnn  1000  to  2500  —  casual  labourers, 
who  are  engaged  at  the  rate  of  2s.  Qd.  per  day 
in  the  summer  and  2s.  ^,  in  the  winter  months. 
Frequently,  in  case  of  many  arrivals,  extra 
hands  are  hired  in  the  course  of  the  day,  at  the 
rate  oT  M.  per  hour.  For  the  permanent  la- 
bourers a  recommendation  is  required ;  but  for 
the  casual  labourers  no  character  is  demanded. 
The  number  of  the  casual  hands  engaged  by 
the  day  depends,  of  course,  upon  the  amount 
of  woork  to  be  done;  and  I  find  that  the  total 
number  of  labourers  in  the  dock  varies  from 
fiOO  to  aOOO  and  odd.  On  Uie  4th  May,  184U, 
the  number  of  hands  engaged,  both  permanent 
and  casual,  was  2704 ;  on  the  2Gth  of  tlie  .same 
month  it  was  8012;  and  on  tbo  30th  it  was 
1169.  These  appear  to  be  the  extreme  of 
the  variation  for  that  year  :  the  fluctuation 
is  due  to  a  greater  or  less  number  of  ships 
entering  the  dock.  The  lowest  number  of  ships 
entering  the  dock  in  any  one  week  last  year 
I  waa  29,  while  the  highest  number  was  141. 
I  This  rise  and  fall  is  owing  to  the  prevalence 
I  of  easterly  winds,  which  serve  to  keep  the 
I  shipe  back,  and  so  make  the  business  slack. 
'  Now,  deducting  the  lowest  number  of  hands 
employed  fh>m  the  highest  number,  we  have 
no  less  than  1823  individuals  wlio  obtain  so 
precarious  a  subsistence  by  their  labour  at  the 
docks,  that  by  the  mere  shiiling  of  the  wind 


they  may  be  all  deprived  of  their  doily  bread. 
Calculating  the  wages  at  2s.  6</.  per  day  for 
each,  the  company  would  have  paid  376/.  10a. 
to  the  3012  hands  employed  on  the  26th  of 
May  1840 ;  while  only  148/.  12s.  6</.  would  have 
been  paid  to  the  1180  hands  engaged  on  the 
30th  of  the  same  month.  Hence,  not  only 
would  1823  hands  have  been  thrown  out  of 
employ  by  the  chopping  of  the  wind,  but  the 
labouring  men  dependent  upon  the  business 
of  the  docks  for  their  subsistence  would  in  one 
day  have  been  deprived  of  227/.  17s.  Qd.  This 
will  afford  the  reader  some  faint  idea  of  tho 
precarious  character  of  the  subsistence  obtained 
by  the  labourers  employed  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, and,  consequently,  as  it  has  been  well 
proved,  that  all  men  who  obtain  their  liveli- 
hood by  irregular  employment  are  the  most 
intemperate  and  improvident  of  all. 

It  will  be  easy  to  judge  what  may  be  tlie 
condition  and  morals  of  a  class  who  to-day,  as 
a  body,  may  earn  near  upon  400/.,  and  to- 
morrow only  150/.  I  had  hoped  to  have  been 
able  to  have  shown  the  fluctuations  in  the 
total  amount  of  wages  paid  to  the  dock-labour- 
ers for  each  week  throughout  the  whole  year ; 
and  so,  by  contrasting  the  comparative  afflu- 
ence and  comfort  of  one  week  with  the  distress 
and  misery  of  the  otlur,  to  have  afforded  the 
reader  some  more  virid  idea  of  the  body  of 
men  who  are  performing,  perhaps,  the  heaviest 
labour,  and  getting  the  most  fickle  provision 
of  all.  But  still  I  will  endeavour  to  impress 
him  with  some  faint  idea  of  the  struggle  there 
is  to  gain  the  uncertain  daily  bread.  Until  I 
saw  with  my  own  eyes  this  scene  of  greedy 
despair,  I  could  not  have  believed  that  there 
was  so  mad  an  eagerness  to  work,  and  so  biting 
a  want  of  it,  among  so  vast  a  body  of  men.  A 
day  or  two  before  1  had  sat  at  midnight  in  the 
room  of  the  star\-ing  weaver ;  and  as  I  heard 
him  tell  his  bitter  story,  there  was  a  patience 
in  his  misery  that  gave  it  more  an  air  of 
heroism  than  desperation.  But  in  the  scenes 
I  have  lately  witnessed  the  want  has  been 
positively  tragic,  and  the  struggle  for  life  par- 
taking of  the  sublime.  The  reader  must  first 
remember  what  kind  of  men  the  casual  labour- 
ers generally  are.  They  are  men,  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind,  who  are  shut  out  from  the 
up.ual  means  of  life  by  the  want  of  character. 
Ilonce,  you  are  not  astonished  to  hear  from 
those  who  are  best  acquainted  with  the  men, 
that  there  are  hundreds  among  the  body  who 
ai'e  known  thieves,  and  who  go  to  the  docks  to 
seek  a  living ;  so  that,  if  taken  for  any  past  of- 
fence, their  late  industry  may  plead  for  some 
little  lenity  in  their  punishment. 

He  who  wishes  \A  behold  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  and  least-known  scenes  of  this 
metropohs,  should  wend  his  way  to  the  London 
Dock  gates  at  half-past  seven  in  the  morning. 
There  ho  will  see  congregated  within  the  prin- 
cipal entrance  masses  of  men  of  all  grades, 
looks,  and  kinds.  Some  in  half-fashioned 
surtouts  burst  at  the  elbows,  with  the  dirty  shirts 


^o.  LXMI. 


304 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOJEU 


fthowing  through.  Others  in  greasy  Kporting 
jackets,  with  red  pimpled  faceH.  Othei-s  in 
the  rngs  of  their  half-slang  gentility,  with  the 
velvet  collars  of  their  paletots  worn  through 
to  the  canvas.  Some  in  rusty  black,  with  their 
waistcoats  fastened  tight  up  to  the  throat. 
Others,  again,  witli  the  knowing  tliieves'  curl 
on  each  side  of  the  jaunty  cap ;  whilst  here 
and  there  you  may  see  a  big-whiskered  Pole, 
with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  plaited 
French  trousers.  Some  loll  outside  the  gates, 
smoking  the  pipe  which  is  forbidden  within ; 
but  these  are  mostly  Irish. 

Presently  you  know,  by  the  stream  pouring 
through  the  gates  and  the  rush  towards  par- 
ticular spots,  that  the  '* calling  foremen" 
have  made  their  appearance.  Then  begins 
the  scuffling  and  scrambling  forth  of  counUess 
hands  high  in  the  air,  to  catch  the  eye  of  him 
whose  voice  may  give  them  work.  As  the 
foreman  calls  from  a  book  the  names,  some 
men  jump  up  on  the  backs  of  the  others,  so  as 
to  lift  themselves  high  above  the  rest,  and 
attract  the  notice  of  him  who  hires  them.  All 
are  shouting.  Some  cry  aloud  his  surname, 
Rome  his  christian  name,  others  call  out  their 
own  names,  to  remind  him  that  they  are  there. 
Now  the  appeal  is  made  in  Irish  blarney — 
now  in  broken  English.  Indeed,  it  is  a  sight 
to  sadden  the  most  callous,  to  see  thousands 
of  men  struggling  for  only  one  day's  hire;  the 
scuffle  being  made  the  fiercer  by  the  knowledge 
that  hundreds  out  of  the  number  there  as- 
sembled must  be  left  to  idle  the  day  out  in 
want  To  look  in  the  fi&ces  of  that  hungry 
crowd  is  to  see  a  sight  that  must  be  ever  re- 
membered. Some  are  smiling  to  the  foreman 
to  coax  him  into  remembrance  of  them ;  others, 
with  their  protruding  eyes,  eager  to  snatch  at 
the  hoped-for  pass,  For  weeks  many  have 
gone  there,  and  gone  through  the  same  struggle 
—the  same  cries ;  and  have  gone  away,  after 
all,  without  the  work  they  had  screamed  for. 

"From  this  it  might  be  imagined  that  the  work 
was  of  a  peculiarly  light  and  pleasant  kind, 
And  80,  when  I  first  saw  the  soene,  I  oould  not 
help  imagining  myself.  But,  in  reality,  the  la- 
\}OVff  is  of  that  heavy  and  continuous  character 
that  yon  woiild  fancy  only  the  best  fed  conld 
stand  it«  The  Work  mdy  be  divided  into  three 
classes.  1.  Wheel-work,  or  that  which  is 
moved  by  the  muscles  of  the  legs  and  weight 
of  the  body ;  2.  jigger,  or  winch- work,  or  that 
which  is  moved  by  the  muscles  of  the  arm. 
In  each  of  these  the  labourer  is  stationary;  but 
in  the  truck  work,  which  forms  the  third  class, 
the  labourer  has  to  travel  over  a  space  of 
ground  greater  or  less  in  proportion  to  the 
distance  which  the  goods  have  to  be  removed. 

The  wheel-work  is  performed  somewhat  on 
the  system  of  the  treadwheel,  with  the  excep- 
tion that  the  force  is  applied  inside  instead  of 
outside  the  wheel.  From  six  to  eight  men 
enter  a  wooden  cylinder  or  drum,  upon  which 
are  nailed  battens,  and  the  men  lading  hold  of 
ropes  commence  treading  the  wheel  round, 


occasionally  singing  the  while,  and  stamping 
time  in  a  manner  that  is  pleasant^,  from  iu 
novelty.  The  wheel  is  generally  about  sixteen 
feet  in  diameter  and  eight  to  nine  feet  broad ; 
and  the  six  or  eight  men  treading  within  it, 
will  lift  from  sixteen  to  eighteen  hundz«d 
weight,  and  often  a  ton,  forty  times  in  an  hoar, 
an  average  of  twenty-seven  feet  high.  Other 
men  will  get  out  a  cargo  of  from  800  to  900 
casks  of  wine,  each  cask  averaging  al>ont  fiv» 
hundred  weight,  and  being  lifted  about  eigh- 
teen feet,  in  a  day  and  a  half.  At  truckkg 
each  man  is  said  to  go  on  an  average  thirty 
miles  a-day,  and  two-thirds  of  that  time  he  ii 
mo\'ing  IX  cwt.  at  six  miles  and  a-half  per  hoar. 
This  laoour,  though  requiring  to  be  seen  ta 
be  properly  understood,  must  still  appear  lo 
arduous  that  one  would  imagine  it  was  not<tf 
that  tempting  nature,  that  d(KK)  men  could  W 
found  every  day  in  London  desperate  enooj^ 
to  fight  and  battle  for  the  privilege  of  getting 
2t.  6d,  by  it;  and  even  if  they  fail  in  <* getting 
taken  on"  at  the  commencement  of  the  di^» 
that  they  should  then  retire  to  the  app<nnteA 
yard,  there  to  remain  hour  after  hour  in  the 
hope  that  the  wind  might  blow  them  BOBd 
stray  ship,  so  that  other  gangs  might  be 
wanted,  and  the  calling  foreman  seek  them 
there.  It  is  a  curious  sight  to  see  the  men 
waiting  in  these  yards  to  be  hired  at  4f(.  pec 
hour,  for  such  are  the  terms  given  in  the  aftei 
part  of  the  day.  There,  seated  on  long  bcoiohea 
ranged  against  the  wall,  they  remain,  sams 
telling  their  miseries  and  some  their  crimet 
to  one  another,  whilst  others  doze  away  their 
time.  Bain  or  sunshine,  there  can  alwqrs  be 
found  plenty  ready  to  catch  the  9traj  U,atBd, 
worth  of  work.  By  the  size  of  the  shed  yoo 
can  tell  how  many  men  sometimea  renuon 
there  in  the  ^uring  rain,  rather  than  ran  the 
chance  of  losmg  the  stray  hours'  work.  Some 
loiter  on  the  bridges  dose  by,  and  presentilyi 
as  their  practised  eye  or  ear  tells  them  that 
the  calling  foreman  is  in  want  of  another  gang, 
they  rush  forward  in  a  stream  towards  the  gate, 
though  only  six  or  eight  at  most  cm  be  hired 
out  of  the  hundred  or  more  that  are  waiting 
there.  Again  the  same  mad  fight  takes  place 
as  in  the  morning.  There  is  the  same  jump- 
ing on  benches,  the  same  raising  of  hands 
the  same  entreaties,  and  the  same  fulure  » 
before.  It  is  strange  to  mark  the  change  that 
takes  place  in  the  manner  of  the  men  when 
the  foreman  has  left.  Those  that  have  been 
engaged  go  smiling  to  their  labour.  Indeed, 
I  myself  met  on  the  quay  just  such  a  chuckKng 
gang  passing  to  their  work.  Those  who  ait 
left  behind  give  vent  to  their  disappointment 
in  abuse  of  him  whom  they  had  been  suppli- 
cating and  smiling  at  a  few  minutes  beforp. 
Upon  talking  with  some  of  the  unsuccessful 
ones,  they  assured  me  that  the  men  who  had 
supplanted  them  had  only  gained  their  enda 
by  bribing  the  foreman  who  had  engaged 
them.  Tliis  I  made  a  point  of  inquiring  int<^ 
and  the  deputy-warehousekeeper,  of  whom  I 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


805 


sought  the  infonnatio&,  soon  assured  rae,  by 
the  production  of  his  book,  that  he  himself 
WAS  the  person  who  chose  the  meoi  the 
foreman  merely  executing  his  orders :  and 
this,  indeed,  I  found  to  be  tbe  ciLstom  through- 
oat  the  dock. 

At  four  o'clock  the  eight  hours' labour  ceases, 
and  then  comes  the  paying.  The  names  of 
Uie  men  are  called  out  of  the  muster-book, 
•fid  each  man,  as  he  answers  to  the  cry,  has 
half-a-crown  given  to  him.  So  rapidly  is  this 
done  that,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  whole 
of  the  men  have  had  their  wages  paid  them. 
Xhej  then  pour  towards  the  gate.  Here  two 
constables  stand,  and  as  each  man  passes 
through  the  wicket,  he  takes  his  hat  otf,  and 
is  felt  fttmi  head  to  foot  by  the  dock-officers 
«nd  attendant:  and  yet,  with  all  the  want, 
misery,  and  temptation,  the  millions  of  pounds 
of  property  amid  which  they  work,  and  the 
jjwiuaands  of  pipes  and  hogsheads  of  wines 
•nd  spirits  a]x)ut  the  docks,  I  am  informed, 
npon  the  best  authority,  that  there  are  on  an 
average  but  thirty  charges  of  drunkenness  in 
^e  course  of  the  year,  and  only  eight  of  dis- 
bonesty  eveiy  month.  This  may,  perhaps, 
ttise  from  the  vigilance  of  the  superintend- 
ents; but  to  see  the  distressed  condition  of 
the  men  who  seek  and  gain  employment  in 
the  London  Dock,  it  appears  almost  incre- 
dible, that  out  of  so  vast  a  body  of  men,  with- 
out means  and  without  character,  there  should 
he  so  little  vice  or  crime.  There  still  remains 
one  corioaa  circumstance  to  be  added  in  con- 
Aozion  with  the  destitution  of  the  dock-la- 
bourers. Close  to  the  gate  by  which  they  are 
obliged  to  leave,  sits  on  a  coping-stone  the 
refreshment  man,  with  his  two  large  canvas 
pockets  tied  in  front  of  him,  and  filled  with 
silver  and  copper,  ready  to  give  change  to 
those  whom  ho  has  trusted  with  their  dmner 
that  day  imtil  they  were  paid. 

As  the  men  passed  slowly  on  in  a  double 
iUe  towards  the  gate,  I  sat  beside  the  vic- 
tualler, and  asked  him  what  constituted  the 
general  dinner  of  the  labourers.    He  told  me 
that  he  supplied  them  with  pea-soup,  bread 
Bnd  cheese,  saveloys,  and  beer.    *'  Some,"  he 
said,  "had  twice  as  much  as  others.    Some 
had  a  pennyworth,  some  had  eatables  and  a 
pint  of  beer;  others,  two  pints,  and  others 
xbor,  and  some  spend  their  whole  half-crown 
in  eating  and  drinking."     This  gave  me  a 
more  clear  insight  into  the  destitution  of  the 
aieu  who  stood  there  each  morning.     Many 
of  them,  it  was  clear,  came  to  the  gate  >vithout 
the  means  of  a  day's  meal,  and,  being  hired, 
^ere  obliged  to  go  on  credit  for  the  very  food 
they  worked  upon.    What  wonder,  then,  that 
the  calling  foreman  should  be  often  carried 
^any  yards  away  by  the  struggle  and  rush  of 
the  men  around  him  seeking  employment  at 
liis  hands !     One  gentleman  assm-ed  me  that 
lie  had  been  taken  off  his  feet  and  hunied  a 
distance  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  by  the  eagerness 
of  th3  impatient  crowd  around  him. 


Having  made  myself  acquainted  with  the 
character  and  amount  of  the  labour  peiformed, 
I  next  proceeded  to  make  inquiries  into  the 
condition  of  the  labourers  themselves,  and 
thus  to  learn  the  average  amount  of  their 
wages  from  so  precarious  an  occupation.  For 
this  purpose,  hearing  that  there  were  several 
cheap  lodging-houses  in  the  neighbourhood,  I 
thought  I  should  be  better  enabled  to  arrive 
at  an  average  result  by  conversing  with  the 
inmates  of  them,  and  thus  endeavouring  to 
elicit  from  them  some  such  statements  of 
their  earnings  at  one  time  and  at  another,  as 
would  enable  me  to  judge  what  was  their 
average  amount  throughout  the  year.  I  had 
heard  the  most  pathetic  accounts  from  men 
in  the  waiting-yard;  how  they  had  been  six 
weeks  vrithout  a  day's  hire.  I  had  been  told 
of  others  who  had  been  known  to  come  there 
day  after  day  in  the  hope  of  getting  sixpence, 
and  who  lived  upon  the  stray  pieces  of  bread 
given  to  them  in  charity  by  their  fellow-la- 
bourers.  Of  one  person  I  was  informed  by  a 
gentleman  who  had  sought  out  his  history  in 
pure  sympathy,  from  the  wretchedness  of  the 
man's  appearance.  The  man  had  once  been 
possessed  of  500/.  a-year,  and  had  squandered 
it  all  away ;  and  through  some  act  or  acts  that 
I  do  not  &el  myself  at  liberty  to  state,  had  lost 
caste,  character,  friends,  and  everything  that 
coiUd  make  hfe  easy  to  liim.  From  that  time 
he  had  sunk  and  sunk  in  the  world,  until,  at 
last,  he  had  found  him,  with  a  lodging-house 
fbr  his  dwelUng-place,  liie  associate  of  thieves 
and  pickpockets.  His  only  means  of  hving  at 
this  time  was  bones  and  rag-grubbing;  and 
for  this  purpose  the  man  would  wander 
through  the  streets  at  three  every  morning,  to 
see  what  httle  bits  of  old  iron,  or  rag,  or  refuse 
bone  he  could  find  in  the  roads.  His  prin- 
cipal source  of  income  I  am  informed,  from 
such  a  source  as  precludes  the  possibility  of 
doubt,  was  by  picking  up  the  refuse  ends  of 
cigars,  drying  them,  and  selhng  them  at  one- 
halfpenny  per  ounce,  as  tobacco,  to  the  thieves 
with  whom  he  lodged. 

However,  to  arrive  at  a  fair  estimate  as  to 
the  character  and  the  comings  of  laboiurers  ge- 
nerally, I  directed  my  guide,  after  the  closing 
of  the  docks,  to  take  me  to  one  of  the  largest 
lodging-houses  in  the  neighbourhood.  The 
young  man  who  was  with  me  happened  to 
know  one  of  the  labourers  who  was  lodpjing 
there,  and  having  called  him  out,  I  told  him 
the  object  of  my  visit,  and  requested  to  be 
allowed  to  obtain  information  from  the  la- 
bourers assembled  -within.  The  man  as- 
sented, and  directing  me  to  follow  him,  he  led 
me  through  a  narrow  passage  into  a  small 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  in  which  sat,  I 
should  thmk,  at  least  twenty  or  thirty  of  the 
most  wretched  objects  I  ever  beheld.  Some 
were  shoeless  — some  coatless  —  others  shirt- 
less ;  and  from  all  these  came  so  rank  and 
foul  a  stench,  that  I  was  sickened  with  a  mo- 
ment's inhalation    of  the  fetid   atmosphere. 


806 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Some  of  the  men  were  seated  in  front  of  a 
table,  eating  soap  out  of  rellow  basins.  As 
thev  saw  me  enter,  they  gathered  round  me ; 
and  I  was  pro<*eeding  to  tell  them  what  in- 
formation  I  wished  to  gather  from  them,  when 
in  swaggered  a  drunken  man,  in  a  white 
canvas  suit,  who  announced  himself  as  the 
landlonl  of  the  place,  asking  whether  there 
had  boon  a  robbery  in  the  house,  that  people 
should  come  in  without  saying  "  with  your 
leave  "  or  "  by  your  leave."  I  explained  to  him 
that  I  had  mistaken  the  person  who  had  in- 
txY)duced  mo  for  the  proprietor  of  the  house, 
when  he  grew  very  abusive,  and  declared  I 
should  not  remain  tliere.  Some  of  the  men, 
however,  swore  as  lustily  that  I  should ;  and 
after  a  time  succeeded  in  pacifying  him. 
He  then  bade  me  let  him  hear  what  I  wanted, 
and  1  again  briefly  stated  the  object  of  my 
visit.  I  told  him  I  wished  to  publish  the  state 
of  the  dock-labourers  in  the  new^apers,  on 
which  the  man  burst  into  an  ironical  laugh, 
and  vowed  with  an  oath  that  he  knowed  me, 

and  that  the  men  were  a  set  of  b j  flats  to 

be  done  in  that  way.  **  I  know  who  you  are 
well  enough,"  he  shouted.  I  requested  to  be 
informed  for  whom  he  took  me.    "  Take  you 

for  I "  he  cried ;  "  why,  for  a  b j  spy  I  Yon 

come  here  from  the  Secretary  of  State,  you 
know  you  do,  to  see  how  many  men  I've  got 
in  the  house,  and  what  kind  they  are."  This 
caused  a  great  stir  among  the  company,  and  I 
could  see  that  I  was  mistaken  for  one  of  the 
detectire  police.  I  was  located  in  so  wretched 
a  court,  and  so  far  removed  ftx)m  the  street^ 
with  a  dead  wall  opposite,  that  I  knew  any 
atrocity  might  bo  committed  there  almost  un- 
heard :  indeed,  the  young  man  who  had 
brought  me  to  the  house  had  warned  me  of  its 
dangerous  character  before  I  went;  bnt,frx)m 
the  kind  reception  I  had  met  with  from  other 
labourers,  I  had  no  fear.  At  last  the  landlord 
flung  the  door  wide  open,  and  shouted  from 
his  clenched  teeth,  **  By  G — !   if  you  aint 

soon  mizzled,  I'll  crack  your  b y  skull 

open  for  you !  *•  And  so  saying,  he  prepared 
to  make  a  rush  towards  me,  but  was  held 
back  by  tlie  youth  who  had  brought  me  to  the 
place.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
remain ;  and  rising,  informed  the  man  that  I 
would  not  trouble  him  to  proceed  to  ex- 
tremities. 

It  was  now  so  late  that  I  felt  it  would  be 
imprudent  to  venture  into  another  such  house 
that  night;  so,  having  heard  of  the  case  of  a 
dock-labourer  who  had  formerly  been  a  clerk 
in  a  Government  office,  I  mode  the  best  of  my 
way  to  the  place  where  he  resided. 

He  lived  in  a  top  back-room  in  a  small 
house,  in  another  dismal  court.  I  was  told  by 
the  woman  who  answered  the  door  to  mount 
the  steep  stairs,  as  she  shrieked  out  to  the 
man's  wife  to  show  me  a  light.  I  found  the 
man  seated  on  the  edge  of  a  bed,  with  six 
young  children  grouped  round  him.  They 
were  all  shoeless,  and  playing  on  the  bed  was 


an  infant  with  only  a  shirt  to  eorer  it.  The 
room  was  about  7  feet  square,  and,  with  the 
man  and  his  wife,  there  were  eight  human 
creatures  living  in  it.  In  the  middle  of  the 
apartment,  upon  a  chair,  stood  a  washing-tub 
fuaming  with  fresh  suds,  and  from  the  white 
erinkled  hands  of  the  wife  it  was  plain  that  I 
had  interrupted  her  in  her  washing.  On  one 
chair,  close  by,  was  a  heap  of  dirty  linen,  and 
on  another  was  flung  the  newly- washed.  There 
was  a  saucepan  on  the  handfhl  of  fire,  and  the 
only  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  were  two 
flat-irons  and  a  broken  shaving-glass.  On 
the  table  at  which  I  took  my  notes  there  was 
the  bottom  of  a  broken  ginger-beer  bottk 
filled  with  soda.  The  man  was  without  a  coat, 
and  wore  an  old  tattered  and  greasy  black  satin 
waistcoat  Across  the  ceiling  ran  strings  to  bug 
clothes  upon.  On  my  observing  to  the  womaa 
that  I  supposed  she  dried  the  clothes  in  that 
room,  she  told  me  that  they  were  obliged  to 
do  so,  and  it  gave  them  all  colds  and  bad  ^es. 
On  the  floor  was  a  little  bit  of  matting,  and  on 
the  shelves  in  the  corner  one  or  two  plates. 
In  answer  to  my  questionings  the  man  told  ra« 
he  had  been  a  dock-labonrer  for  five  or  six 
years.  He  was  in  Her  Mi^jesty's  Stationery 
Oflice.  When  there  he  had  130/.  a^year.  Left 
through  accepting  a  bill  of  exchange  for  67U 
He  was  suspended  eight  years  ago,  and  bad  pe- 
titioned the  Lords  of  the  Treasury,  but  never 
eould  get  any  answer.  After  that  he  was  oat 
for  two  or  three  years,  going  about  doing  what 
he  could  get,  such  as  writing  letten.  **  Then," 
said  the  wife,  "  you  went  into  Mr.  Whats-his- 
name*s  shop."  **  Oh,  yes,**  answered  the  man, 
*'I  had  six  months'  employment  at  CambenrdL 
I  had  12s.  a-week  and  my  board  there." 

Before  this  they  had  lived  upon  their  things. 
He  had  a  good  stock  of  f^uniture  and  clothing 
at  that  time.  The  wife  used  to  go  out  for  a 
day's  work  when  she  could  get  it.  She  used 
to  go  out  shelling  peas  in  the  pea  season— 
washing  or  charing— anything  she  could  get 
to  do.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  well  to  do. 
He  should  say  the*old  man  was  worth  a  good  i 
bit  of  money,  and  he  would  have  some  pro- 
perty at  his  death. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  "  we  have  been 
really  very  bad  off  indeed;  sometimes  with- 
out even  food  or  firing  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
It  is  not  until  recentiy  that  we  have  been  to 
say  very  badly  off,  because  within  the  last 
four  years  has  been  our  worst  troubb.  We 
had  a  very  good  house  —  a  sevon-roomed 
house  in  Walworth  — and  well  furnished  and 
very  comfortoble.  We  were  in  business  for 
ourselves  before  we  went  there.  We  were 
grocers,  near  Oxford-street.  We  lived  there 
at  the  time  when  Aldis  the  pawnbroker's  was 
burnt  down.  We  might  have  done  well  if  we 
had  not  given  so  much  credit" 

"  I've  got,"  said  the  husband.  «*  about  901 
owing  me  down  there  now.  It's  quite  out 
of  character  to  think  of  getting  it  At  Clerk- 
enwcll  I  got  a  job  at  a  grocer's  shop.     The 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


807 


M  in  the  QneenVbench  Prison,  and 
the  mistress  employed  me  at  12«.  a-week  until 
he  went  thruagh  the  Insolvent  Debtor's  Court. 
When  he  passed  the  Court  the  business  was 
sold,  and  of  course  he  didn't  want  me  after 
that.  I've  done  nothing  else  but  this  dock- 
labouring  work  for  this  long  time.  Took  to  it 
first  because  X  found  there  was  no  chance  of 
anything  else.  The  character  with  the  bill 
transaction  was  veiy  much  against  me :  so, 
being  unable  to  obtain  employment  in  a  whole- 
sale house,  or  anywhere  else,  I  applied  to  the 
docks.  They  require  no  character  at  all  tliere. 
1  think  I  may  sometimes  have  had  7  or  8  days 
altogether.  Then  I  was  out  for  a  fortnight  or 
three  weeks  perhaps ;  and  then  we  might  get 
a  day  or  two  again,  and  on  some  occasion  such 
a  thmg  as — well,  say  July,  August,  September, 
and  October.  I  was  in  work  one  year  almost 
the  whole  of  those  months  —  three  years  ago 
I  think  that  was.  Then  I  did  not  got  any- 
thing, excepting  now  and  then,  not  more  tlian 
about  three  days*  work  until  the  next  March ; 
that  was  owing  to  the  slack  time.  The  first 
year  I  might  say  that  I  might  have  been  em- 
ployed about  one-third  of  the  time.  The 
second  year  I  was  employed  six  months.  The 
third  year  I  was  very  imfortunate.  I  was  laid 
np  for  three  months  with  bad  eyes  and  a 
quinsey  in  the  throat,  through  working  in  an 
iceahip.  Ive  scarcely  had  anytliing  to  do 
aince  then.  That  is  nearly  18  months  ago; 
and  since  then  I  have  had  casual  employment, 
perhaps  one,  and  sometimes  two  days  a-week. 
It  would  average  5«.  a-week  the  whole  year. 
Within  the  last  few  weeks  I  have,  through 
a  friend,  applied  at  a  shipping-merchant's,  and 
within  the  month  I  have  had  five  days'  work 
with  them,  and  nothing  else,  except  writing  a 
letter,  which  I  had  2d,  for — that's  all  the  em- 
ployment I've  met  with  myself.  My  wife  has 
been  at  employment  for  the  last  tliree  montlis, 
she  has  a  place  she  goes  to  work  at.  She  has 
3<.  a-week  for  washing,  for  charing,  and  for 
mangling :  the  party  my  wife  works  for  has  a 
mangle,  and  I  go  sometimes  to  help ;  for  if  she 
has  got  6^.  worth  of  washing  to  do  at  home, 
than  I  go  to  turn  the  mangle  for  an  hour  in- 
stead  of  her, — she's  not  strong  enough." 

*•  We  buy  most  bread,"  said  the  w  ife,  "  and  a 
bit  of  firing,  and  I  do  manage  on  a  Saturday 
night  to  get  them  a  bit  of  meat  for  Sunday  if  I 
possibly  can ;  but  what  wiili  the  soaj),  and  one 
thing  and  another,  that's  the  only  day  they  do 
get  a  bit  of  meat,  unless  I've  a  bit  given  me. 
As  for  clothing,  I'm  sure  I  can't  get  them  any 
unless  I  have  that  given  me,  poor  little  things." 

"  Yes,  but  we  have  managed  to  get  a  httle 
bread  lately,"  said  the  man.  "When  bread 
was  \\d.  a  loaf,  Uiat  was  the  time  when  we 
was  worse  off.  Of  course  we  had  the  seven 
chiUlren  alive  then.  We  buried  one  only 
three  months  ago.  She  was  an  afflicted  little 
creature  for  10  or  17  mouths:  it  was  one 
person's  work  to  attend  to  her,  and  was  very 
badly  off  for  a  few  months  then.    We've  known 


what  it  was  sometimes  to  go  without  bread 
and  coals  in  the  depth  of  winter.  Last  Christ- 
mas two  years  we  did  so  for  the  whole  day, 
imtil  the  wife  came  home  in  the  evening  and 
brought  it  might  be  (Sd.  or  Qd.  according  how 
long  she  worked.  I  was  looking  after  them. 
I  was  at  home  ill.  I  have  known  us  to  sit 
several  days  and  not  have  more  than  G<f.  to 
feed  and  warm  the  whole  of  us  for  the  whole 
of  the  day.  We'll  buy  half-a-quartem  loaf, 
that'll  be  ^^d.  or  sometimes  5rf.,  and  then  we 
have  a  penny  for  coals,  that  would  be  pretty 
nigh  all  that  we  could  have  for  our  money. 
Sometimes  we  get  a  little  oatmeal  and  make 
gruel.  We  had  hard  work  to  keep  the  children 
warm  at  all.  What  with  their  clothes  and 
what  we  had,  we  did  as  well  as  we  could.  My 
children  is  very  contented ;  give  'em  bread,  and 
they're  as  happy  as  all  the  world.  That's  one 
comfort.  For  instance,  to-day  we've  had  half- 
a  qnai-tem  loaf,  and  we  had  a  piece  left  of  last 
night's  after  I  had  come  home.  I  had  been 
earning  some  money  yesterday.  We  had  2  oz.  of 
butter,  and  I  had  this  afternoon  a  quarter  of  an 
oz.  of  tea  and  a  pennyworth  of  sugar.  When  I 
was  ill  I've  had  two  or  three  of  the  children 
round  me  at  a  time,  fretting  for  want  of  food. 
That  was  at  the  time  I  was  ill.  A  friend  gave 
me  half  a  sovereign  to  bury  my  child.  The 
parish  prorided  mc  with  a  cofiiu,  and  it  cost 
me  about  3j.  besides.  We  didn't  have  her 
taken  away  from  here,  not  as  a  parish  funeral 
exactly.  I  agreed  that  if  he  would  fetch  it,, 
and  let  it  stand  in  an  open  space  that  he  had 
got  there,  near  his  shop,  imtil  the  Saturday, 
which  was  the  time,  I  would  give  the  under- 
taker 35.  to  let  a  man  come  with  a  pall  to  throw 
over  the  cofiin,  so  that  it  should  not  be  seen 
exactly  it  was  a  parish  fimeral.  Even  the 
people  in  the  house  don't  know,  not  one  of 
them,  that  it  was  buried  in  that  way.  I  had 
to  give  1j.  Od.  for  a  pair  of  shoes  before  I 
coidd  follow  my  child  to  the  grave,  and  we 
paid  l5.  9</.  for  rent,  all  out  of  the  half 
sovereign.  I  think  there's  some  people  at  the 
docks  a  great  deal  worse  off  than  us.  I  should 
say  there's  men  go  down  there  and  stand  at 
that  gate  from  7  to  12,  and  then  they  may  get 
called  in  and  earn  1j.,  and  that  only  for  two  or 
three  days  in  the  week,  after  spending  the 
whole  of  their  time  there.". 

The  scones  witnessed  at  the  London  Dock 
were  of  so  painful  a  description,  the  struggle 
for  one  day's  work — the  scramble  for  twenty- 
four  hours'  extra- subsistence  and  extra-life 
were  of  so  tragic  a  chareicter,  that  I  was  anxious 
to  ascertain  if  possible  the  exact  number  of 
individuals  in  and  around  tlie  metropohs  who 
live  by  dock  laboiur.  I  have  said  tliat  at  one 
of  the  docks  alone  I  foimd  that  1823  stomachs 
would  be  deprived  of  food  by  the  mere  chop, 
ping  of  the  breeze.  "It's  an  ill  wind,"  says  the 
proverb, "  th.it  blows  nobody  good ;"  and  until  I 
came  to  investigate  the  condition  of  the  dock- 
labourer  I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible 
that  near  upon  2000  souls  in  one  place  alone 


808 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TBE  LONDON  POOS. 


lived,  chameleon-like,  upon  the  air,  or  that  an 
easterly  wind,  despite  the  wise  saw.  could 
deprive  so  many  of  bread.  It  is  indeed  "  a 
nipping  and  an  eager  air.''  That  the  suste- 
nance of  thousands  of  families  should  he  as 
fickle  as  the  very  breeze  itself;  that  the 
weathercock  should  be  the  index  of  daily  want 
or  daily  cose  to  such  a  vast  number  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  was  a  climax  of  misery 
and  wretchedness  that  I  could  not  have  im- 
agined to  exist;  and  since  that  I  have  wit- 
nessed such  scenes  of  squalor,  and  crime,  and 
suffering,  as  oppress  the  mind  even  to  a  feeling 
of  awe. 

The  docks  of  London  are  to  a  superficial 
obsen*er  the  very  focus  of  metropolitan  wealth. 
The  cranes  creak  with  the  mass  of  riches.  In 
the  warehouses  are  stored  goods  that  are  as  it 
were  ingots  of  untold  gold.  Above  and  below 
(n'ound  you  see  piles  upon  piles  of  treasure 
that  the  eye  cannot  compass.  The  wealth 
appears  as  boundless  as  tlie  very  sea  it  has 
traversed.  The  brain  aches  in  an  attempt  to 
comprehend  the  amount  of  riches  before, 
above,  and  beneath  it  There  are  acres  upon 
acres  of  treasure,  more  than  enough,  one  would 
fancy,  to  stay  the  cravings  of  the  whole  world, 
and  yet  you  have  but  to  visit  the  hovels  grouped 
round  about  all  this  amazing  excess  of  riches 
to  witness  the  some  amazing  excess  of  poverty. 
If  the  incomprehensibility  of  tlie  wealth  rises 
to  sublimity,  assuredly  the  want  that  co-exists 
with  it  is  equally  incomprehensible  and  equally 
sublime.  Pass  firom  the  quay  and  warehouses 
to  the  courts  and  tUXeys  Uiat  surround  them, 
and  the  mind  is  as  bewildered  with  the  desti- 
tution of  the  one  place  as  it  is  with  the  super- 
abundance of  the  other.  Many  come  to  see 
the  riches,  but  few  the  poverty,  abounding  in 
absolute  masses  round  the  far-famed  port  of 
London. 

According  to  the  offidal  returns,  there  be- 
longed to  this  port  on  the  dlst  of  December, 
184i«,  veiy  nearly  8000  ships,  of  the  aggregate 
burden  of  600,000  tons.  Besides  that  there 
were  239  steamers,  of  50,000  tons  burden ;  and 
the  crews  of  the  entire  nimiber  of  ships  and 
steamers  amounted  to  85,000  men  and  boys. 
The  number  of  British  and  foreign  ships  that 
entered  the  port  of  London  during  the  same 
year  was  0400  and  odd,  whose  capacity  was 
upwards  of  a  million  and  a  quarter  of  tons, 
and  the  gross  amount  of  customs  duly  col- 
lected upon  their  cargoes  was  very  nearly 
12,000/.  of  money.  So  vast  an  amount  of 
shipping  and  commerce,  it  has  been  truly  said, 
was  never  concentrated  in  any  other  single 
port. 

Now,  against  this  we  must  set  the  amount 
of  misery  that  co-exists  with  it.  We  have 
Bhown  that  the  mass  of  men  dependent  for 
their  bread  upon  the  business  of  only  one  of 
the  docks  are,  by  the  shifting  of  the  breeze, 
occasionally  deprived  in  one  day  of  no  less 
than  220/.,  the  labourers  at  the  London  Dock 
earning  as  a  body  near  upon  400/.  to-day,  and 


to-morrow  acarcelj  1501.  These  docks,  how- 
ever,  are  but  one  of  six  rimilar  establishments 
— three  being  on  the  north  and  three  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Thames — and  all  employing 
a  greater  or  less  number  of  hands,  equally 
dependent  upon  the  winds  for  their  subsis- 
tence. Deducting,  then,  the  highest  from  the 
lowest  number  of  labourers  engaged  at  the 
London  Dock — the  extremes  according  to 
the  books  are  under  500  and  over  3000— we 
have  as  many  as  2500  individuals  deprived  of 
a  day's  work  and  a  living  by  the  prevalence  of 
an  easterly  wind;  and  calculating  that  the 
same  effect  takes  pUce  at  the  other  docks— 
the  East  and  West  India  for  instance,  St, 
Katherine's,  Commercial,  Grand  Surrey,  and 
East  Country,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  and 
that  the  hands  employed  to  load  and  unload 
the  vessels  entering  and  quitting  all  these 
places  are  only  four  times  more  than  those  re- 
quired at  the  London  Dock,  we  have  as  maoj 
as  12,000  individuals  or  families  whose  daily 
bread  is  as  fickle  as  the  ^dnd  itself;  whose 
wages,  in  fact,  are  one  day  collectively  as  much 
as  1500/.  and  the  next  as  low  as  500/.,  so  that 
8000  men  are  fVequently  thrown  out  of  employ, 
while  the  earnings  of  the  class  to  day  amount 
to  1000/.  less  than  they  did  yesterday. 

It  would  be  curious  to  take  an  avenge 
number  of  days  that  easterly  winds  prevaU  in 
London  throughout  the  year,  and  so  arrive  at 
an  estimate  of  the  exact  time  that  the  abofe 
8000  men  are  unemployed  in  the  course  of 
twelve  months.  This  would  s^ve  us  some 
idea  of  the  amount  of  their  aversffe  weeUj 
earnings.  By  the  labourers  themselves  I  am 
assured  that,  taking  one  week  with  another, 
they  do  not  gain  5«.  weekly  throughout  the 
year.  I  have  made  a  point  of  \'isiting  and  in- 
terrogating a  large  number  of  them,  in  order 
to  obtain  some  definite  information  respecting 
the  extent  of  their  income,  and  have  found  in 
only  one  instance  an  account  kept  of  the 
individual  earnings.  In  that  case  the  wages 
averaged  within  a  fraction  of  13<.  per  week, 
the  total  sum  gained  since  the  beginning  of 
the  year  being  25/.  odd.  I  should  state,  how* 
ever,  that  the  man  earning  thus  much  was 
pointed  out  to  me  as  one  of  the  most  provi- 
dent of  the  casual  labourers,  and  one,  moreover, 
who  b  generally  employed.  '<  If  it  is  possible 
to  get  work,  he'll  have  it,"  was  said  of  him; 
*•  there's  not  a  lazy  bone  in  his  skin."  Be- 
sides this  he  had  done  a  considerable 
quantity  of  piece-work,  so  that  altogether 
the  man's  earnings  might  be  taken  as  the 
very  extreme  made  by  the  best  kind  of  *'  extra 
hands." 

The  man  himself  gives  the  following  ex- 
planation as  to  the  state  of  the  labour-market 
at  the  London  Dock.  "  He  has  had  a  good 
turn  of  work,"  he  says,  since  he  has  been  there* 
"  Some  don't  get  half  what  he  does.  He's  not 
always  employed,  excepting  when  the  buMoees 
is  in  anyway  brisk,  but  when  a  kind  of  a  slack 
comes  Uie  recommended  men  get  the  prefer 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


309 


ence  of  tl^  work,  and  the  extras  have  nothing 
to  do.  This  is  the  hest  snmner  ho  has  had 
since  he  has  heen  in  London.  Has  had  a  good 
bit  of  piece-work.  Obliged  to  live  as  he  does 
because  he  can't  depend  on  work.    Isn't  certain 


of  the  second  day's  work.  He's  paid  off  eveiy 
night,  and  can't  say  whether  or  not  they'll 
want  iiira  on  the  morrow."  The  account  of  his 
wages  was  written  in  pencil  on  the  cover  of  an 
old  memorandum-hook,  and  ran  as  follows : 


Earned  by  day-work  firom  Ist  Jan.  to  1st)  ,  o  ,,  « 

Aug.  1849 I  16  11  6 

By  piece-work  in  August     •        .        •          5  5  8 

By  day  work  from  1st  Sept  to  1st  Oct,            3  8  7 


£,  s.    d. 

averaging  0  11  10    per  week 

„  16    5  „ 

„  0  17    If        „ 


Total       •        ♦        .      ^25    6  0 

H,  then,  13«.  bo  the  average  amount  of 
▼eekly  earnings  by  the  most  provident,  in- 
dustrious, and  fortunate  of  the  casual  labourers 
It  the  docks — and  that  at  the  best  season — 
it  may  be  safely  assorted  that  the  lowest  grade 
of  woikmen  there  do  not  gain  more  than  5<. 
per  week  throughout  the  year.  It  should  be 
ranerabered  that  the  man  himself  says  **  some 
don't  get  half  what  he  does,"  and  from  a  multi- 
plicity of  inquiries  that  I  have  made  upon  the 
subject  this  appears  to  be  about  the  truth. 
Moreover,  we  should  bear  in  mind  that  the 
average  weekly  wages  of  the  dock-labourer, 
miserable  as  they  are,  are  rendered  even  more 
wretched  by  the  uncertain  character  of  the 
work  on  whichthoy  depend.  Were  the  income 
of  the  casual  labourer  at  the  docks  5«.  per 
week  from  one  year's  end  to  another  the  work- 
man would  know  exactly  how  much  he  had  to 
subsist  upon,  and  might  therefore  be  expected 
to  display  some  little  providence  and  temper- 
ance in  the  expenditure  of  his  wages.  But 
irhere  the  means  of  subsistence  occasionally 
rise  to  15f.  a-week,  and  occasionally  sink  to 
nothing,  it  is  absurd  to  look  for  prudence, 
eccnomy,  or  moderation.  Regularity  of  habits 
are  incompatible  with  irregularity  of  income ; 
indeed,  the  very  conditions  necessary  for  the 
formation  of  any  habit  whatsoever  are,  that  the 
act  or  thing  to  which  we  are  to  become  habi- 
tuated should  be  repeated  at  frequent  and  re- 
gular intervals.  It  is  a  moral  impossibility 
that  the  class  of  labourers  who  are  only  occa- 
sionally employed  should  be  either  generally 
industrious  or  temperate — both  industry  and 
temperance  being  habits  produced  by  con- 
stancy of  employment  and  uniformity  of  in- 
come. Hence,  where  the  greatest  fluctuation 
occiurs  in  the  labour,  there,  of  course,  will  be 
the  greatest  idleness  and  improvidence ;  where 
the  greatest  want  generally  is,  there  we  shall 
find  the  greatest  occasional  excess ;  where  from 
the  uncertainty  of  the  occupation  prudence  is 
most  needed,  there,  strange  to  say,  we  shall 
meet  with  the  highest  imprudence  of  all. 
••  Previous  to  the  formation  of  a  canal  in  the 
north  of  Ireland,"  says  Mr.  Porter,  in  "  The  Pro- 
gress  of  the  Nation,"  •*  the  men  were  improvi- 
dent  even  to  recklessness.  Such  work  as  they 
got  before  came  at  uncertain  intervals,  the 
wages  insufficient  for  the  comfortable  suste- 
nance of  their  families  were  wasted  at  the  whis- 


Jl'i  15    4} 


key- shop,  and  the  men  appeared  to  be  sunk  in 
a  state  of  hopeless  degradation.  From  the  mo- 
ment, however,  tliat  work  was  offered  to  them 
which  was  constant  in  its  natiure  and  certain  in 
its  duration,  men  who  before  had  been  idle  and 
dissolute  were  converted  into  sober,  hard-work- 
ing labourers,  and  proved  themselves  kind  and 
careful  husbands  and  fathers ;  and  it  is  said 
that,  notwithstanding  the  distribution  of  several 
hundred  pounds  weekly  in  wages,  the  whole  of 
which  must  be  considered  as  so  much  ad- 
ditional money  placed  in  their  hands,  the  con- 
sumption of  whisky  was  absolutely  and  per- 
manently diminished  in  the  district.  Indeed 
it  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice,  as  illustrative  of 
the  tendency  of  the  times  of  pressure,  and  con- 
sequently of  deficient  and  uncertain  employ- 
ment, to  increase  spirit- drinking,  that  whilst 
in  the  year  1836  —  a  year  of  the  greatest  pros- 
perity— the  tax  on  British  spirits  amounted 
only  to  2,390,000/. ;  yet,  under  the  privations 
of  1841,  the  English  poorer  classes  paid  no 
less  than  2,600,000/.  in  taxes  upon  the  liquor 
they  consiuned — thus  spending  upwards  of 
200,000/.  more  in  drink  at  a  time  when  they 
were  less  able  to  afford  it,  and  so  proving  that 
a  fluctuation  in  the  income  of  the  working- 
classes  is  almost  invariably  attended  with  an 
excess  of  improvidence  in  the  expenditure. 
Moreover,  with  reference  to  the  dock-labourers, 
wo  have  been  informed,  upon  imquestionable 
authority,  that  some  years  back  there  were 
near  upon  220  ships  waiting  to  be  discharged 
in  one  dock  alone ;  and  such  was  the  pressure 
of  business  then,  that  it  became  necessary  to 
obtain  leave  of  Her  Majesty's  Customs  to  in- 
crease the  iisual  time  of  daily  labour  from 
eight  to  twelve  hours.  The  men  employed, 
therefore,  earned  50  per  cent  more  than  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  doing  at  the  briskest 
times;  but  so  far  from  the  extra  amount  of 
wages  being  devoted  to  increase  the  comforts 
of  their  homes,  it  was  principally  spent  in 
public-houses.  The  riot  and  confusion  thus 
created  in  the  neighbourhood  wore  such  as 
had  never  been  known  before,  and  indeed  wero 
so  general  among  the  workmen,  that  eveiy  re- 
spectable person  in  the  immediate  vicinity  ex- 
pressed a  hope  that  such  a  thing  as  "  overtime  " 
would  never  occur  again. 

It  may  then  be  safely  asserted,  that  though 
the  wages  of  the  casud  labourer  at  the  docks 


810 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


average  5«.  per  week,  still  the  weekly  eaniiDgs 
are  of  so  precarious  and  variable  a  nature, 
that  when  the  time  of  the  men  is  folly  em- 
ployed, the  money  which  is  gained  over  and 
above  the  amount  absolutely  required  for  sub- 
sistence is  almost  sure  to  be  spent  in  intem- 
perance, and  that  when  there  is  little  or  no 
demand  for  their  work,  and  tlieir  gains  are 
consequently  insufficient  for  the  satisfaction  of 
their  appetites,  they  and  those  who  depend 
upon  their  labour  for  their  food  must  at  least 
want,  if  not  starve.  The  impro\'idence  of  the 
casual  dock-labourer  is  duo,  therefore,  not  to 
any  particular  malformation  of  his  moral  con- 
stitution, but  to  the  precarious  character  of 
liis  calling.  His  vices  are  the  \iccs  of  ordinary 
human  nature.  Ninety-nine  in  every  hundred 
similarly  circumstanced  would  commit  siinilar 
enormities.  If  the  very  winds  could  whistle 
away  the  food  and  firing  of  wife  and  children, 
I  doubt  much  whether,  after  a  week's  or  a 
monUi's  privation,  we  should  many  of  us  be 
able  to  prevent  ourselves  from  falling  into  the 
very  same  excesses. 

It  is  consoling  to  moralise  in  our  easy 
chairs,  after  a  good  dinner,  and  to  assure  our- 
selves that  we  should  do  di£ferently.  Self- 
denial  is  not  veiy  difficult  when  our  stomachs 
are  full  and  our  backs  are  warm ;  but  let  us 
live  a  month  of  hunger  and  cold,  and  assuredly 
we  should  be  as  self-indulgent  as  they. 

I  have  devoted  some  time  to  the  investi- 
gation of  the  state  of  the  casual  labourers  at 
the  othei*  docks,  and  shall  now  proceed  to  set 
forth  the  result  of  my  inquiries. 

The  West  Imsu  Dockb. 

The  West  India  Docks  are  about  a  mile  and 
a-half  from  the  London  Docks.  The  entire 
ground  that  they  cover  is  205  acres,  so  that  they 
are  nearly  three  times  larger  than  the  London 
Docks,  and  more  than  twelve  times  more  ex- 
tensive than  those  of  St  Katherine's.  Hence 
they  are  the  most  capacious  of  all  the  great 
warehousing  establishments  in  the  port  of 
Loudon.  The  export  dock  is  about  870  yards, 
or  very  nearly  half-a-mile  in  length  by  135 
yards  in  width ;  its  area,  therefore,  is  about  20 
acres.  The  import  dock  is  the  same  length  as 
the  export  dock,  and  100  yards  wide.  The 
south  dock,  which  is  appropriated  both  to  im- 
port and  export  vessels,  is  1,183  yards,  or  up- 
wards of  two-thirds  of  a  mile  long,  with  an 
entrance  to  the  river  at  each  end;  both  the 
locks,  as  well  as  that  into  the  Blaclnrall  basin, 
being  forty  feet  wide,  and  largo  enough  to 
admit  ships  of  1,200  tons  burden.  The  ware- 
houses for  iiuported  goods  are  on  the  four 
quays  of  the  import  dock.  They  are  well  con- 
trived and  of  great  extent,  being  calculated  to 
contain  180,000  tons  of  merchandise;  and 
there  Las  been  at  one  time  on  the  quays,  and 
in  the  sheds,  vaults,  and  warehouses,  colonial 
produce  worth  20,000,000/.  sterling.  The  East 
India  Docks  are  likewise  the  property  of  the 


West  India  Dock  Company,  having  been  pur- 
chased by  them  of  the  East  India  Company  at 
the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  trade  to  India. 
The  import  dock  here  has  an  area  of  18  acres, 
and  the  export  dock  abont  0  acres.  The  depth 
of  water  in  these  docks  is  greater,  and  th^ 
can  consequently  accommodate  ships  of  greater 
burden  than  any  other  establishment  -on  the 
river.  The  capital  of  both  establishments,  or 
oT  the  united  company,  amounts  to  upwards  (^ 
2.000,000  of  money.  The  West  India  import 
dock  can  accommodate  300  ships,  and  the  export 
dock  200  ships  of  300  tons  each ;  and  the  East 
fndia 'import  dock  84  ships,  and  the  export  ■ 
dock  40  ships,  of  800  tons  each.  The  nunber 
of  ships  that  entered  the  West  India  Dock  to 
load  and  unload  last  year  was  8008,  and  the 
number  that  entered  the  East  India  Dock  298. 
I  owe  the  above  information,  as  well  as  thai 
which  follows,  to  the  kindness  of  the  aecretaiy 
and  superintendent  of  the  docks  in  questioiL 
To  the  politeness  and  intelligence  of  Uie  latter 
gentleman  I  am  specially  indebted.  Indeed 
his  readiness  to  afford  me  all  the  assistanee 
that  lay  in  his  power,  as  well  as  his  eoorteqr 
and  gentlemanly  demeanour,  formed  a  marked 
contrast  to  that  of  the  deputy-superintendent  of 
the  London  Docks,  the  one  appearing  as  anxr 
ious  for  the  welfare  and  comfort  of  the  labour- 
ing men  as  the  other  seemed  indiflEerent  to  it 

The  transition  from  the  London  to  the 
West  India  Docks  is  of  a  very  peculiar  cha- 
racter. The  labourers  at  the  latter  place  seem 
to  be  more  civilised.  The  scrambling  nod 
scuffling  for  the  day's  hire,  which  is  the  strik- 
ing feature  of  the  one  establishment,  is  scarcely 
distinguishable  at  the  other.  It  is  true  there 
is  the  same  crowd  of  labourers  in  quest  of  a 
day's  work,  but  the  struggle  to  obtttn  it  is 
neither  so  fierce  nor  so  disorderly  in  its  cha- 
racter. And  yet,  here  the  casual  labourers  are 
men  from  whom  no  character  is  demanded  as 
well  as  there.  The  amount  of  wages  for  the 
summer  months  is  the  same  as  at  Uie  LondM 
Docks.  Unlike  the  London  Docks,  however, 
no  reduction  is  made  at  the  East  and  West 
India  Docks  during  the  winter. 

The  labour  is  as  precarious  at  one  establish- 
ment as  at  the  other.  The  greatest  number  of 
hands  employed  for  any  one  day  at  the  East 
and  West  India  Docks  in  the  course  of  lack 
year  was  nearly  4000,  and  the  smallest  number 
about  1300.  The  lowest  number  of  ships  thit 
entered  the  docks  during  any  one  week  in  the 
present  year  was  28,  and  the  highest  number 
200,  being  a  difference  of  181  veasela,  of  an 
average  burden  of  300  tons  each.  The  positive 
amount  of  variation,  however,  which  oceunred 
in  the  labour  during  the  briskest  and  slackeit 
weeks  of  last  year  was  a  difference  of  upwards 
of  2500  in  the  number  of  extra  workmen  em- 
ployed, and  of  about  2000/.  in  the  amount  of 
wages  paid  for  the  six  days'  labour.  I  hare 
been  favoured  with  a  return  of  the  number  of 
vessels  that  entered  the  East  and  West  Indis 
Docks  for  each  week  in  the  prasent  year,  asd 


t 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


311 


I  subjoin  a  statement  of  the  number  arriving 
in  each  of  the  first  fourteen  of  those  weeks. 
In  the  1st  week  of  all  there  were  80,  tlio  2il 
47,  the  8d  43,  the  4th  48,  the  5th  28,  the  0th 
49,  the  7tli  40,  the  8th  37,  the  0th  42,  the  10th 
47,  the  nth  42,  the  12th  131,  the  13th  200, 
and  the  14th  85.  Hence  it  appears,  that  in 
the  second  week  the  number  of  ships  coming 
into  dock  decreased  nearly  one-hedf;  in  Uie 
fifth  week  they  were  again  diminished  in  a 
like  proportion,  while  in  the  sixth  week  they 
were  increased  in  a  similar  ratio ;  in  the 
twelfth  week  they  were  more  than  three  times 
what  they  were  in  the  eleventh,  in  the  thir- 
teenth the  number  was  half  as  much  again  as 
it  was  in  the  twelfth,  and  in  the  fourteenth  it 
was  down  below  half  the  number  of  the  thir- 
teenth, so  that  it  is  clear  that  the  subsistence 
derived  from  dock  lid>our  must  be  of  the  most 
fickle  and  doubtful  kind. 

Tbe  St.  Eatbsbine's  Docs. 

No&  are  the  returns  firom  St.  Eatherine's  Dock 
of  a  more  cheerful  character.  Here  it  should  be 
obaerved  that  no  labourer  is  employed  without 
aprevioos  recommendation;  and,  indeed,  it  is 
carious  to  notice  the  difference  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  men  applying  for  work  at  this 
establishment  They  not  only  have  a  more 
decent  look,  but  seem  to  be  better  behaved 
than  any  other  dock-labourers  I  have  yet  seen. 
The  "  ticket"  system  is  here  adopted — ^that  is  to 
tij,  the  plan  of  allowing  only  such  persons  to 
labour  within  the  docks  as  have  been  satis- 
faetorily  recommended  to  the  company,  and 
famished  with  a  ticket  l>y  them  in  return — this 
ticket  system,  says  the  statement  which  has 
been  kindly  drawn  up  e^ressly  for  me  by  the 
Boperintendent  of  the  docks,  may  be  worth 
notice,  at  a  time  when  such  efforts  are  making 
to  improve  the  condition  of  the  labourers. 
It  gives  an  identity  and  locut  standi  to  the 
i&en  which  casual  labourers  cannot  otherwise 
possess,  it  connects  them  with  the  various 
grades  of  oflSccrs  xmdor  whose  eyes  they  labour, 
prevents  favouritism,  and  leads  to  their  quali- 
fications being  noted  and  recorded.  It  also 
kolds  before  them  a  reward  for  activity,  in- 
telligence, and  good  conduct;  because  the 
vseancies  in  the  list  of  preferable  labourers, 
vhich  occur  during  the  year,  are  invariably 
filled  in  the  succeeding  Januaiy  by  selecting, 
Upon  strict  inquiry,  the  best  of  the  extra- ticket 
labourers,  the  vacancies  among  the  permanent 
mfn  being  supplied  in  like  manner  from  the 
list  of  preferable  labourers,  while  from  the 
permanent  men  are  appointed  the  subordinate 
officers,  as  markers,  samplers,  &g. 

Let  us,  however,  before  entering  into  a  de- 
scription of  the  class  and  number  of  labourers 
employed  at  St  Katherine's  give  a  brief  descrip- 
tion of  the  docks  themselves.  The  lofty  walls, 
'Which  constitute  it  in  the  language  of  the 
Custom-house  a  place  of  Kpecial  security,  en- 
close on  area  of  23  acres,  of  which  11   are 


water,  capable  of  accommodating  120  ships, 
besides  barges  and  other  craft;  cargoes  are 
raised  into  the  warehouses  out  of  the  hold  of 
a  ship,  without  the  goods  being  deposited  on 
the  quay.  The  cargoes  can  be  raised  out  of 
the  ship's  hold  into  the  warehouses  of  St. 
Katherine's  in  one-fifth  of  the  usual  time. 
Before  the  existence  of  docks,  a  month  or  six 
weeks  was  taken  up  in  discharging  the  cargo 
of  an  East-Indiaman  of  from  800  to  1200  tons 
burden,  while  8  days  were  necessary  in  the 
summer  and  14  in  the  winter  to  unload  a  ship 
of  350  tons.  At  St.  Katherine's,  however,  the 
average  time  now  occupied  in  discharging  a 
ship  of  250  tons  is  twelve  hours,  and  one  of 
500  tons  two  or  tliree  days,  the  goods  being 
placed  at  the  same  time  in  the  warehouse: 
there  have  been  occasions  when  even  greater 
despatch  has  been  used,  and  a  cargo  of  1100 
casks  of  tallow,  averaging  from  0  to  10  cwt 
each,  has  been  diseharged  in  seven  hours. 
This  would  have  been  considered  little  short 
of  a  miracle  on  the  legal  quays  less  than  fifty 
yoars  ago.  In  1841,  about  1000  vessels  and 
10,000  lighters  were  accommodated  at  St 
Katherine's  Dock.  The  capital  expended  by 
the  dock  company  exceeds  2,000,000  of  money. 

The  business  of  tliis  establishment  is  carried 
on  by  35  officers,  105  clerks  and  apprentices, 
135  markers,  samplers,  and  foremen,  250  per- 
manent  labourers,  150  preferable  ticket-la- 
bourers, proportioned  to  the  amount  of  work 
to  be  done.  The  average  number  of  labourers 
employed,  permanent,  preferable,  and  extras, 
is  109(5 ;  the  highest  number  employed  on  any 
one  day  last  year  was  1713,  and  the  lowest 
number  515,  so  that  the  extreme  fluctuation 
in  the  labour  appears  to  be  very  nearly  1200 
hands.  The  lowest  sum  of  money  that  was 
paid  in  1848  for  the  day's  work  of  the  entire 
body  of  labourers  employed  was  64/.  7».  6rf., 
and  the  highest  sum  214/.  2«.  Off.,  being  a 
difference  of  very  nearly  150/.  in  one  day,  or 
000/.  in  the  course  .of  the  week.  The  average 
number  of  ships  that  enter  the  dock  every 
week  is  1 7,  the  highest  number  that  entered 
in  any  one  week  last  year  was  36,  and 
the  lowest  5,  being  a  difference  of  31.  As- 
suming these  to  have  been  of  an  average  bur- 
den of  300  tons,  and  that  every  such  vessel 
would  require  100  labourers  to  discharge  its 
cargo  in  three  days,  then  1500  extra  hands 
ought  to  have  been  engaged  to  discharge  the 
cargoes  of  the  entire  number  in  a  week.  Tliis, 
it  will  be  observed,  is  very  nearly  equal  to  the 
highest  number  of  the  labourers  employed  by 
the  company  in  the  year  1848. 

The  remaining  docks  are  the  Commercial 
Docks  and  timber  ponds,  the  Grand  Surrey 
Canal  Dock  at  Rotherhithe,  and  the  East 
Country  Dock.  The  Commercial  Docks  occupy 
an  area  of  about  49  acres,  of  which  four-fifths 
are  water.  There  is  accommodation  for  850 
ships,  and  in  thB  warehouses  for  60,000  tons  of 
merchandise.  They  are  appropriated  to  vessels 
engaged  in  the  European  timber  and  com 


812 


LOSDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOS'DON  POOR. 


trades,  and  the  Hurronmlin^  warehouses  are 
used  chielly  a«  grauaries — the  timber  remain- 
ing afloat  in  the  dock  until  it  is  conveyed  to 
thti  yard  of  the  wholesale  dealer  and  builder. 
Tiie  Siurey  Dock  is  merely  an  i-ntranco  basin 
to  a  canal,  and  can  accommodate  MOO  vessels. 
The  Kast  Country  Dock,  which  adjoins  the 
Commercial  Bocks  on  the  South,  is  capable  of 
receiving;  28  tiMib<'r-sIiips.  It  has  an  area  of 
G^  acrrs,  and  warehouse- mom  fur  0700  tons. 

In  addition  to  these  there  is  the  Regent's 
Canal  Dock,  between  Shadwell  and  LimehousCi 
anil  though  it  is  a  place  for  bonding  timber 
and  deals  only,  it  nevertheless  affords  great  ac- 
commodation to  the  trade  of  the  port  by  with- 
drawing  shipping  firom  the  river. 

The  number  of  labourers,  casual  and  per- 
manent, em]doyed  at  these  various  establish- 
ments is  so  limited,  that,  taken  altogether,  the 
fluctuations  occurring  at  their  briskest  and 
alackest  periods  may  be  reckoned  aa  equal  to 
that  of  Bt  Katherine's.  Hence  the  account  of 
the  variation  in  the  total  number  of  hands  em- 
ployed, and  the  sum  of  money  paid  as  wages 
to  them,  by  the  different  dock  companies,  when 
the  business  is  brisk  or  slocki  may  be  stated 
as  follows  :— 

At  the  London  Dock  the  dif-) 

ferenco  between  the  greatest  >    2000  bands 

and  smallcRt  number  is    •      ) 
At  the  Kast  and  West  India  Dock    2500     „ 
At  the  St.  Katlierine's  Dock         .  12(M)      „ 
At  the  remaining  docks  say .        .  1300     „ 
Total  numbiT  of  dock  labourers  \  ■ 

thrown  out  of  employ  by  the  >    »-qqq 

prevalence  of  easterly  i^inds  )    '  ^^ 

The  difference  between  the  highest  \      £, 
and  lowest  amount  of  wages  paid  |    1500 
at  the  London  Dock  is    .        .      ) 
At  the  East  and  West  India  Dock      .  1 875 
At  the  St.  Katherine  Dock  .        .        .    {)(K) 
At  the  remaining  docks      •        *        .1)75 

£5-^50 

From  the  above  statement  then  it  appears, 
that  by  the  prevalence  of  an  easterly  wind  no 
less  than  7000  out  of  the  aggregate  number  of 
persons  living  by  dock  labour  may  bo  deprived 
of  their  regular  income,  and  the  entire  bo<ly 
may  have  as  much  as  5250/.  a  week  abstracted 
firom  the  amount  of  their  collective  earnings, 
at  a  period  of  active  emplojTnent.  But  the 
number  of  individuals  who  depend  upon  the 

auantity  of  shipping  entcrini;  the  port  of  Lou- 
on  for  their  daily  subsistence  is  far  beyond 
this  amount.  Indeed  we  are  assured  by  a 
gentleman  filling  a  high  situation  in  St  Ka- 
therine's Dock,  and  who,  from  his  sympathy 
with  the  labouring  poor,  has  evidently  given 
no  slight  attention  to  the  subject,  that  taking 
into  consideration  the  number  of  wharf-la- 
bourers, dock-labourers,  lightermen,  riggers 
and    lumpers,    shipwrights,   caulkers,  -ships' 


carpenters,  anchor-smiths,  corn-porters,  fruit 
and  coal-meters,  and  indeed  all  the  multi- 
farious arts  and  callings  connected  with  ship, 
ping,  there  are  no  less  than  from  2500  to  aO.OOO 
individuals  who  are  thrown  wholly  out  of 
empU»y  by  a  long  continuance  of  eaaierly 
winds.  Estimating  then  the  gains  of  this 
larg(j  body  of  individuals  at  2j.  Oct.  per  daj,  or 
\bt.  por  week,  when  Aillj  employedfWe  shall 
find  that  the  loss  to  tliose  who  depend  vyoii 
the  London  shipping  for  their,  inbaietenei 
amounts  to  20,000/.  per  week,  and,  eonstdering 
thnt  such  i^iuds  are  often  known  to  prerailte 
a  fortnight  to  three  weeks  at  a  time,  it  fbOovi 
that  the  entire  loss  to  this  large  dasi  vill 
amount  to  from  40,000/.  to  60,000/.  wiUdtt  s 
month, — ^an  amount  of  pri>-ation  to  the  labonw 
ing  poor  which  it  is  positively  awfiil  to  eon-  - 
template.  Nor  is  this  the  only  evil  conneetai 
with  an  enduring  easterly  wind.  Diree^f  s 
chang<;  takes  place  a  glut  of  Tcssels  enten  tlM 
mctropoUtan  port,  and  labourers  flock  fttsm  all 
quarters ;  indeed  they  flock  lh>m  eveiy  paii 
where  the  workmen  exist  in  a  greater  quauUf 
than  the  work.  From  500  to  800  Tcssela  &•• 
quently  arrive  at  one  time  in  London  after  tl^ 
duration  of  a  contraty  wind,  and  then  8od&  i* 
the  demand  for  workmen,  and  bo  gnat  ths 
press  of  business,  owing  to  the  livahy  amaog 
merchants,  and  the  desire  of  eaoh  owner  t» 
have  his  cargo  the  first  in  the  market,  thai  % 
sufficient  number  of  hands  la  wcareekj  to  te 
found.  Hundreds  of  extra  laboinexv,  who  ean 
find  labour  nowhere  else,  are  thna  lad  to  acak 
work  in  the  docks.  But,  to  use  the  words  of  oor 
informant,  two  or  three  weeks  are  saffifliaot  to 
break  the  neck  of  an  ordinary  glut,  and  tlieii 
the  vast  amount  of  extra  hands  that  the  azoeaa 
of  business  has  brought  to  the  neighbomhood 
are  thrown  out  of  employment,  and  UdEt  to  in- 
crease either  the  vagabondism  of  the  nai^ 
bourhood  or  to  swell  the  nnmber  of 


f  paiuoa 
paiidMa, 


and  heighten  the  rates  of  the  acyacent 

CnsiF  LoDGZHa-Houixs. 

I  HOW  come  to  the  class  of  cheap  lodging- 
houses  usually  firequented  by  the  casual  laboi^ 
ers  at  the  docks.  It  will  be  remembered,  pal^ 
haps,  that  I  described  one  of  these  placeSi  at 
well  as  the  kind  of  characters  to  be  foond 
there.  Since  then  I  have  directed  my  attention 
particularly  to  this  subject;  not  because  it 
came  first  in  order  according  to  the  course  dt 
investigation  I  had  marked  out  for  myself,  but 
because  it  presented  so  many  peculiar  features 
that  I  thought  it  better,  even  at  the  risk  of 
being  unmethodical,  to  avail  myself  of  the 
channels  of  information  opened  to  me  rather 
than  defer  the  matter  to  its  proper  place,  and 
so  lose  the  fre<%hncss  of  the  impression  it  had 
made  upon  my  mind. 

On  my  first  visit,  the  want  and  misery  thtt 
I  saw  were  such,  that,  in  consulting  wih  the 
gentleman  who  led  me  to  the  spot,  it  was 
arranged  that  a  dinner  should  bo  given  on  the 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


313 


following  Sunday  to  all  those  who  were  present 
on  the  evening  of  my  first  inter\'iew ;  and,  ac- 
conUngly,  enough  heef,  potatoes,  and  materials 
for  a  suet-pudding,  were  sent  in  from  the 
neighbouring  market  to  feed  tliem  every  one. 
I  parted  with  my  guide,  arranging  to  be  with 
him  the  next  Sunday  at  half-past  one.  AVe 
met  at  the  time  appointed,  and  sot  out  on  our 
way  to  the  cheap  lodging-house.  Tlie  streets 
were  alive  with  sailors,  and  bonnetlcss  and 
capless  women.  The  Jews'  shops  and  public- 
houses  were  all  open,  and  parties  of  '*  jolly 
tars "  reeled  past  us,  singing  and  bawHng  on 
their  way.  Had  it  not  been  that  here  and 
there  a  stray  shop  was  closed,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  have  guessed  it  was  Sunday. 
We  dived  down  a  narrow  court,  at  the  entrance 
of  which  lolled  Irish  labourers  smoking  short 
pipes.  Across  the  court  hung  lines,  from 
which  dangled  dirty-white  clothes  to  dry;  and 
as  we  walked  on,  ragged,  unwashed,  shoeless 
children  scampered  past  us,  chasing  one 
another.  At  length  we  reached  a  large  open 
yard.  In  the  centre  of  it  stood  several  empty 
ocstermongers*  trucks  and  tumed-up  carts, 
inth  their  shafts  high  in  the  air.  At  the 
bottom  of  these  lay  two  young  girls  huddled 
together,  asleep.  Their  bare  heads  told  their 
mode  of  life,  while  it  was  evident,  from  their 
muddy  Adelaide  boots,  that  they  had  walked 
the  streets  all  night  My  companion  tried  to 
see  if  he  knew  them,  but  they  slept  too  soundly 
to  be  roused  by  gentle  means.  We  passed  on, 
aad  a  few  paces  further  on  Uiere  sat  grouped 
on  a  door-step  four  women,  of  the  same  cha- 
racter as  the  last  two.  One  had  her  head 
covered  up  in  an  old  brown  shawl,  and  was 
sleeping  in  the  lap  of  the  one  next  to  her. 
The  o£her  two  were  eating  walnuts ;  and  a 
coarse-featured  man  in  knee-breeches  and 
"ankle-jacks"  was  stretched  on  the  groimd 
doee  beside  them. 

At  length  we  reached  the  lodging-house. 
It  was  night  when  I  had  first  visited  the  place, 
and  all  now  was  new  to  me.  The  entrance 
was  through  a  pair  of  large  green  gates,  which 
gave  it  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a  stable- 
yard.  Over  the  kitchen  door  there  hung  a 
cbthes-line,  on  which  were  a  wet  shirt  and  a 
pair  of  ragged  canvas  trousers,  brown  with  tar. 
Entering  Uie  kitchen,  wo  found  it  so  full  of 
smoke  that  the  sim's  rays,  which  shot  slanting 
down  through  a  broken  tile  in  the  roof,  looked 
like  a  shaft  of  light  cut  through  the  fog.  The  flue 
of  the  chimney  stood  out  from  the  bare  brick 
wall  like  a  buttress,  and  was  black  all  the  way 
Qp  with  the  smoke ;  the  beams,  which  hung 
down  from  the  roof^  and  ran  from  wall  to  wall, 
^ere  of  the  same  colour ;  and  in  the  centre,  to 
light  the  room,  was  a  rude  iron  gas-pipe,  such 
as  are  used  at  night  when  the  streets  are  turned 
Up.  The  floor  was  unboarded,  and  a  wooden 
seat  projeeted  from  the  wall  all  round  the 
foom.  In  front  of  this  was  ranged  a  series  of 
tables,  on  which  lolled  dozing  men.  A  number 
of  the  inmates  were  grouped  aroimd  the  fire ; 


some  kneeling  toasting  herrings,  of  which  the 
place  smelt  strongly;  others,  without  shirts, 
seated  on  the  ground  close  beside  it  for 
warmth ;  and  others  drying  the  ends  of  cigars 
they  had  picked  up  in  the  streets.  As  we 
entered  the  men  rose,  and  never  was  so  motley 
and  so  ragged  an  assemblage  seen.  Their 
hair  was  matted  like  flocks  of  wool,  and  their 
chins  were  grimy  with  their  unshorn  boards. 
Some  were  in  dirty  smock-frocks :  others  in 
old  red  plush  waistcoats,  with  long  sleeves. 
One  was  dressed  in  an  old  shooting-jacket, 
with  large  wooden  buttons ;  a  second  in  a  blue 
flannel  sailor's  shirt ;  and  a  third,  a  mere  boy, 
wore  a  long  camlet  coat  reaching  to  his  heels, 
and  with  the  ends  of  the  sleeves  hanging  over 
his  hands.  The  features  of  the  lodgers  wore 
every  kind  of  expression:  one  lad  was  posi- 
tively  handsome,  and  there  was  a  frankness  in 
his  face  and  a  straightforward  look  in  his  eye 
that  strongly  impressed  me  with  a  sense  of 
his  honesty,  even  although  I  was  assured  he 
was  a  confirmed  pickpocket  The  young  thief 
who  had  brought  back  the  ll^d.  change  out 
of  the  shilling  that  had  been  entrusted  to  him 
on  the  preceding  evening,  was  far  from  pre- 
possessing, now  that  I  could  see  him  better. 
His  cheek-bones  were  high,  while  his  hair,  cut 
dose  on  the  top,  with  a  valance  of  locks,  as  it 
were,  left  hanging  in  front,  made  me  look 
upon  him  with  no  slight  suspicion.  On  the 
form  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen  was  one  whose 
squalor  and  wretchedness  produced  a  feeling 
approaching  to  awe.  His  eyes  were  sunk  deep 
in  his  head,  his  cheeks  were  drawn  in,  and  his 
nostrils  pinched  with  evident  want,  while  his 
dark  stubbly  beard  gave  a  grinmess  to  his 
appearance  that  was  almost  demoniac;  and 
yet  there  was  a  patience  in  his  look  that  was 
almost  pitiable.  His  clothes  were  black  and 
shiny  at  eveiy  fold  with  grease,  and  his  coarse 
shirt  was  so  brown  with  long  wearing,  that  it 
was  only  with  dose  inspection  you  could  see 
that  it  had  once  been  a  checked  one :  on  his 
feet  he  had  a  pair  of  lady's  side-laced  boots, 
the  toes  of  which  had  been  cut  off*  so  that  he 
might  get  them  on.  I  never  beheld  so  gaunt 
a  picture  of  famine.  To  this  day  the  figure  of 
the  man  haunts  me. 

The  dinner  had  been  provided  for  thirty, 
but  the  news  of  the  treat  had  spread,  and 
there  was  a  muster  of  fifty.  We  hardly  knew 
how  to  act  It  was,  however,  left  to  those 
whose  names  had  been  taken  down  as  being 
present  on  the  previous  evening  to  say  what 
should  be  done;  and  the  answer  from  one 
and  all  was  that  the  new-comers  were  to  share 
the  feast  with  them.  The  dinner  was  then 
half-portioned  out  in  an  adjoining  outhouse 
into  twenty-five  platefuls  —  die  entire  stock  of 
crockery  belonging  to  the  establishment  num- 
bering no  more  —  and  afterwards  handed  into 
the  kitchen  through  a  small  window  to  each 
party,  as  his  name  was  called  out  As  he 
hurried  to  the  seat  behind  the  bare  table,  he 
commenced  tearing  the  meat  asunder  with  his 


du 


LOSDON  LABODE  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


fingers,  for  knives  and  forks  were  unknown 
tlicrc.  Some,  it  is  true,  used  bits  of  wood  like 
skewors,  but  this  seemed  almost  like  affecta- 
tion in  suc)i  a  place :  others  sat  on  the  ground 
with  the  plate  of  meat  and  pudding  on  their 
lapn;  wliile  the  beggar-boj,  immediately  on 
receiving  his  portion,  danced  along  the  room, 
whiiiing  the  pUite  round  on  his  Uinmb  as  he 
went,  and  then,  dipping  his  nose  in  the  plate, 
seized  a  potato  in  ms  mouth.  I  must  confSess 
the  sight  of  the  hnngiy  crowd  gnawing  their 
food  was  for  from  pleasant  to  contemplate; 
so,  wliile  the  dinner  was  being  discussed,  I 
sought  to  learn  from  those  who  remained  to 
be  helped,  how  thej  had  fallen  to  so  degraded 
a  state.  A  sailor  lad  assured  me  he  had  been 
robbed  of  his  mariner's  ticket;  that  he  ootdd 
not  procure  another  under  13<. ;  and  not  having 
as  many  pence,  he  was  unable  to  obtain  ano- 
ther ship.  What  could  he  do?  he  said.  He 
knew  no  trade :  he  could  only  get  employment 
occasionally  as  a  labourer  at  the  docks ;  and 
this  was  so  seldom,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  few  things  he  had,  he  must  have  starved 
outright  The  good-looking  youth  I  have 
before  spoken  of  wanted  but  8/.  lOt.  to  get 
back  to  America.  He  had  worked  his  passage 
over  here;  had  fallen  into  bad  company;  been 
imprisoned  three  times  for  picking  pockets; 
and  was  heartily  wearied  of  his  present  course. 
Ho  could  get  no  work.  In  America  he  wotdd 
be  happy,  and  among  his  friends  again.  I 
spoke  to  the  gentleman  who  had  brought  me 
to  the  spot,  and  who  knew  them  all  welL 
His  answers,  however,  gave  me  little  hope. 
The  boy,  whose  face  seemed  beMning  with 
innate  frankness  and  honesty,  had  been  ap- 
prenticed by  him  to  a  shoe-stitcher.  But,  no! 
he  preferred  vagrancy  to  work.  I  could  have 
8wom  he  was  a  trustworthy  lad,  and  shall 
never  believe  in  **  looks"  again. 

The  dinner  finished,  I  told  the  men  assem- 
bled there  that  I  should  oome  some  ayening 
in  the  course  of  the  week,  and  endeavour  to 
ascertain  fh>m  them  some  definite  information 
concerning  the  persons  usually  fr^nenting 
such  houses  as  theirs.  On  our  way  home,  my 
friend  recognised,  among  the  femides  we  had 
before  seen  huddled  on  the  step  outside  the 
lodging-house,  a  young  woman  whom  he  had 
striven  to  get  back  to  her  parents.  Her 
father  had  been  written  to,  and  would  gladly 
receive  her.  Again  the  girl  was  exhorted  to 
leave  her  present  companions  and  return 
home.  The  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes  at 
mention  of  her  mother's  name ;  but  she  would 
not  stir.  Her  excuse  was,  that  she  had  no 
clothes  proper  to  go  in.  Her  father  and  mo- 
ther were  very  respectable,  she  said,  and  she 
could  not  go  back  to  them  as  she  was.  It  was 
erident,  by  her  language,  she  had  at  least 
been  well  educated.  She  would  not  listen, 
however,  to  my  friend's  exhortations ;  so,  see- 
ing that  his  entreaties  were  wasted  upon  her, 
we  left  her,  and  wended  our  way  home. 

Knowing  that  this  lodging-house  might  be 


taken  as  a  fair  sample  of  the  class  now  t- 
bounding  in  London,  and,  moreover,  liaving 
been  informed  by  those  who  had  made  the 
subject  their  peculiar  study,  that  the  charaeten 
generally  congregated  there  constituted  a  fair 
average  of  the  callings  and  habits  of  those  who 
resort  to  the  low  lodg^g-houses  of  London,  I 
was  determined  to  avail  myself  of  the  acquaiat- 
ances  I  made  in  this  quarter,  in  order  to  arrive 
at  some  more  definite  information  upon  those 
places  than  had  yet  been  made  public.  The 
only  positive  knowledge  the  public  have  hitherto 
had  of  the  people  assembling  in  the  cbe^p 
lodging-houses  of  London  is  derived  chie^ 
from  the  Report  of  the  Constabulary  Couinus> 
sioners,  and  partly  from  the  Report  upon  Vs. 
grancy.  But  this  information,  having  be«a 
procured  through  others,  was  so  faulty,  tbit 
having  now  obtained  the  privilege  of  personti 
inspection  and  communication,  I  was  desiroitt 
of  turning  it  to  good  account.  Consequently 
I  gave  notice  that  I  wished  all  that  haa  dioed 
there  on  last  Sunday  to  attend  me  yesterdaj 
evening,  so  that  I  might  obtain  from  them 
generally  an  account  of  their  past  and  presi^ 
career.  I  found  them  all  ready  to  meet  nw, 
and  I  was  assured  that,  by  adopting  certaia 
precautions,  I  should  be  in  a  fair  way  to  pro- 
cure information  upon  the  subject  of  tbe 
cheap  lodging-houses  of  London  that  fsw  have 
the  means  of  getting.  However,  so  as  to  ba 
able  to  check  the  one  account  with  another,  I 
put  myself  in  communication  with  a  persoa 
who  had  lived  for  upwards  of  four  months  in  the 
house.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  a  man  of  gooi 
education  and  superior  attainments— further 
than  this  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  state.  I  deal 
with  the  class  of  houses,  and  not  with  any  par> 
ticular  house,  be  it  understood. 
^  The  lodging-house  to  which  I  more  p•^ 
ticularly  allude  makes  up  as  many  as  84 
"  bunks,"  or  beds,  for  which  fid,  per  night  if 
charged.  For  this  stun  the  parties  lodging 
there  for  the  night  are  entitled  to  the  use  of 
the  kitchen  for  the  following  day.  In  this  a 
fire  is  kept  all  day  long,  at  which  they  are 
allowed  to  cook  their  food.  The  kitchen  opens 
at  5  in  the  morning,  and  closes  at  about  11  st 
night,  after  which  hour  no  fk^sh  lodger  is 
taken  in,  and  all  those  who  slept  in  the  hoDsa 
the  night  before,  but  who  have  not  sufficient 
money  to  pay  for  their  bed  at  that  time,  ars 
turned  out.  Strangers  who  arrive  in  the 
course  of  the  day  must  procure  a  tin  ticket, 
b^  paying  2rf.  at  the  wicket  in  the  office,  pre- 
viously to  being  allowed  to  enter  the  kitchen. 
The  kitchen  is  about  40  feet  long  by  about  10 
wide.  The  "bunks"  are  each  about  7  feet 
long,  and  1  foot  10  inches  wide,  and  the  grating 
on  which  the  straw  mi^ttrass  is  placed  is  about 
12  inches  from  the  ground.  The  wooden 
partitions  between  the  *'  bunks**  are  about  4  feet 
high.  The  coverings  are  a  leather  or  a  rug, 
but  leathers  arc  generally  preferred.  Of  these 
"bunks"  there  are  five  rows,  of  about  H 
deep;  two  rows  being  placed  head  to  head, 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


815 


with  a  gangwAj  between  each  of  such  two 
rows,  aud  the  other  row  against  the  wall. 
The  average  number  of  persons  sleeping  in 
this  house  of  a  night  is  60.  Of  these  there 
ire  generally  about  30  pickpockets,  10  street- 
beggars,  a  few  infirm  old  people  who  subsist 
oeeasiozially  upon  parish  relief  and  occasionally 
«poa  charity,  10  or  15  dock-labourers,  about 
the  same  number  of  low  and  precarious  callings, 
nioh  as  the  neighbourhood  affords,  and  a  few 
persons  who  have  been  in  good  circumstances, 
silt  who  have  been  reduced  from  a  variety  of 
causes.  At  one  time  there  were  as  many  as  0 
persons  lodging  in  this  house  who  subsisted  by 
piekiug  up  dogs'  dung  out  of  the  streets,  getting 
tbont  5s.  for  every  basketful.  The  earnings 
of  one  of  these  men  were  known  to  average  95. 
per  week.  There  are  generally  lodging  in 
the  house  a  few  bone-grubbers,  who  pick  up 
bones,  rags,  iron,  &c.,  out  of  the  streets.  Their 
iverage  earnings  are  about  \i.  per  day.  There 
ire  several  mud-larks,  or  youths  who  go  down 
to  the  water.side  when  the  tide  is  out,  to  see 
whether  any  article  of  value  has  been  left 
spoD  the  bank  of  the  river.  The  person  sup- 
pijring  this  information  to  me,  who  was  for 
Home  time  resident  in  the  house,  has  seen 
brought  home  by  these  persons  a  drum  of  figs 
•t  one  time,  and  a  Dutch  cheese  at  another. 
These  were  sold  in  small  lots  or  slices  to  the 
other  lodgers. 

The  pickpockets  generally  lodging  in  the 
lioiise  consist  of  handkerchief-stealers,  shop- 
tillers — including  those  who  rob  the  till  as 
wen  as  steal  articles  from  the  doors  of  shops. 
L^  and  breasts  of  mutton  are  frequently 
bimight  in  by  this  class  of  persons.  There 
IK  seldom  any  housebreakers  lodging  in  such 
plsees,  because  they  require  a  room  of  their 
own,  and  mostly  live  with  prostitutes.  Besides 
pickpockets,  there  are  also  lodging  in  the  house 
speralators  in  stolen  goods.  These  may  be 
dock-labourers  or  Billingsgate  porters,  having 
e  few  shillings  in  their  pockets.  With  these 
they  purchase  the  booty  of  the  juvenile  thieves. 
**I  have  known,"  says  my  informant,  "  these 
speculators  wait  in  the  kitchen,  walking  about 
vith  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  till  a  little 
fellow  would  come  in  with  such  a  thing  as  a 
wp,  a  piece  of  bacon,  or  a  piece  of  mutton. 
They  would  purchase  it,  and  then  citlier  retail 
it  amongst  the  other  lodgers  in  the  kitchen  or 
take  it  to  some  *  fence,*  where  they  would  re- 
wive  a  profit  upon  if*  The  general  feeling  of 
the  kitchen — excepting  with  four  or  five  in- 
tHviduals — is  to  encourage  theft.  The  en- 
couragement to  the  "  gonatf,"  ( a  Hebrew  word 
signifying  a  young  thief,  probably  leomt  from 
the  Jew  "  fences  ••  in  the  neighbourhood)  con- 
sists in  laughing  at  and  applauding  his  dex- 
t»*rity  in  thieving ;  and  whenever  anything  is 
Wught  in,  the  "gonoff**  is  greeted  for  his 
L'ood  luck,  and  a  general  rush  is  made  towards 
«im  to  see  the  produce  of  his  thievery.  The 
*gonaff«**  are  generally  young  boys ;  about  20 
.out  ol  !)0  of  these  lads  are  under  21  years  of 


age.  They  almost  all  of  them  love  idleness, 
and  will  only  work  for  one  or  two  days  together, 
but  then  they  will  work  very  hard.  It  is  a 
singular  fact  that,  as  a  body,  the  pickpockets 
are  generally  very  sparing  of  drink.  They  are 
mostly  libidinous,  indeed  universally  so,  and 
spend  whatever  money  they  can  spare  upon  the 
low  prostitutes  round  about  the  neighbourhood. 
Burglars  and  smashers  generally  rank  above 
this  class  of  thieves.  A  burglar  would  not 
condescend  to  sit  among  pickpockets.  My 
informant  has  known  a  housebreaker  to  say 
with  a  sneer,  when  requested  to  sit  down  with 
the  "  gonaflfs,*'  "  No,  no !  I  may  be  a  thief, 
sir ;  but,  thank  God,  at  least  I'm  a  respectable 
one."  The  beggars  who  frequent  these  houses 
go  about  diflerent  markets  and  streets  asking 
charity  of  the  people  that  pass  by.  They 
generally  go  out  in  couples ;  the  business  of 
one  of  the  two  being  to  look  out  and  ^ive 
warning  when  the  policeman  is  approachmg, 
and  of  the  other  to  stand  "  shallow ; "  that  is  to 
say,  to  stand  with  very  little  clothing  on, 
shivering  and  shaking,  sometimes  with  band< 
ages  round  his  legs,  aud  sometimes  with  his 
aim  in  a  sling.  Others  beg  "  scran"  (broken 
victuals)  of  the  servants  at  respectable  houses, 
and  bring  it  home  to  the  lodging-house,  where 
they  sell  it.  You  may  see,  I  am  told,  the  men 
who  lodge  in  the  place,  and  obtain  an  honest 
living,  watch  for  these  beggars  coming  in,  as  if 
they  were  the  best  victuals  in  the  City.  My 
informant  knew  an  instance  of  a  lad  who 
seemed  to  be  a  very  fine  little  fellow,  and 
promised  to  have  been  possessed  of  excellent 
mental  capabilities  if  properly  directed,  who 
came  to  the  lodging-house  when  out  of  a 
situation  as  an  errand-boy.  He  stayed  there 
a  month  or  six  weeks,  during  which  time  he 
was  tampered  with  by  the  others,  and  ultimately 
became  a  confirmed  "  gonaff"."  The  conversa- 
tion among  the  lodgers  relates  chiefly  to  thiev- 
ing and  the  best  manner  of  stealing.  By  way 
of  practice,  a  boy  will  often  pick  the  pocket  of 
one  of  the  lodgers  walking  about  the  room, 
and  if  detected  declare  he  did  not  mean  it. 

The  sanitary  state  of  these  houses  is  very 
bad.  Not  only  do  the  lodgers  generally  swaiin 
with  vermin,  but  there  is  little  or  no  ventila- 
tion to  the  sleeping- rooms,  in  which  GO  persons, 
of  the  foulest  habits,  usually  sleep  every  night. 
There  are  no  proper  washing  utensils,  neither 
towels  nor  basins,  nor  wooden  bowls.  There 
are  one  or  two  buckets,  but  these  are  not 
meant  for  the  use  of  the  lodgers,  but  for 
cleaning  the  rooms.  The  lodgers  never  think 
of  washing  themselves.  The  cleanliest  among 
them  will  do  so  in  the  bucket,  and  then  wipe 
themselves  with  their  pocket-hondkerchiefis, 
or  the  tails  of  their  shirts. 

A  large  sum  to  be  made  by  two  beggars  in 
one  week  is  20*. ;  or  10s.  a-piece,  one  for 
looking  out,  and  the  other  for  "  standing 
shallow.*'  The  average  earnings  of  such 
persons  are  certainly  below  8s.  per  week.  If 
the  Report  of  the  Constabulary  Force  Com- 


310 


•LOSDOS  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOIL 


misRioners  states  that  20».  per  week  is  the 
average  sum  earned,  I  am  told  the  state- 
ment must  have  been  furnished  by  parties 
who  hiid  either  some  object  in  overrating  the 
amount,  or  else  who  had  no  means  of  obtain- 
iii'*  correct  information  on  the  subject.  From 
all  my  informant  has  seen  as  to  the  earnings 
of  those  who  make  a  trade  of  picking  pockets 
and  begging,  he  is  convinced  that  the  amount 
is  fnr  below  what  is  generally  believed  to  be 
the  case.  Indeed,  nothing  but  the  idle,  roving 
life  that  is  connected  with  the  basiness,  could 
compensate  the  thieves  or  beggars  for  the  pri- 
vations they  frequently  undergo. 

After  obtaining  this  information,  I  attended 
the  lodging-house  in  pursuance  of  the  notice 
I  had  given,  in  order  to  ascertain  from  the 
lodgers  themselves  what  were  the  callings  and 
earnings  of  the  different  parties  there  assem- 
bled. I  found  that  from  50  to  00  hod  mastered 
purposely  to  meet  me,  although  it  was  early 
in  the  evening,  and  they  all  expressed  them- 
selves ready  to  furnish  me  with  any  informa- 
tion I  might  require.  The  gentleman  who 
accompanied  me  assured  me  that  the  answers 
they  would  give  to  my  questionings  would  be 
likely  to  be  correct,  from  the  fact  of  the 
number  assembled,  as  each  would  check  the 
other.  H&\'ing  read  to  them  the  account  (in 
the  Morning  Chronicle)  of  my  previous  in- 
terview with  them,  they  were  much  de- 
lighted at  finding  themselves  in  print,  and 
immediately  aiTanged  themselves  on  a  seat 
all  round  the  ro(»m.  My  first  question  was 
as  to  the  age  of  those  present.  Out  of  05 
assembled,  I  found  that  there  were ;  1  from  GO 
to  70  years  old,  4  from  50  to  CO,  1  from  40  to 
60, 15  from  SO  to  40, 10  from  20  to  80,  and  18 
from  10  to  20.  Hence  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
younger  memlxirs  constituted  by  far  the 
greater  portion  of  the  assembly.  The  18 
between  10  and  20  were  made  up  as  follows :  — 
There  were  3  of  20  years,  8  of  19  years,  3  of 
18  years,  4  of  17  years,  1  of  10  years,  and  2  of 
15  years.  Hence  there  were  more  of  the  age 
of  19  than  of  any  other  age  present. 

My  next  inquiry  was  as  to  the  place  of  birth. 

1  found  that  there  were  10  belonging  to 
London,  9  to  Ireland,  3  to  Bristol,  3  to  Liver- 
pool, 2  were  from  Norfolk,  2  from  Yorkshire, 

2  from  Essex,  2  from  Germany,  and  2  from 
North  America.  The  remaining  14  were  bom 
respectively  in  Macclesfield,  Bolton,  Aylesbury, 
Seacomb,  Deal,  Epping,  Hull,  Nottingham- 
shire, riumstead,  Huntingdonshire,  Plymouth, 
Shropshire,  Nortliamptonshire,  and  Windsor. 
After  this  I  souglit  to  obtain  information  as  to 
ihe  occupations  of  their  parents,  with  a  view  of 
discovering  whether  their  delinquencies  arose 
from  the  depraved  character  of  their  early 
associations.  I  found  among  the  number,  13 
whose  fathers  had  been  labouring  men,  5  had 
been  carpenters,  4  millers  and  farmers,  2 
dyers,  2  cabinet-makers,  a  tallow-chandler,  a 
wood-turner,  a  calico-glazer,  a  silversmith,  a 
compositor,  a  cotton-spinner,  a  hatter,  a  grocer, 


a  whip-maker,  a  sweep,  a  glover,  a  watchmaker, 
a  madhouse-keeper,  a  bricklayer,  a  8hip> 
builder,  a  cow-keeper,  a  fishmonger,  a  mill- 
wright, a  coast-guard,  a  ropemaker,  a  gunsmith, 
a  collier,  an  undertaker,  a  leather-outter,  a 
clerk,  an  engineer,  a  schoolmaster,  a  capttin 
in  the  army,  and  a  physician. 

I  now  sought  to  learn  from  them  the  trades 
that  they  themselves  were  brought  up  to. 
There  were  17  labourers,  7  mariners,  3  weafen^ 

2  bricklayers,  and  2  shoemakers.  The  rest 
were  respectively  silversmiths,  dyers,  black- 
smiths, wood-turners,  tailors,  farriers,  caulk- 
ers, French  polishers,  shopmen,  brickmaken, 
sweeps,  ivorj'-tumers,  cowboys,  stereotype* 
founders,  fishmongers,  tallow-chandlers,  rope> 
makers,  miners,  bone-grubbers,  engineei% 
coal-porters,  errand-boys,  beggars,  and  out 
called  himself  "  a  prig." 

I  next  found  that  40  out  of  the  55  conld 
read  and  write,  4  could  read,  and  only  11  could 
do  neither. 

My  next  point  was  to  ascertain  how  loag 
they  had  been  out  of  regular  employment,  or 
to  use  their  own  phrase,  "  had  been  knocking 
about."  One  had  been  10  years  idle;  one, 9; 
three,  8 ;  two,  7  ;  four.  0  ;  five,  5  ;  six,  4;  uine^ 

3  ;  ten,  2  ;  five,  1 ;  three,  0  months,  and  one, 

2  months  out  of  employment.  A  bricklajv 
told  me  he  had  been  eight  summers  in,  sad 
eight  winters  out  of  work;  and  a  dock-labourer 
assured  me  that  he  had  been  11  years  working 
at  the  dock,  and  that  for  full  three-fourths  H 
his  time  he  could  obtain  no  employment  then. 

After  this,  I  questioned  them  conceminf 
their  earnings  for  the  past  week.  One  had 
gained  nothing,  another  had  gained  la,  eleven 
had  earned  25. ;  eight,  3«. ;  nine,  4j.;  five,  St.; 
four,  0«. ;  four,  7«.;  six,  St,;  one,  lOf.;  one^ 
lU. ;  and  one,  18«.  From  three  I  received  ao 
answers.  The  average  earnings  of  the  tf 
above  enumerated  are  4j.  1  Id.  per  week. 

Bespecdng  their  clothing,  14  had  no  shifti 
to  their  backs,  5  had  no  shoes,  and  42  hid 
shoes  that  scarcely  held  together. 

I  now  desired  to  be  informed  how  many  out  di 
the  number  had  been  confined  in  prison ;  and 
learnt  that  no  less  than  34  among  the  55  pie* 
sent  had  been  in  gaol  once,  or  oftener.  Eleven 
had  been  in  once ;  five  had  been  in  twice;  flfi|in 

3  times ;  three,  4  times ;  four,  0  times;  ODe^T 
times ;  one,  8  times ;  one,  0  times ;  one,  10 
times;  one,  14  times;  and  one  confessed  to 
having  been  tliero  at  least  20  times.  So  thst 
the  34  individuals  had  been  imprisoned 
altogether  140  times;  thus  averaging  foor 
imprisonments  to  each  person.  I  was  snxioiiS 
to  distinguish  between  imprisonment  ftr 
vagrancy  and  imprisonment  for  theft  Upon 
inquiry  I  discovered  that  seven  had  each  bees 
imprisoned  once  for  vagrancy;  one,  twice; 
one,  3  times ;  two,  4  times ;  one,  5  times ;  tvOi 
0  times ;  two,  8  times ;  and  one,  10  times; 
making  in  all  03  imprisonments  under  tbe 
Vagrant  Act.  Of  those  who  had  been  confined^ 
in  gaol  for  theft,  thtsre  were  eleven  who  bed* 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


317 


been  id  once ;  seren,  wbo  had  been  in  twice ; 
two,  3  times;  three,  0  times;  one,  8  times, 
and  two,  10  times ;  making  a  total  of  77  impri- 
sonments fbr  thieving.  Hence,  ont  of  140 
incarcerations,  63  of  those  had  been  for 
Tigrancy,  and  77  for  theft;  and  this  was 
among  34  individuals  in  an  assemblage  of  .'^5. 
The  qnestion  that  I  pat  to  them  after  this 
▼as,  how  long  they  had  been  engaged  in 
thieving?  and  the  following  were  the  answers : 
ooe  had  been  15  years  at  it;  one,  14  years; 
two,  13  years ;  three,  10  years ;  one,  9  years ; 
oae,  8  yean ;  two,  7  years ;  one,  6  years ;  two, 
5 yean ;  three,  4  years;  and  one,  3  years  ;  one, 
18  months;  one,  7  months;  two,  6  months; 
and  one,  2  months.  Consequently,  there  were, 
of  the  half-hundred  and  odd  individuals  there 
assembled,  thieves  of  the  oldest  standing  and 
the  most  recent  beginning. 

Their  greatest  gains  by  theft,  in  a  single  day, 
were  thns  classified.  The  most  that  one  hod 
I  gained  was  Srf.,  the  greatest  sum  another  had 
I  gained  was  Id.;  another,  )  s.  (Sd,\  another,  2s.  6(/.; 
another,  6t. ;  five  had  made  from  IO5.  to  15s.; 
three  irom  1/.  to  2/. ;  one  from  2/.  to  3/. ;  six 
finm  8/.  to  4/. ;  one  from  4/.  to  5/. ;  two  from 
2W.  to  80/. ;  and  two  from  30/.  to  40/.  Of  the 
latter  two  sums,  one  was  stolen  from  the 
(iather  of  the  thief,  and  the  other  from  the  till 
of  a  counter  when  the  shop  was  left  unoccupied, 
the  boy  vaulting  over  the  counter  and  abstract- 
ing from  the  tiU  no  less  than  seven  5/.  notes, 
all  of  which  were  immediately  disposed  of  to  a 
Jew  in  tho  immediate  neighbourhood  for  3/. 
l(k  each. 

The  greatest  earnings  by  begging  hod  been 
7i.  W.,  10s.  Orf.,  and  1/.;  but  the  average 
amount  of  earnings  was  apparently  of  so  pre- 
carious a  nature,  that  it  was  difiicult  to  get  the 
men  to  state  a  definite  sum.  From  their  con- 
dition, however,  as  well  as  their  mode  of  living 
whilst  I  remained  among  them,  I  can  safely 
nay  begging  did  not  seem  to  be  a  very  lucrative 
or  attractive  calling,  and  tlio  lodgers  were  cer- 
tainly under  no  restraint  in  my  presence. 

I  wanted  to  learn  fi-om  them  what  had  been 
their  motive  for  stealing  in  the  first  instance, 
and  I  foond  upon  questioning  them,  that  ten 
did  so  on  running  away  from  home ;  five  con- 
fessed to  have  done  so  ft-om  keeping  flash 
company,  and  wanting  money  to  defray  their 
expenses ;  six  had  first  stolen  to  go  to  theatres ; 
nine,  because  they  had  been  imprisoned  for 
vagrants,  and  foimd  that  the  thief  was  bettor 
treated  than  they ;  one  because  ho  had  got  no 
t<jols  to  work  with  ;  one  because  he  was  "hard 
np  ;■•  one  because  he  could  not  get  work ;  and 
one  more  because  he  was  put  in  prison  for 
bogging. 

The  following  is  the  list  of  articles  that  they 
first  stole :  six  rabbits,  silk  shawl  from  home, 
a  pair  of  shoes,  a  Dutch  cheese,  a  few  shillings 
from  home,  a  coat  and  trousers,  a  bullock's 
iieart,  four  "  tiles  "  of  copper,  fifteen  and  six- 
pence from  master,  two  handkerchiefs,  half  a 
qnartem  loaf,  a  set  of  tools  worth  3/.,  clothes 


from  a  warehouse,  worth  22/.,  a  Cheshire 
cheese,  a  pair  of  carriage  lamps,  some  hand- 
kerchiefs, five  shillings,  some  turnips,  watch- 
chain  and  seals,  a  sheep,  three  and  sixpence, 
and  an  invalid's  chair.  This  latter  article,  the 
boy  assured  me  he  had  taken  about  the  country 
with  him,  and  amused  himself  by  riding  down 
hill. 

Their  places  of  amusement  consisted,  they 
told  me,  of  the  following:  The  Britannia 
Saloon,  the  City  Theatre,  the  Albert  Saloon, 
the  Standard  Saloon,  the  Surrey  and  Victoria 
Theatres  when  they  could  afford  it,  the  Penny 
Negroes,  and  tlie  Earl  of  Eflingham  con- 
certs. 

Four  frequenters  of  that  room  had  been 
transported,  and  yet  tho  house  had  been  open 
only  as  many  years,  and  of  the  as30ciat«*s  and 
companions  of  thdlsc  present,  no  less  than  40 
had  left  the  country  in  the  same  maimer. 
The  names  of  some  of  these  were  curious.  I 
subjoin  a  few  of  them.  The  Ban<?or,  The 
Slasher,  The  Spider,  Flush  Jim,  White-coat 
Mushe,  Lankey  Thompson,  Tom  Sales  [he 
was  hung],  and  Jack  Sheppard. 

Of  the  tiHy-five  congregrated,  two  had  signed 
the  temperance  pledge,  and  kept  it.  The  rest 
confessed  to  getting  drunk  occasionally,  but 
not  making  a  practice  of  it.  Injjeed,  it  is 
generally  allowed  that,  as  a  class,  tho  young 
pickpockets  are  rather  temperate  than  other- 
wise ;  so  that  here,  at  least,  we  cannot  assert 
that  drink  is  the  cause  of  the  crime.  Nor  can 
their  various  propensities  be  ascribed  to 
ignormice,  for  we  havo  seen  that  out  of  55 
individuals  40  could  read  and  write,  while  4 
could  read.  It  shotdd  be  remembered,  at  the 
same  time,  tliat  out  of  the  55  men  oidy  .'U  were 
thieves.  Neither  cun  the  depravity  of  their 
early  associations  be  named  as  the  cause  of 
their  delinqueneies,  for  we  have  seen  that,  as 
a  class,  their  fathers  are  men  rather  well  to  do 
in  tho  world.  Indeed  their  errors  seem  to 
have  rather  a  physical  than  either  an  intellec- 
tual or  a  moral  cause.  They  seem  to  be 
naturally  of  an  erratic  and  self-willed  tempera- 
ment, objecting  to  the  restraints  of  home,  and 
incapable  of  continuous  application  to  any  one 
occupation  whatsoever.  They  arc  essentially 
the  idle  and  the  vagabond;  and  they  seem 
generally  to  attribute  tho  commencement  of 
their  career  to  harsh  government  at  home. 

According  to  the  lleport  of  the  ConsUbulary 
Force  Commissioners,  there  were  in  Uie  metio- 
polis  in  1H39,  '-J'il  of  such  houses  as  the  one  at 
present  described,  and  each  of  tht-se  houses 
horboured  daily,  upon  an  average,  no  loss  than 
eleven  of  such  characters  as  tlie  furogoinp, 
making  in  all  a  total  of  24^1  vagiwits  and 
pickpockets  sheltered  by  the  proprietors  of  the 
low  lodging-houses  of  London.  The  above 
twopenny  lodging-house  has,  on  an  average, 
from  fifty  to  sixty  persons  sleepinj?  in  it  nightly, 
yielding  an  income  of  nearly  3/.  per  week. 
The  throe-penny  lodging-houses  in  the  same 
neighbourhood  average  from  fifteen  to  twenty 


818 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


persons  per  night,  nnd  produce  a  weekly  total 
of  from  JiO*.  lo  25f.  profit,  the  rent  of  the 
liouses  at  the  saiue  time  being  only  from  &«•  to 
0*.  per  week. 

There  is  still  one  question  worthy  of  con- 
sideration. Does  the  uncertainty  of  dock 
labour  generate  thieves  and  vagabonds,  or  do 
the  thieves  and  vagabonds  crowd  round  the 
docks  so  as  to  be  able  to  gain  a  day's  work 
when  unable  to  thieve  ?  According  to  returns 
of  the  metropolitan  police  force,  the  value  of 
the  property  stolen  in  this  district  in  the  year 
1848  was  2007/.,  of  which  only  365/.  were 
recovered.  The  number  of  robberies  was  621, 
the  average  amount  of  each  robbery  being 
S/.  1 75.  0\d,  The  amount  recovered  averaged 
i4s.  on  each  robbozy. 


ON  THE  TRANSIT  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 
AND  THE  METROPOLIS. 

As  the  entire  transit  system  of  Great  Britain, 
with  all  its  railroads,  turnpike-roads,  canals, 
and  navigable  rivers,  converges  on  London,  I 
propose  to  make  it  the  subject  of  the  present 
section,  by  way  of  introduction  to  my  inquiry 
into  the  condition  of  the  metropolitan  labourers 
connectedF  therewith. 

^*  There  is  a  very  great  amount  of  labour 
employed,"  says  Mr.  Stewart  Mill,  **  not  only 
in  bringing  a  product  into  exbtence,  but  in 
rendering  it,  when  in  existence,  accessible  to 
those  for  whose  use  it  is  intended.  Many 
important  classes  of  labourers  find  their  sole 
employment  in  some  functions  of  this  kind. 
There  is  the  whole  class  of  carriers  by  land 
and  water — waggoners,  bargemen,  sailors, 
wharfmen,  porters,  railway  oflicials,  and  the 
like.  Good  roads/'  continues  the  same  emi- 
nent authority,  "  arc  equivalent  to  good  tools, 
and  railways  and  canals  are  virtually  a  dimi- 
nution of  the  cost  of  production  of  ail  things 
sent  to  market  by  them.'* 
^  In  order  to  give  tlie  public  as  comprehen- 
sive an  idea  of  this  subject  as  possible,  and  to 
show  its  vostness  and  importance  to  the  com- 
munity, I  shall,  before  entering  upon  the 
details  of  that  part  of  it  which  more  imme- 
diately concerns  mo ;  \iz.  tlie  transit  from  and 
to  the  dilTcrunt  parts  of  the  metropolis,  and 
the  condition  and  earnings  of  the  people  con- 
nected therewith — I  shall,  I  say,  furnish  an 
account  of  the  extent  of  the  external  and  in- 
ternal transit  of  this  country  generally.  Of 
the  provisions  for  the  internal  transit  I  shall 
speak  in  due  course — first  speaking  of  the 
grand  medium  for  carrying  on  the  trafiic  of 
Great  Britain  with  the  world,  and  showing 
how,  within  the  capital  of  an  island  which  is 
a  mere  speck  on  the  map  of  the  earth,  is 
centered  and  originated,  planned  and  exe- 
cuted, so  vast  a  portion  of  the  trade  of  all 
nations.  I  shall  confine  my  obsenations  to 
the  latest  returns  and  tlie  latest  results. 


The  MEBCAimLE  BIabikb. 

The  number  of  vessels  belonging  to  the 
United  Kingdom  was,  in  1848,  nearly  35,000, 
haring  an  aggregate  burden  of  upwards  of 
3000  tons,  and  being  manned  by  180,000 
hands.  To  give  the  reader,  however,  a  move 
vivid  idea  of  the  magnitude  of  the  *'  znereantile 
marine  "  of  this  kingdom,  it  may  he  aaiely  as- 
serted,  that  in  order  to  accommodate  the  vhoU 
of  our  merchant  vessels,  a  dock  of  15,000  square 
acres  would  be  necessary ;  or,  in  other  woiUi, 
there  would  be  required  to  float  them  an  extent 
of  water  sufficient  to  cover  four  times  the  azei 
of  the  city  of  London,  while  the  whole  popo^ 
lation  of  Birmingham  would  be  needed  to 
man  them.  But,  besides  the  20,000  and  odd 
British,  with  their  l&O.OOO  men,  that  are  thm 
engaged  in  conveying  tlie  treasures  of  oth« 
lands  to  our  own,  tliero  are  upwards  of  13,000 
foreign  vessels,  manned  by  100,000  haedii 
that  annually  visit  the  shores  of  this  countxy. 

Of  the  steam- vessels  belonging  to  tbfl 
United  Kingdom  in  1848,  there  were  llOQi 
Their  aggregate  length  was  125,283  feet;  thdr 
aggregate  breadth,  19,748  feet;  their  aggre- 
gate tonnage,  255,371 ;  and  their  aggregate 
of  horsepower,  92,862.  It  may  be  added, 
that  they  are  collectively  of  such  dimensiosi, 
that  by  placing  them  stem  to  stem,  one  after 
the  other,  they  would  reach  to  a  distance  of 
23^  miles,  or  form  one  continaoiifl  line  from 
Dover-  to  Calais;  while,  by  placing  thera 
abreast,  or  alongside  each  other,  th^  would 
occupy  a  space  of  3^  miles  wide. 

According  to  the  calculations  of  Mr.  G.F. 
Young,  the  eminent  shipbuilder,  the  entire 
value  of  the  vessels  belonging  to  ^  the  mer* 
cantile  marine  of  the  British  empire  is  op< 
ward  of  38,000,000/.  sterling.  The  annual  cost 
of  the  provisions  and  wages  of  the  seamen 
employed  in  navigating  them,  0,500,000/.  The 
sum  annually  expended  in  the  bulding  and 
outfitting  of  new  ships,  as  well  as  the  re- 
pairing of  the  old  ones,  is  10,500,000/.,  while 
the  amount  annually  received  for  freight  ii 
28,500/. 

The  value  of  the  merchandise  thus  im- 
ported or  exported  has  still  to  be  set  forth 
By  this  we  learn  not  only  the  vast  extent  of 
the  international  trade  of  Great  Britain,  but 
the  immense  amount  of  property  entrusted 
annually  to  the  merchant-seaman.  It  would, 
perhaps,  hardly  be  credited,  that  the  value  of 
the  articles  which  our  mercantile  marine  ii 
engaged  in  ti*ansporting  to  and  from  the 
shores  of  this  kingdom,  amounts  to  upwards 
of  one  hundred  million  pounds  sterling. 

Such,  then,  is  tlie  extent  of  the  extenul 
transit  of  tliis  countxy.  There  is  scarcely  a 
comer  of  the  earth  that  is  not  visited  by  our 
vessels,  and  the  special  gifts  and  benefits  con- 
forred  upon  the  most  distant  countries  thus 
diffused  and  shared  among  even  the  humblest 
members  of  our  own.    To  show  the  connezkai 


LUI^JJON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  I'OOJJU 


UlJ 


the  metropoUs  irith  this  vast  amount  of 
ule,  involviog  so  many  industrial  interests, 

shall  conclude  with  stating,  that  the 
tarns  proYO  that  one>fourth  of  the  entire 
iritime  commerce  of  this  countiy  is  carried 

at  the  port  of  London. 
As  a  wd  contrast,  however,   to  all   this 
lendonr,  I  may  here  add,  that  the  annual 
w  of  property  in  British  shipping  wrecked 

foonderod  at  sea  may  bo  assumed  as 
lonntiiig  to  nearly  three  million  pounds 
ffting  per  annum.  The  annual  loss  of  Hfe 
eaaionied  by  the  wreck  or  foundering  of 
itiah  Tessels  may  be  fairly  estimated  at  not 
IS  than  one  thousand  souls  in  each  year; 

that  it  would  appear,  that  the  annual  loss 

shipwreck  amongst  the  vessels  belonging 

the  United  Kingdom  is,  on  an  average, 
ihip  in  every  42;  and  the  annual  loss  of 
operty  engaged  therein  1/.  in  every  42/.; 
lue  the  average  number  of  sailors  drowned 
Hmnts  to  1  in  eveiy  203  persons  engaged 
navigation. 

I  now  come  to  speak  of  the  means  by 
nch  the  vast  nmonnt  of  wealth  thus  brought 

cor  shores  is  distributed  throughout  the 
ontxy.  I  have  already  said  that  there  are 
ree  different  modes  of  internal  communi- 
tion : — 1,  to  convey  the  several  articles  coast- 
nefrora  one  port  to  another ;  2,  to  carry  them 
land  from  town  to  town ;  and  3,  to  remove 
em  ftt>m  and  to  the  different  parts  of  the 
me  town.  I  shall  deal  first  with  the  com- 
mdcadon  along  the  coast 
In  1840,  the  coasting  vessels  employed  in 
e  intercourse  between  Great  Britain  and 
dand  made  upwards  of  2Q,000  voyages,  and 
e  gross  burden  of  the  vessels  thus  engaged 
iMmnted  to  more  than  3,500,000  tons.  The 
coasters'*  engaged  in  the  carrying  trade 
rtween  the  different  ports  of  Great  Britain 

1849,  mado  no  less  than  255,000  voyages, 
kd  possessed  collectively  a  capacity  for  car- 
ina upwards  of  20,000,000  tons  of  goods. 
f  tiie  steam-vessels  employed  coastwise  in 
le  United  Kingdom,  the  number  that  en- 
red  inwards,  including  their  repeated  voyages, 
18  17,800,  having  an  aggregate  burden  of  up- 
ttds  of  4,000,000  tons,  while  14,500  and  odd 
eam-vessels,  of  not  quite  the  same  amount 
^  tonnage,  were  cleared  outwards.  This  ex- 
resses  the  entire  amount  of  the  coasting 
ade  in  connexion  with  the  several  ports 
^  Great  Britain.  London,  as  I  have  before 
lown,  has  four  times  the  number  of  sailing 
^ssels,  and  ten  times  the  amount  of  tonnage, 
•er  and  above  any  port  in  the  kingdom, 
bilst  of  steam-impelled  coasting  vessels  it 
IS  but  little  more  than  one-third,  compared 
rth  Liverpool. 

TURNFIEE-IIOAOS  AND  StAOE-CoACHES. 

HE  next  branch  of  my  subject  that  pre. 
)ntB  itself  in  due  order  is  the  means  by 
hich  the  goods  thus  brought  to  the  several 


ports  of  the  kingdom  ore  carried  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  country.  There  are  two  means 
of  effecting  this;  that  is  to  say,  either  by 
land  or  water-carriage.  Land-carriage  con- 
sists of  transit  by  rail  and  transit  by  turnpike 
roads ;  the  water-carriage  of  transit  by  canals 
and  na>'igabl6  rivers,  I  shall  begin  widi  the 
first-mentioned  of  these,  viz.  turnpike-roads, 
and  then  proceed  in  due  order  to  the  others. 

The  turnpike-roads  of  England  present  a 
perfect  network  of  communication,  connecting 
town  witli  town,  and  hamlet  with  hamlet.  It 
was  only  within  the  present  century,  however, 
that  these  important  means  of  increasing 
commerce  and  civilization  were  constructed 
according  to  scientific  data.  Before  that, 
portions  of  what  were  known  as  the  great 
coaching  roads  were  repaired  with  more  than 
usual  care :  but  until  Mr.  M'Adam's  system 
was  generally  adopted,  about  forty  years 
back,  all  were  more  or  less  defective.  It 
would  be  wearisome  were  I  to  add  to  the 
number  of  familiar  instances  of  the  diffi- 
culdes  and  dilatoriness  of  travelling  in  the 
old  days,  and  to  tell  how  the  ancient  **  heavy 
coaches "  were  merged  in  the  "  fast  light 
coaches,**  which,  in  their  turn,  yielded  to  the 
greater  speed  of  the  railways. 

In  1818,  according  to  the  Government  Re- 
port on  the  tiunpikc-roads  and  the  railways 
of  England  and  Wales,  there  existed— 

HUef. 
In  England  and  Wales,  paved  streets 

and  turnpike-roads  to  the  extent  of  1 0,725 
Other  pubHc  highways      •        •        •     05,104 


Total 


•   114,820 


Other  parliamentary  returns  show,  that  in  1829 
the  length  of  only  the  turnpike-roads  in  Eng- 
land and  Wales  was  20,875  miles,  or  upwards 
of  1000  miles  more  than  they  (together  with 
the  paved  streets)  extended  to  10  years  before. 
In  1830,  the  length  of  the  turnpike-roads  and 
paved  streets  throughout  England  and  Wales 
amounted  to  22,534  miles,  whilo  all  other 
highways  were  0Q,903  miles  long;  making  in 
sdl,  110,527  miles  of  road.  By  this  it  appears, 
that  in  the  course  of  20  years  upwards  of 
4500  miles  of  highway  had  been  added  to  the 
resources  of  the  country.  As  these  are  the 
latest  returns  on  the  subject,  and  it  is  probable 
that,  owing  to  the  estaUishment  of  railways, 
there  has  been  no  great  addition  since  that 
period  to  the  aggregate  extent  of  mileage 
above  given,  it  may  be  as  well  to  set  forth 
the  manner  in  which  these  facilities  for  inter- 
communication were  distributed  among  the 
different  parts  of  the  country  at  that  time. 
The  counties  containing  the  greatest  length  of 
turnpike-road,  according  to  their  size,  were 
Derby,  Worcester,  Flint,  Gloucester,  Somerset, 
Monmouth,  Stafford,  Hereford,  Southampton, 
&c.,  which  severally  contained  one  mile  of 
turnpike-road  to  about  each  thousand  statute 
•erea,  the  average  for  the  entire  country  being 


a^ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


nearly  double  tliat  amount  of  acres  to  each 
mile  of  roml.  Those  counties,  on  the  other 
hand,  which  contained  the  shortest  length  of 
turnpike- roiuls  in  relation  to  their  size,  were 
Anglesey  (in  which  tliere  were  only  five  miles 
of  rood  to  173,000  statute  acres,  being  in  the 
proportion  of  one  mile  to  34,088  acres) ;  then 
Westmort'lnnd,  Suffolk,  Essex,  Norfolk,  Pem- 
broke, and  Cumberland.  The  counties  con- 
taining the  greatest  length  of  paved  streets  at 
tlie  above  period  were,  lirst,  Middlesex,  where 
tlicre  was  one  mile  of  street  to  every  774 
acres ;  second,  Suflblk;  third,  LoncaNter;  fourth, 
Warwick;  fiftli,  Surrey;  and  sixth,  Chester. 
The  average  number  of  acres  to  each  mile  of 
paved  strci>t  was  12,734,  and  in  the  districts 
above  specified  the  number  of  acres  to  the 
mile  ranged  from  3000  to  0000.  Those  coun- 
ties, on  the  contrary,  wliich  contained  the 
shortest  length  of  streets,  were  Kadnor  and 
An^'lesey,  in  which  tlioro  were  no  paved  streets 
whatever;  Brecon,  wliich  has  only  one  mile,  and 
Carnarvon  which  has  only  two ;  whereas  Middle- 
sex, the  county  of  Uie  capital,  has  as  many  as 
233  miles  of  streets  extending  throtigh  it  The 
cost  of  the  repairs  of  the  roads  and  streets  in 
the  different  counties  is  equally  curious.  In 
Merioneth,  tlie  rate  of  the  expenditure  is 
12j.ll|4f.permilc;  in  Montgomery,  l/.14f.2i(/. ; 
in  Radnor,  1/.  1B«.  Irf. ;  in  Brecon,  2/.  0«.  (!\d.\ 
in  Carnarvon,  2/.  10«.  1}<^ ;  in  Anglesey,  d/.  8«, ; 
in  Cardigan,  3/.  3«.  0\d,\  whereas  in  Middlesex 
the  cost  amounts  to  no  loss  than  87/.  1<.  C^J. 
per  mile;  in  Lancosljire,  the  next  most  ex- 
pensive county,  it  is  32/.  2«.  6</. ;  in  the  West 
lUding  of  Yorksliii-e  it  comes  to  23/.  4^.  3</. ; 
and  in  Surrey ,«thc  ether  metropolitan  county, 
to  10/.  Is.  \\<l.\  the  average  for  the  whole 
cmintry  being  10/.  12«.  \\d.  per  mile,  or, 
1,267,84H/.  for  the  maintenance  of  110,027 
miles  of  public  highways  throughout  England 
and  Wales. 

These  roads  were  used  for  a  threefold  pur- 
pose,— the  conveyance  of  passengers,  letters, 
and  goods.  The  passengers,  letters,  and  parcels, 
were  conveyed  chiefly  by  the  moil  and  stage- 
coaches, the  goods  by  waggons  and  vans.  Of 
the  number  of  passengers  who  travelled  by  the 
mail  and  stoge-coaclies  no  return  was  ever  made. 
I  am  indebted,  however,  to  Mr.  Porter,  for  the 
following  calculation  as  to  the  number  of  stage- 
coach travellers  before  their  vehicles  (to  adopt 
their  own  mode  of  expression)  were  run  off 
the  roads  by  the  steam-engine  :— 
.  "  In  order  to  obUiin  some  approximation  to 
[  the  extent  of  travelling  by  means  of  stage- 
coaches ill  England,  a  carefhl  calculation  has 
been  made  upon  the  whole  of  the  returns  to 
!  tlie  Stamp  Office,  and  the  licenses  for  which 
coaches  were  in  operation  at  the  end  of  the  year 
1834.  The  method  followed  in  making  the 
application  has  been  to  ascertain  the  perform- 
ance  of  each  vehicle,  supposing  that  perform- 
ance  to  have  been  equal  to  the  full  amount 
of  the  permission  conveyed  by  the  license, 
reducing  the  power  bo  given  to  a  number 


equal  to  the  number  of  miles  which  one 
passenger  might  be  conveyed  in  the  course  of 
the  year.  For  example:  a  coach  is  licensed 
to  convey  15  imssengers  daily  from  London 
to  Birmingham,  a  distance  of  113  m:fles.  In 
order  to  ascertain  the  possible  performance  of 
this  carriage  during  the  year,  if  the  number 
of  miles  is  multiplied  by  Uie  number  of  jour- 
neys, and  that  product  multiplied  again  hf 
the  number  of  passengers,  wo  shall  obtain,  as 
an  element,  a  number  equal  to  the  number  of 
miles  along  which  one  person  might  have  bean 
conveyed ;  riz.  112  x  805  x  15  — >  018,200. 
In  this  case  the  number  of  miles  travelled  is 
40,880,  along  which  distance  15  persons  might 
have  been  carried  during  the  year:  but  for  the 
simplification  of  the  cidculation,  the  further 
calculation  is  made,  which  shows  that  amount 
of  travelling  to  be  equal  to  the  conveyanoe  of 
one  person  through  the  distance  of  013,900 
miles.  Upon  making  this  calculation  fbr  the 
whole  number  of  stage-coaches  that  possessed 
licenses  at  tlie  end  of  the  year  1884,  it  appeut 
that  the  means  of  conveyance  thus  provided 
for  travelling  were  equivalent  to  the  convey- 
ance during  the  year  of  one  person  for  the 
distance  of  507,150,420  miles,  or  more  then 
six  times  between  the  earth  and  the  son. 
Observation  has  shown,  that  tlie  degree  in 
which  the  public  avail  themselves  of  tlie 
accommodation  thus  provided  is  in  the  pn>> 
portion  of  0  to  15,  or  tluee-fiflha  of  its  utmost 
extent  Following  this  proportion,  the  sum 
of  all  the  travelling  by  stage-ooaohea  in  Greet 
Britain  may  be  represented  by  885,205,052 
miles.  We  shall  probably  go  the  utmost 
extent  in  assuming  that  not  more  than  two 
millions  of  persona  travel  in  that  manner.  It 
affords  a  good  measure  of  the  relstivo  im- 
portance of  the  metropolis  to  the  remainder 
of  tlio  country,  that  of  the  above  number  of 
507,150,420,  the  large  proportion  of  400,052,041 
is  the  product  of  stage-ooachos  which  tie 
licensed  to  nin  fW>m  L(mdon  to  various  peiti 
of  tlie  kingdom." 

In  this  calculation  the  stage-coach  travelling 
of  Ireland  is  not  indnded,  nor  is  that  of 
Scotland,  when  confined  to  that  kingdom; 
but  when  part  of  the  communication  is  with  , 
England  it  is  included.  Of  course,  only  . 
public  conveyances  are  spoken  of:  all  tbe 
travelling  in  private  carriages,  or  post-chaise^ 
or  hired  gigs,  is  additionaL  . 

The  number  of  stage-eoachmcn  and  gnsrdi   ' 
in  1830  were  2010;  in  1840,  2507;  in  1841, 
2230;  in  1842,  2107;  in  1848,  140. 

The  expenditure  on  account  of  these  roads 
in  1841  amounted  to  1,551,000/.;  thereveooe   i 
derived  firom  them  for  the  same  year  baring 
been  1,574,000/. 

A  great  change  has  been  induced  in  the 
character  of  the  tompike-roada  of  England. 
The  liveliness  imparted  to  many  of  the  lin«  | 
of  road  by  the  scarlet  coots  of  the  drivers  and 
guards,  and  ^7  the  sound  of  the  guard's  boglA 
as  it  announced  to  aU  the  idlen  of  the  coontiy   I 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


821 


pltee  that  **  the  London  eoach  was  coming  in," 
these  things  ezist  no  longer.  Now,  on  very 
fevportiGns  of  the  1448  miles  of  the  tumpike- 
mkd  in  Yorkshire,  or  the  840  of  Gloucester- 
shire, is  a  stage-ooach-and-foiir  to  be  seen : 
and  the  great  coaching  inns  by  the  wayside, 
lith  the  trihes  of  osUers  and  helpers  "  chnnging 
hones**  with  a  &cility  almost  marvelloiLs,  Imve 
beeome  fi&rmhotiBes  or  mere  wayside  taverns. 

Hie  greatest  rate  of  speed  attained  by  any 
of  the  mail-ooaches  was  eleven  miles  an  lionr, 
indading stoppages;  that  is, eleven  miles  not- 
vithatanding  the  delay  incurred  in  changing 
bones,  which  was  the  work  of  from  one  minute 
to  three,  depending  upon  whether  any  pas- 
soiger  was  "taken  up"  or  set  down  at  that 
FtJige  (the  word  '* station"  is  peculiar  to  rail- 
ways). If  there  was  merely  a  change  of  horses, 
aboot  a  minute  was  consumed.  The  horses 
were  not  vnf^uently  imsucccssful  racehorses, 
and  they  were  generally  of  "  good  blood."  Some 
▼onld  run  daily  on  the  same  stages  8  and  10 
yean.  About  10|  miles  was  an  average  rate 
for  the  mail,  and  Bf  to  0  miles  for  the  stagc- 
oosches.  They  often  advertised  10  miles  an 
hoar,  but  Uiat  was  only  an  advertisement. 

So  rapid,  so  systematic,  and  so  commended 
was  the  s^e  of  stage-coach  travelling,  that 
some  of  the  great  coach  proprietors  dreaded 
little  fnsm  the  competitive  results  of  railway 
trsvening.  One  of  these  proprietors  on  '^  Uie 
Great  North  Eoad"  used  to  say,  "Boilways  are 
jost  a  bounce — all  speculation.  People  will 
find  it  out  in  time,  and  there'll  be  more  coach- 
ing than  ever;  railways  can  never  answer!" 

So  punctual,  too,  were  these  carriages,  that 
one  gentleman  used  to  say  he  set  his  watch 
by  the  Glasgow  mail,  as  "  she  passed  his  door 
I7  the  roadside,  at  three  minutes  to  ten." 

Nor  is  it  only  in  tho  discontinuance  of 
ttage-coaches  that  the  roads  of  the  kingdom 
hare  experienced  a  change  in  character.  Until 
the  prevalence  of  railways,  "posting"  was 
common.  A  wealthy  person  travelled  to 
London  in  his  own  carriage,  which  was  drawn 
by  four  horses,  almost  as  quickly  as  by  the 
mail.  The  horses  were  changed  at  the  several 
stages;  the  ostler's  cry  of  "first  turn  out," 
stonmoning  the  stablemen  and  tho  postihons 
with  a  readiness  second  only  to  that  in  the 
case  of  the  passengers'  coaches.  The  horses, 
however,  were  ridden  by  postilions  in  red  or 
light  blue  jackets,  with  white  buttons,  light- 
eolonrcd  breeches,  and  brown  top-boots,  instead 
of  being  driven  four-in-hand.    This  was  the 


Total  length  of  railway  open  on  June  80, 1849,  and  persons  employed 
thereon 

Xotal  length  of  railway  in  course  of  construction  on  June  30, 1849, 
and  persons  employed  thereon 

^otal  length  of  railway  neitlier  open  nor  in  course  of  construction 
on  Jimo  30,  1849 

Xotal  length  of  railway  authorised  to  be  used  for  tlie  conveyance  of 
passengers  on  June  80, 1849,  and  the  total  number  of  persons 
employeA  thereon    •       • 


aristocratic  style  of  .travelling,  and  its  indul 
gence  was  costly.  For  a  pair  of  good  horses 
ts.  Qd,  a-mile  was  an  average  charge,  and  8<f. 
a-mile  had  to  bo  given  in  the  compulsory 
gratuities  of  those  days  to  the  postilion ;  8«. 
a-mile  was  tho  charge  for  four  horses,  but 
sometimes  rather  less.  Thus,  supposing  that 
500  noblemen  and  gentlemen  "posted"  to 
London  on  the  opening  of  Parliament,  each,  as 
was  common,  with  two  corriages-and-four,  and 
each  posting  liOO  miles,  tho  aggregate  expen- 
diture, without  any  sum  for  meals  or  for  beds 
— and  to  "sleep  on  the  road"  was  common 
when  ladies  were  travelling — would  be  35,000/., 
and  to  this  add  five  per  cent  for  tlie  turnpike- 
tolls,  and  the  whole  cost  would  be  30,750/. ;  an 
average  of  73/.  IO5.  for  each  nobleman  and 
gentleman,  with  his  family  and  the  customary 
members  of  his  household.  The  calculation 
refers  merely  to  a  portion  of  tho  members  of 
the  two  houses  of  legislature,  and  is  un- 
questionably within  the  mark;  for  though 
many  travelled  shorter  distances  and  by 
cheaper  modes,  many  travelled  400  miles,  and 
with  more  carriages  than  three.  No  "  lady  *' 
condescended  to  enter  a  stage-coach  at  the 
period  concerning  which  I  write.  As  tho 
same  expense  was  incurred  in  returning  to  tho 
castle,  hall,  park,  abbey,  wood,  or  manor,  tho 
annual  outlay  for  this  one  piupose  of  merely 
a  fraction  of  the  posters  to  London  was  73,500/. 
It  might  not  be  extravagant  to  assert,  that 
more  than  five  times  this  outlay  was  annually 
incurred,  including  "pairs"  and  "fours,"  or  a 
total  of  367,500/.  This  mode  of  travelling  I 
believe  is  now  almost  wholly  extinct,  if  indeed 
it  be  not  impossible,  since  there  are  no  horses 
now  kept  on  the  road  for  the  purpose.  I  have 
been  infonnetl  that  the  late  Duke  of  Northum- 
berland was  the  last,  or  one  of  the  last^  who,  in 
dislike  or  dread  of  railways,  regularly  "  posted" 
to  and  from  Alnwick  Castle  to  London. 

TuE  Railways. 

The  next  branch  of  the  transit  by  land 
appertains  to  tho  conveyance  of  persons  and 
goods  per  rail.  The  railways  of  the  United 
Kingdom  open,  in  course  of  construction,  or 
authorised  to  be  constructed,  extend  over 
upwards  of  12,000  miles,  or  four  times  tlie 
distance  across  the  Atlantic.  The  following  is 
the  latest  return  on  the  subject,  in  a  Ileport 
printed  by  order  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
the  22nd  of  March  last  :— 

Persons 
etnplojed. 

55,0«8 


Miles. 

Chaint. 

5447 

lOf 

1504 

2on 

5132 

38ij 

12,088 

70 

100,840 


159,784 


Xo.  LXXllI. 


822 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


There  are  now  upwards  of  6000  miles  of 
railroad  open  for  traffic  in  the  three  king- 
doms, fAQ  miles  having  been  opened  in  the 
course  of  the  half-year  following  the  da^  of 
the  above  return.  At  that  date  111  miles  of 
raih^ad  were  open  for  traffic,  irrespective  of 
their  several  branches.  200  railways,  including 
branches,  were  authorised  to  be  constructed, 
but  had  not  been  commenced. 

The  growth  of  i-oilways  was  slow,  and  not 
gradual.  They  were  unknown  as  modes  of 
public  conveyance  before  the  present  century, 
but  roads  on  a  similar  principle,  irrespective 
of  steam,  were  in  use  in  the  Northumberland 
and  Durham  collieries,  somewhere  about  the 
year  1700.  The  rails  were  not  made  of  iron 
but  of  wood,  and,  with  a  facility  previously 
unknown,  a  small  cart,  or  a  series  of  small  carts, 
was  dragged  along  them  by  a  pony  or  a  horse, 
to  any  given  ]>oint  where  the  coid  had  to  be 
deposited.  In  the  lead  mines  of  the  North 
Riding  of  Yorkshire  the  same  system  was 
adopted,  the  more  rapidly  and  with  the  less 
fatigue,  to  convey  the  ore  to  the  mouth  of  the 
mine.  Some  of  these  '^tramways,**  as  they  are 
called,  were  and  are  a  mile  and  more  in  length ; 
and  visitors  who  penetrate  into  the  very  bowels 
of  tlic  mine  are  conveyed  along  those  tramways 
in  carts,  drawn  generally  by  a  pony,  and  driven 
by  a  boy  (who  has  to  duck  his  head  every  hero 
and  t.hcro  to  avoid  collision)  into  the  galleries 
and  open  spaces  where  the  miners  are  at  work. 

In  tho  year  1601,  the  first  Act  of  Parliament 
authorising  the  construction  of  a  railway  was 
passed.  This  was  tho  Surrey,  between  Wands- 
worth and  Croydon,  nine  mUes  in  length,  and 
constructed  at  a  cost,  in  round  numbers,  of 
60,000/.  In  the  following  twenty  years,  sixteen 
such  Acts  were  passed,  authorising  the  con- 
struction of  124|  miles  of  railway,  the  cost  of 
which  was  971,282/.,  or  upwards  of  7500/. 
a -mile.  \n  1822  no  such  Act  was  passed.  In 
1823,  Parliament  authorised  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Stockton  and  Darlington;  and 
on  that  short  railway,  originated  and  completed 
in  a  great  measure  through  the  exertions  of 
the  wealthy  Quakers  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and  opened  on  the  27th  of  December,  1825, 
steam-power  was  Arbt  used  as  a  means 
of  propulsion  and  locomotion  on  a  railway. 
It  was  some  little  time  before  this  that  grave 
senators  and  learned  journalists  laughed  to 
scorn  Mr.  Stephenson's  assertion,  that  steam 
"  could  be  made  to  do  twenty  miles  an  hour 
on  a  railway.**  In  the  following  ten  years, 
thirty  railway  bills  were  passed  by  the  legis- 
lature; and  among  these,  in  1826,  was  the 
Liverpool  and  Manchester,  which  was  opened 
on  the  1 6th  September,  1830 — an  opening  ren- 
dered as  lamentable  as  it  is  memorable  by  the 
death  of  Mr.  Huskisson.  In  1834,  seven  rail- 
way bills  were  passed ;  ten  in  1835 ;  twenty- 
six  in  1836 ;  eleven  in  1887 ;  one  in  1838 ; 
three  in  1839 ;  none  again  till  1843,  and  then 
onW  one — the  Northampton  and  Peterborough, 
which  extends  along  44^  miles,  and  which  cost 


Birmingham  and  Gloucester 

Bristol  and  Gloucester 

Bristol  and  Exeter    . 

Eastern  Counties 

Great  Western   .... 

Great  North  of  England    . 

Grand  Junction 

Glasgow,  Paisley,  and  Groeuock 

London  and  Birmingham  . 

London  and  South-Westem 

Manchester  and  Leeds 

Midland  Counties 

North  Midland  .... 

Northern  and  Eastern 

Sheffield,  Ashton,  and  Manchester 

South-Eastem   .... 


.  £22,618 
.  25/i8» 
.  18,A» 
.  30,171 
.    89,107 


22,757 
28,481 
72,868 
41^ 
49»l6e 
28,776 
41,846 
74,166 
81,478 


429,409/.    The  mass  of  the  other  ndlwmye  have 
been  constructed,  or  authorised,  and  the  Acts     ! 
of  Parliament  authorising  their  constractiott 
shelved,  since  the  close  of  1843.    I  find  no 
official  returns  of  the  dates  of  the  several    j 
enactments. 

The  following  statement,  in  avenges  of  four  ' 
years,  shows  the  amount  of  the  sums  which 
Parliament  authorised  the  various  compames 
to  raise  fh)m  1822  to  1845.  Upwarda  of  one- 
half  of  the  amount  of  the  aggregate  sum 
expended  in  1822-6  was  spent  on  the 
Manchester  and  Liverpool  Baflwaj,  l,832,87aJL 
The  cost  of  the  Stockton  and  DarHngtoo, 
(450,000/.),  is  ah}0  included : 

From  1822  to  1825  indnslYe    ^6451^5 
„     1826  „  1829        „  816,846 

„     1830  „  1833       „  a,l57,186 

„      1834  „  1837       „        10,880,431 
„     1838  „  1841        „  3,614,428 

„     1842  „  1845        „         30,895,128 

Of  these  yeari^  1845  presents  the  eim  iHien 
the  rage  for  railway  speculation  was  most 
strongly  manifested,  as  in  that  year  the  legis- 
lature sanctioned  the  raising,  by  new  ndlwty 
companies,  of  no  less  than  59,018,686/.  mors 
than  the  imperial  taxes  levied  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  while  in  1844  the  amount  so  sadc- 
tioned  was  14,793,994/.  The  total  tmn  to  be 
raised  for  railway  purposes  for  the  last  twen^ 
years  of  the  above  dates  was  158,455,b37/., 
with  a  yearly  average  of  7,672,792/.  For  tlic 
four  years  preceding  the  vearly  average  was 
but  112,866/. 

The  parliamentary  expenses  attending  the 
incorporation  of  sixteen  of  the  principal  rulwaj 
companies  were  683,498/.,  or  an  average  per  rail- 
way of  42,718/.  It  will  be  seen  from  the  following 
table,  that  the  greatest  amount  thus  expended 
was  on  the  incorporation  of  the  Great  Westers. 
On  that  undertaking  an  outlay  not  much  short 
of  90,000/.  was  incurred,  before  a  foot  of  sod 
could  be  raised  by  the  spade  of  the  "navvy." 


It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  these  lai!p 
sums  were  all  for  parliamentazy  ezpensis 
alone,  and  were  merely  the  disbursements  of 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


323 


tbe  railway  proprietors,  whose  applications  to 
Parliament  were  successfuL  Probably  as  large 
an  amount  was  eiqpended  in  opposition  to  tlie 
sereral  bills,  and  in  the  fruitless  advocacy  of 
livid  oompaniea.  Thus  above  a  million  and 
quarter  of  pounds  sterling  was  spent  as  a  pre- 
Uminaiy  ooilaj. 

Of  the  railway  lines,  the  construction  of  the 
Great  Western,  117^  miles  in  length,  was  the 
moat  coatly,  entailing  an  expenditure  of  nearly 
eight  milliona ;  the  Xx>ndon  and  Birmiugham, 
112^  miles,  cost  0,073,114/.;  the  South- 
Eistem,  66  miles,  4,306,478/. ;  the  Maiiches- 
ter  and  Leeds,  53  miles,  3,872,240/.;  the 
Eastern  Counties,  51  miles,  2,821,790/.;  the 
Glasgow,  Paisley,  Kilmarnock,  and  Ayr,  57| 
miles,  1,071,263/. ;  an  amount  which  was  ex- 
ceeded by  the  outlay  on  only  the  3^  miles  of 
the  London  and  BlaokwaU,  first  opened,  which 
east  1,078,851/.  I  ought  to  mention,  that  the 
lengths  in  miles  are  t^ose  of  the  portions  first 
opened  to  the  public  in  the  respective  lines,  and 
first  authorised  by  parliamentary  enactments. 
"  Junctions,"  *'  continuations,"  and  the  blend- 
ing of  companies,  have  been  subsequent  mea- 
Burea,  entering,  oi  course,  proportionate  outlay. 
The  length  of  line  of  the  Great  Western,  for 
instance,  with  its  immediate  branches,  opened 


on  the  30th  of  June,  1849,  wi\s  225  miles ; 
that  of  the  South  -  Eastern,  144  miles ;  and 
that  of  the  Eastern  Counties,  309  miles.  It 
is  stated  in  Mr.  Knight's  *'  British  Almanac  " 
for  the  current  year,  that  the  "  London  and 
North -Western  is  ahnost  the  only  company 
which  has  maintained  in  1849  the  same  din- 
dend  even  as  in  the  preceding  year,  viz.  seven 
per  cent  The  Great  Western,  the  Midland, 
the  Lancashu-e  and  Yorkshire,  the  York  and 
Newcastle,  the  York  and  North  Midland,  the 
Eastern  Counties,  the  South  -  Eastern,  the 
South- Wt stem,  Brighton,  the  ^lanchoster  and 
Lincolnshire,  all  have  suffered  a  decided  dimi- 
nution of  dividend.  These  ton  great  com- 
panies, whose  works  up  to  the  present  timo 
have  cost  over  one  hundred  millions  sterling, 
have  on  an  average  declared  for  the  half  year 
ending  in  the  simimcr  of  1810,  a  dividend  on 
the  regular  non-guaranteed  shares  of  between 
three  and  four  per  cent  per  annum.  The 
remaining  companies,  about  sixty  in  number, 
can  har(Uy  have  reached  an  average  of  two 
per  cent  per  annum  in  the  same  half  year." 

The  fbUowing  Table  gives  the  latest  returns 
of  rsdlway  traffic  from  1845.  Previous  to  that 
date  no  such  returns  were  published  in  parlia* 
mentary  papers  :— 


COMPARATIVE  STATEMENT  OF  THE  TRAFFIC  ON  ALL  THE  RAILWAYS  IN 
THE  UNITED  KINGDOM  FOR  THE  FIVE  YEARS  ENDING  JUNE  30,  1845, 
1646,  1847, 1848,  1849,  TOGETHER  WITH  THE  LENGTH  OF  RAILWAY  OPEN 
ON  DECEMBER  31  AND  JUNE  30  IN  EACH  YEAR. 


Length 
open  on 
June  30 
in  each 
year. 

Total 
Number  of 

Total  Receipts  ftom 
Passengers. 

Receipts  from  Goods, 

Cattle,  Parcels, 

MaiK  &c. 

Total  Receipts. 

T«ar«nding 
Jane  30, 1845 
»        1840 
„        1847 
n        1848 
„        1849 

HUee. 
2343 
2705 
3603 
4478 
5447 

33,791,253 
43,790,983 
51,352,103 
57,905,070 
00,398,159 

£           ».    d. 
3,970,341     0  0 
4,725,215  11  8^ 
5,148,002     5  oi 
5,720,382     9  If 
0,105,975     7  7i 

2,233,373     0     0 
2,840,353  10     ^ 
3,302,883  19     0^ 
4,213,109  14     5J 
5,094,025  18  11 

£           i.     d, 
0.209,714    0     0 
7,505,509     8     2| 
1,510,880     4     7i 
9,933,552     3     7^ 
11,200,901     0     Oi 

This  official  table  shows  a  conveyauce  for 
the  year  ending  June,  1849,  of  00,398,159 
passengers.  It  may  be  as  well  to  men- 
tion that  every  distinct  trip  is  reckoned. 
Thns  a  gentleman  travelling  from  and  re- 
toming  to  Greenwich  daily,  fig^es  in  the  re- 
turn as  730  passengers.  Of  the  number  of 
individuals  who  travel  in  the  United  Kingdom 
I  have  no  information.  Thousands  of  the 
labouring  classes  travel  very  rarely,  perhaps 
not  more  than  once  on  some  holiday  trip  in  the 
course  of  a  twelvemonth.  But  assuming  ever}' 
one  to  travel,  and  the  population  to  be  thirty 
millions,  then  we  have  two  railway  trips  mado 
by  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  king- 
dom every  year. 

•    There  are  no  data  from  which  to  deduce  a 
preciselj  aeoimte  calculation  of  the  number 


of  miles  travelled  by  the  00,398,159  passengers 
who  availed  themselves  of  railway  facihties  in 
the  year  cited.  Official  Usts  show  that  seventy- 
eight  railways  comprise  the  extent  of  mileage 
given,  but  these  railways  vary  in  extent.  The 
shortest  of  them  open  for  the  conveyance  of 
passengers  is  the  Belfast  and  County  Down, 
which  is  only  4  miles  35  chains  in  length,  and 
the  number  of  passengei*8  travelling  on  it 
81,441.  The  Midland  and  the  London  and 
North-Westem,  on  the  other  hand,  are  respect- 
ively 405  and  477  miles  in  length,  and  their 
complement  of  passengers  is  respectively 
2,252,984  and  2,750,541i.  The  average  length 
of  the  78  railways  is  70  miles,  but  as  the  stream 
of  travel  flows  more  from  intermediate  station 
to  station  along  the  course  of  the  line,  than 
from  one  extremity  to  the  other,  it  may  be 


824 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


reasonable  to  eompute  -that  each  indiridual 
]>assengorhas  travelled  oue-fbctrth  of  the  entire 
ilistance,  or  17  J  miles — n  calculation  confirmed 
l>y  the  amount  paid  by  each  individual,  which 
is  sr»m»^thing  abort  of  2*.,  or  rather  more  than 
l^d.  per  mile. 

Thus  we  may  conclude  that  each  passenger 
has  journeyed  17^  miles,  and  that  the  grand 
aggregate  of  travel  by  all  the  railway  passen. 
gors  of  the  kingdom  will  be  1,05*^,827,032^ 
miles,  or  nearly  eleven  times  the  distance 
between  the  earUi  and  the  sun  eveiy  year. 

The  Government  returns  present  some 
rurious  results.  The  passengers  by  the  second- 
class  carriages  have  been  more  numerous 
every  year  than  those  by  any  other  class,  and 
for  the  year  last  returned  were  more  than 
three  times  the  number  of  those  who  indulged 
in  the  comforts  of  first-class  vehicles.  Not- 
>Yithstanding  nearly  1000  now  miles  of  railway 
were  opened  for  the  public  transit  and  traffic 
between  June  1848-0,  still  the  number  of  first- 
class  passengers  decreased  no  fewer  than 
112,000  and  odd,  while  those  who  resorted  to 
the  humbler  accommodation  of  the  second 
class  increased  upwards  of  170,000.  The 
numerical  mryority  of  the  second-class  pas- 
sengers over  the  first  was  :— 

Year  ending  Juno,  184ft  . .  8,851,602 

„            „           1810  ..  10,770,712 

1H47  ..  12,120,574 

1848  ..  14,490,730 

„           1849  ..  10,313,700 

Theso  figures  aflbrd  some  critei-ion  as  to  the 
class  or  character  of  the  travelling  millions 
who  are  the  supporters  of  the  railways. 

The  official  table  presents  another  curious 
characteristic.  The  originators  of  railways, 
prior  to  the  era  of  the  opening  of  the  Man- 
<^hester  and  Liverpool,  dex)ended  for  their 
dividends  far  more  upon  the  profits  they  might 
receive  in  the  cai)aoity  of  common  carriers, 
upon  the  conveyance  of  manufactured  goods, 
minerals,  or  merchandise,  than  upon  the  transit 
of  passengers.  It  was  the  property  in  canals 
and  in  liea\'y  carnage  that  would  be  depreci- 
ated, it  was  believed,  rather  than  that  in  the 
stage-coaches.  Even  on  the  Manchester  and 
Iiveri)ool,  the  projectors  did  not  expect  to 
realise  more  than  20,000/.  a-yeor  by  the  con- 
veyance of  passengers.  The  result  shows  tlie 
fallacy  of  tliese  computations,  as  the  receipts 
for  passengers  for  the  year  ending  June,  1849, 
exceeded  the  receipts"  from  "cattle,  goods, 
parcels,  and  moils,"  by  1 ,011,050/.  In  districts, 
however,  wliich  are  at  once  agricultural  and 
mineral,  the  amount  realised  from  passengers 
falls  short  of  that  derived  from  other  sources. 
Two  instances  will  suffice  to  show  this :  The 
Stockton  and  Darlington  is  in  immediate  con- 
nexion with  the  district  where  the  famous 
sliort-hom  cattle  were  first  bred  by  Mr. 
Collins,  and  where  they  ore  still  bred  in  high 
perfection  by  eminent  agriciilturists.    It  is  in 


eonnexioD,  moveover,  with  tlie  eoal  and  lead- 
mining  distriets  of  Sooth  Dniliam  and  North 
Yorkshire,  the  prodoce  being  conTeyed  to 
Stockton  to  be  alupped.  For  the  last  year,  the 
receipts  fSrom  pasBengers  were  80001.  and  odd, 
while  for  the  eonveyance  of  cattle,  coal,  &e., 
no  less  than  02,000/.  was  paid.  From  thdr 
passengers  the  Ta£P  Yale,  inclading  the  Aber- 
dale  RaUway  Company,  derived,  for  the  same 
period,  in  ronnd  numbers,  an  increase  of 
0500/.,  and  from  their  "goods"  conveyance, 
45,941/.  In  neither  instance  did  the  pas- 
sengers pay  one -seventh  as  much  as  the 
*'  goods." 

I  now  present  the  reader  with  two  **  sma- 
maries"  from  returns  made  to  Parliament 
The  first  relates  to  the  number  and  description 
of  persons  employed  on  raihrays  in  the  Unitsd 
Kingdom,  and  the  second  to  the  number  and 
character  of  railway  accidents. 

Concerning  the  individuals  employed  upon 
the  railways,  the  Table  on  the  opposite  page 
contains  the  latest  official  information. 

Of  the  railways  in  frOl  operation,  the  London 
and  North-Westem  employs  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  persons,  in  its  long  and  branching 
extent  of  477  miles,  35J  chains,  wifh  IM 
stations.  The  total  number  employed  is 
0194,  and  they  are  thus  classified : — 

Secretaries  or  managers         ...      8 

Engineers A 

Superintendents 40 

Storekeepers 8 

Accountants  or  cashiers  ...       4 

Inspectors  or  timekeepers      ...     83 

Draughtsmen 11 

Clerks 775 

Foremen 180 

Engine-drivers 334 

Assistant-drivers  or  firemen    .        .        .318 
Guanls  or  breaksmen     ....    207 

Artificers 1891 

Switchmen 303 

Gatekeepers 70 

Policemen  or  watchmen         .        .        .241 
Porters  or  messengers    ....  1450 

Platelayei-8 14 

Labourers 30 


On  the  Midland  there  were  employed  4898 
persons;  on  the  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire, 
3971 ;  Great  "Western,  2997 ;  Eastern  Counties, 
2939 ;  Caledonian,  2409 ;  York,  Newcastle,  and 
Berwick,  2781;  London  and  South -Western, 
2118;  London,  Brighton,  and  South -Coast, 
2053;  York  and  North  Midland,  1014;  North 
British,  1530;  and  South .  Eastern,  1527. 
Thus  the  twelve  leading  companies  retain  per- 
manently in  their  service  35,735  men,  supply- 
ing the  means  of  maintenance,  (reckoning  Uiai 
a  family  of  three  is  supported  by  each  man 
employed)  to  122,940  individuals.  Pursuing^ 
the  same  calculation,  as  159,784  men  wero 
employed  on  all  the  railways '*  open  and  un- 
open,"  we  may  conclude  tiat  739,180  indi-     J 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


825 


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LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Adduols  woro  dependent,  more  or  less,  upon 
railway  traffic  for  their  subsistence. 

The  other  summary  to  which  I  have  alluded 
Ik  one  derived  from  a  return  which  the  House 
of  Commons  ordered  to  be  printed  on  the  8th 
of  April  last.  It  is  relative  to  the  railway  ac- 
cidents that  occurred  in  the  United  King, 
dom  during  the  half-year  ending  the  91st  De- 
cember, 1840,  and  supplies  the  following 
nntilysis : — 

"  &4  passengers  ii^ured  from  causes  beyond 
their  own  control. 

II  passengers  killed  and  10  iigured,  owing 
to  their  own  misconduct  or  want  of 
caution. 
2  servants  of  companies  or  of  contractors 
killed,  and  3  injured,  from  causes  be- 
yond their  own  control. 

02  sen-ants  of  companies  or  of  contractors 
killed,  and  37  iiyured,  owing  to  their 
own  misconduct  or  want  of  caution. 

28  trespassers  and  other  persons,  neither 
passengers  nor  sorvanU  of  the  com- 
pany, killed,  and  7  iigured,  by  im- 
properly crossing  or  standing  on  t)ie 
railway. 

1  child  kiUed  and  1  injured,  by  an  engine 

running  otT  the  roils  and  entering  a 
liouse. 

2  suicide. 

Total,  100  killed  and  112  injured. 
The  total  numl)er  of  passengers  conveyed 
during  tlio  half-year  omoimted  to  34,924,400." 

Tlie  greatest  number  of  accidents  was  on 
the  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire :  2,703,704  pas- 
sengers were  conveyed  in  the  term  specified, 
and  17  individuals  were  killed  and  24  injured. 
On  the  York,  Newcastle,  and  Berwick,  15  were 
killed  and  injured,  1,013,123  passengers  hav- 
ing been  conveyed.  On  the  Midland,  2,058,903 
liAving  been  the  number  of  passengers,  0  per- 
8<ms  were  killed  and  7  iigured.  On  the  Great 
"NVestem,  conveying  1,220,507}  passengers, 
2  indi>iduals  were  killed  and  1  injured.  On 
the  London  and  Blackwall,  with  1,200.514  pas- 
fiongers,  tlierc  was  1  man  killed  and  10  in. 
jurcd.  The  London  and  Greenwich  supplied 
the  means  of  locomotion  to  1,120,237  persons, 
ami  none  were  killed  and  none  were  injured. 
Those  deaths  on  the  railway,  for  the  half-year 
<*ited  above,  are  in  the  proportion  of  100  to 
to  34,0J4.400,  or  1  person  killed  to  every 
320,470;  and  the  100  killed  include  2  suicides 
and  the  deaths  of  28  trespassers  and  others. 
Tlie  total  number  of  persons  who  suffered 
from  accidents  was  218,  which  is  in  the  pro- 
portion of  1  accident  to  every  1 00,203  persons 
travelling ;  and  when  the  injuries  arising  from 
this  mode  of  conveyance  are  contrasted  with 
the  loss  of  life  by  shipwreck,  which,  as  before 
stated,  amounts  to  1  in  every  203  individuals, 
the  comparative  safety  of  railway  over  marine 
travellinjf  must  appear  most  extraonlinary. 
Mr.  Porter's  calculation  as  to  the  number  of 


stage-coach  travellers  (which  I  oite  under  that 
head)  shows  that  my  estimates  are  far  from 
extravagant 

Inlamd  Nayioation. 

The  next  part  of  my  subject  is  the  **  water, 
carriage,"  carried  on  by  means  of  canals  and 
rivers.  The  means  of  inland  navigation  in 
England  and  Wales  are  computed  to  compriM 
more  than  4000  miles,  of  which  2200  miles  are 
in  navigable  canals  and  1800 in  navigable  riven. 
In  Ireland,  such  modes  of  communication  ex. 
tend  about  500  miles,  and  in  Scotland  about  350. 
As  railways  have  been  the  growth  of  the  present 
half-centuzy,  so  did  canals  owe  their  increase,  if 
not  their  establishment,  in  England,  to  tin 
half-century  preceding  _ from  1700  to  1800; 
three-fourths  of  those  now  in  existence  having 
been  established  during  that  period.  Pre. 
viously  to  the  worics  perfected  by  the  Duke  of 
Bridgewater  and  his  famous  and  self-taog^t 
engineer,  James  Brindley,  the  efforts  made  to 
improve  our  means  of  water-transit  wen 
mainly  confined  to  attempts  to  improve  the 
navigation  of  rivers.  These  attempts  wen 
not  attended  with  any  great  suocess.  The 
current  of  the  river  was  often  too  impetooos  to 
be  restrained  in  the  artificial  channels  pn- 
pared  for  tlte  desired  improvements,  and  the 
forms  and  depths  of  the  channels  were  gra- 
dually changed  by  the  current,  so  that  laboor 
and  expense  were  very  heavily  and  contumousl/ 
entailed.  Difficulties  in  the  way  of  river  naii- 
gation,"  says  Mr.  M*Culloch, "  8<3em  to  have 
suggested  the  expediency  of  abandoning  the 
channels  of  most  rivers,  and  of  digging  parallel 
to  them  artificial  channels,  in  which  the  water 
may  be  kept  at  the  proper  level  by  means  <tf 
locks.  The  Act  passed  by  the  legislatnre  in 
1755  for  improving  the  navigation  of  Sankej 
Brook  on  the  Mersey,  gave  rise  to  a  laterd 
canal  of  this  description  about  11^  miles  in 
length,  which  deserves  to  be  mentioned  as  the 
eariiest  effort  of  the  sort  in  England.  But  be. 
fore  this  canal  had  been  completed,  the  Duke 
of  Bridgewater  and  James  Brindley  had  con- 
ceived a  plan  of  canalisation  independent  alto- 
gether of  natural  channds,  and  intended  to 
afford  the  greatest  facilities  to  commerce  by 
carrying  canals  across  rivers  and  through 
mountains,  wherever  it  was  practicable  to  con- 
struct  them." 

The  difficulties  which  Brindley  oirereaDie 
were  considered  insurmountable  until  he  did 
overcome  them.  In  the  construction  of  a 
canal  flrom  Wondey  to  Manchester  it  was  ne- 
cessaiy  to  cross  the  river  Irwell,  where  it  is 
navigable  at  Barton.  Brindley  proposed  to 
accomplish  this  by  carrying  an  aqueduct  39 
feet  aWe  the  surface  of  the  IrweU.  This  was 
considered  so  extravagant  a  proposition  that 
there  was  a  pause,  and  a  gentleman  eminent 
for  engineering  knowledge  was  consulted.  He 
treated  Brindlcy's  scheme  as  the  scheme  ot  a 
visionaiy,  dedanng  that  he  had  often  heaid  of 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


337 


to  in  the  air,  Imt  never  before  heard  where 
I  was  to  be  erected.  The  duke,  howerer, 
.  oonfidence  in  his  engineer;  and  a  success- 
seniceable,  and  profitable  aqueduct,  in. 
id  of  a  castle  in  the  air,  was  the  speedy  and 
oessfkil  result  The  success  of  Brindley's 
OS  and  the  spirited  munificence  of  the  Duke 
hidgewater,  who,  that  he  might  have  ample 
ini  to  complete  his  projects,  at  one  time 
fined  his  mere  personal  expenses  to  400^. 
sar— laid  the  fbundations  of  the  large  for- 
es enjoyed  by  the  Duke  of  Sutherland  and 
brother  the  late  Earl  of  Ellesmere. 
rhe  canals  which  have  been  commenced 
I  completed  in  the  United  Kingdom  since 
year  1800  are  30  in  number,  and  extend 
'i  miles  in  lengtb. 

ix,  M*Culloch  gives  a  list  of  British  canals, 
h  the  number  of  sharebolders  in  the  pro- 
itaiy  of  each,  the  amount  and  cost  of 
na,  and  the  price  on  the  27th  June,  1843. 
B  Erewash,  with  231  shares,  each  100/.  re- 
oed  a  dividend  of  40/.,  each  share  being 
n  w<»th  675/.  The  Loughborough,  with 
J  70  100/.  shares,  the  average  cost  of  each 
jre  having  been  142/.  17«.,  had  a  dividend 
BOI.  and  a  selling  price  per  share  of  1400/. 
B  Stroudwater,  with  200  shares  of  150/.,  re- 
Md  a  dividend  of  24/.,  with  a  price  in  the 
rket  of  490/.  On  the  other  hand,  the  50/. 
zee  of  the  Crinau  were  then  sellmg  at  2/. 
B  dOI.  shares  of  the  North  Walsham  and 
kn  were  of  the  same  almost  nominal  value 
the  mariLet;  and  the  shares  of  the  Thames 
I  Medway,  with  an  average  cost  of  30/.4«.3</., 
«  worth  but  1/.  Of  the  cost  expended  in 
istruction  of  the  canals  of  Eoglaud,  I  have 
means  of  giving  a  precise  account ;  but  the 
owing  calculation  seems  sufficiently  accurate 
my  present  purpose.  I  find  that,  if  in  round 
mbera  the  250,000  shares  of  the  40  prin- 
al  canals  averaged  an  expenditure  of  TOO/. 
'  share — the  result  would  be  25,000,000/., 
1  perhaps  we  may  estimate  the  canals  of  the 
died  Kingdom  to  have  cost  35,000,000/.,  or 
a-tenth  as  much  as  the  railways. 
rhe  foregoing  inquiries  present  the  foUow- 
;  gigantic  results : — There  are  employed  in 
>  yearly  transit  of  Great  Britain,  abroad 
i  along  her  own  shores,  33,072  sailing- 
tsels  and  1110  steam-vessels,  employing 
},000  seamen.  Calculating  the  vieJue  of 
:h  ship  and  cargo  as  the  value  has  been 
imated  before  Parliament,  at  5000/.,  we 
re  an  aggregate  value  —  sailing-vessels, 
amers,  and  their  cargoes  included  —  of 
3,010,000/.  Further,  supposing  the  yearly 
ges  of  the  seamen,  including  officers,  to  be 
I.  per  head,  the  amount  paid  in  wages  would 
4,720.000/. 

The  ridlways  now  in  operation  in  the  United 
Dgdom  extend  6000  miles,  the  cost  of  their 
istruction  (paid  and  to  be  paid)  having  been 
imated  at  upwards  of  350,000,000/.  Last 
ir  they  supphed  the  means  of  rapid  travel 
above  63,000,000  of  passengers,  who  tra- 


versed above  a  billion  of  miles.  Their  receipts 
for  the  year  approached  11,250,000/.  of  money, 
and  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  million  of  per- 
sons  are  dependent  upon  them  for  subsist- 
ence. 

The  turnpike  and  other  roads  of  Great  Bri- 
tain alone  (mdependently  of  Ireland)  present 
a  sur&ce  120,000  miles  in  length,  for  the 
various  purposes  of  interchange,  commerce, 
and  recreation.  They  are  maintained  by  the 
yearly  expenditure  of  a  million  and  a  half. 

For  similar  purposes  the  navigable  canals 
and  rivers  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  furnish 
an  extent  of  4850  miles,  formed  at  a  cost  of 
probably  35,000,000/.  Adding  all  these  toge- 
ther, we  have  of  turnpike-roads,  railways,  and 
canals,  no  less  than  130,000  and  odd  xniles, 
formed  at  an  aggregate  cost  of  upwards  of 
386,000,000/.  If  weadd  tothis  the  54,250,000/. 
capital  expended  in  the  mercantile  marine,  we 
have  the  gross  total  of  more  than  440,000,000 
of  money  sunk  in  the  transit  of  the  country. 
If  the  number  of  miles  traversed  by  the  natives 
of  this  country  in  the  course  of  the  year  by 
sea,  road,  rail,  river,  and  canal,  were  summed 
up,  it  would  reach  to  a  distance  greater  than 
to  the  remotest  planet  yet  discovered. 


LONDON  WATERMEN,  LIGHTERMEN, 
AND  STEAMBOAT-MEN. 

Of  all  the  great  capitals,  London  has  least 
the  appearance  of  antiquity,  and  the  Thames 
has  a  peculiarly  modem  aspect.  It  is  no 
longer  the  "  silent  highway,"  for  its  silence  is 
continually  broken  by  the  clatter  of  steam- 
boats. This  change  has  materially  aifected 
the  position  and  diminished  the  number  of 
the  London  watermen,  into  whose  condition 
and  earnings  I  am  now  about  to  examine. 

The  character  of  the  transit  on  the  river 
has,  moreover,  undergone  a  great  change, 
apart  from  the  alteration  produced  by  Uie 
use  of  steam-power.  Until  the  more  general 
use  of  coaches,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  n., 
the  Thames  supplied  the  only  mode  of  con- 
veyance, except  horseback,  by  which  men 
could  avoid  the  fatigue  of  walking;  and  that 
it  was  made  largely  available,  aU  our  older 
London  chroniclers  show.  From  the  termina- 
tion of  the  wars  of  the  Roses,  until  the  end  of 
the  17th  century,  for  about  200  years,  all  the 
magnates  of  the  metropolis,  the  king,  the 
members  of  the  royal  family,  the  great  officers 
of  state,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the 
noblemen  whose  mansions  had  sprung  up 
amidst  trees  and  gardens  on  the  north  bank 
of  the  Thames,  the  Lord  Mayor,  the  City 
authorities,  the  City  Companies,  and  the  Inns 
of  Court,  all  kept  their  own  or  their  state 
barges,  rowed  by  their  own  servants,  attired  in 
their  respective  liveries.  In  addition  to  the 
river  conveyances  of  these  functionaries,  pri- 
vate boats  or  barges  were  maintained  by  all 


328 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


whoso  wealth  permitted,  orwhose  convenience 
required  their  use,  in  the  same  way  as  car- 
riages and  horses  are  kept  hy  them  in  our  day. 
The  Thames,  too,  was  then  the  principal 
arena  for  the  display  of  pageants.  These 
pageants,  however,  are  now  reduced  to  one — 
the  Lord  Mayor's  show.  The  remaining  state 
barges  are  but  a  few,  viz.  the  Queen's,  the 
Lord  Mayor's,  and  such  as  are  maintained 
by  the  City  Companies,  and  even  some  of  these 
are  rotting  to  decay. 

Mr.  Charles  Knight  says  in  his  '*  London :" — 
*•*  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth  and  the  first  James, 
and  onward  to  very  recent  days,  the  north 
bank  of  the  Thames  was  studdcMi  with  the 
palaces  of  the  nobles ;  and  each  palace  had  its 
landing-place,  and  its  private  retinue  of  barges 
and  wherries;  and  many  a  freight  of  the 
brave  and  beautiful  has  been  borne,  amidst 
song  and  merriment,  from  house  to  house, 
to  join  the  masque  and  the  dance;  and 
many  a  wily  statesman,  muffled  in  his  doak, 
has  glided  along  unseen  in  his  boat,  to  some 
dark  conference  with  his  ambitious  neighbour. 
Upon  the  river  itself,  busy  as  it  was,  fleets  of 
swans  were  ever  sailing;  and  they  ventured 
immolested  into  that  channel  which  is  now 
narrowed  by  vessels  from  every  region. 
Paulus  Jovius,  who  died  in  1 552,  describing 
the  Thames,  says :  *  This  river  abounds  in 
swans,  swimming  in  flocks,  the  sight  of  whom, 
and  their  noise,  are  vastly  agreeable  to  the 
fleets  that  meet  them  in  their  course.*  The  only 
relics  of  the  palatial  *  landing-places'  above 
alluded  to,  which  is  now  to  be  seen,  is  the  fine 
arch,  or  water-gate,  the  work  of  Loigo  Jones, 
at  the  foot  of  Buckingham-street.  This  was 
an  adornment  of  the  landing-place  itom  York 
House,  once  the  town  abode  of  the  arch- 
bishops of  that  see,  but  afterwards  the  pro- 
perty of  George  Yilliers,  duke  of  Buckingham. 
In  frt)nt  of  this  gate,  or  nearly  so,  the  Hun- 
gerford  steam-boat  piers  are  now  stationed ; 
and  in  place  of  stately  barges,  directed  by 
half-a-dozen  robust  oarsmen,  in  gorgeous 
liveries,  approaching  the  palace,  or  lying 
silently  in  wait  there,  wo  have  halfpermy, 
permy,  twopenny,  and  other  steam- boats,  hiss- 
ing, spluttering,  panting,  and  smoking." 

Moreover,  in  addition  to  the  state  and  pri- 
vate barges  of  the  olden  times,  there  were 
multitudes  of  boats  and  watermen  always  on 
hire.  Stow,  who  was  bom  in  1020,  and 
died  at  eighty  years  of  age,  says  that  in 
his  time  49,000  watermen  were  employed 
on  the  Thames.  This,  however,  is  a  ma- 
nifest exaggeration,  when  we  consider  the 
population  of  London  at  that  time;  still  it  is 
an  over-estimate  common  to  old  chroniclers, 
by  whom  precise  statistical  knowledge  was 
unattainable.  That  Stow  represents  the 
number  of  these  men  at  40,000,  shows 
plainly  that  they  were  very  numerous}  and 
one  proof  of  their  great  number,  down  to  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  is,  that  imtil  one 
hundi'ed  years  ago,  the  cities  of  London  and 


Westminster  had  but  one  bridge  •^  the  old 
London -bridge — which  was  commenced  in 
1176,  completed  in  thirty-one  years,  and  alter 
standing  020  years,  was  pulled  down  in  1832. 
The  want  of  bridges  to  keep  pace  with  the 
increase  of  the  population  caused  the  establish* 
ment  of  numerous  ferries.  It  haa  been  oran- 
puted,  that  in  1760  the  ferriaa  aortHn  the 
Thames,  taking  in  its  oourae  from  Richmond 
to  Greenwich,  were  twenty-five  times  as  nu- 
merous as  they  are  at  present  Weatminster* 
bridge  was  not  finished  until  1700;  Blackfrian 
was  built  in  1769 ;  Battersea  in  1771 ;  Yauz. 
hall  in  1810 ;  Waterloo  in  1817 ;  Soathwsk 
in  1819 ;  the  present  London-bridge  in  1891 ; 
and  Hungerford  in  1844. 

ThI  TUAXEB  WATK&MSBir. 

The  character  of  the  Thames  woitrman  in 
the  last  century  was  what  might  haTe  ben 
expected  from  slightly-informed,  or  nnis- 
formed,  and  not  unprosperoos  men.  Tkqr 
were  hospitable  and  hearty  one  to  anothtr, 
and  to  their  neighbours  on  shore ;  dril  to 
such  fares  as  were  civil  to  them,  especiaUj  if 
they  hoped  for  an  extra  sixpence ;  ont  often 
saucy,  abusive,  and  even  sarcastio.  Tbtir 
interchange  of  abuse  with  one  another,  as  they 
rode  on  the  Thames,  down  to  the  commenoe- 
ment  of  the  present  century,  if  not  later,  vis 
remarkable  for  its  slang.  In  this  sort  of  coo* 
test  their  fares  not  unfrequentl^  joined;  lod 
even  Dr.  Johnson,  when  on  the  nver,  exerrised 
his  powers  of  objurgation  to  overwhelm  sonie 
astonished  Londoner  in  a  passing  boat. 
During  the  greater  part  of  the  last  century 
Uie  Thames  watermen  were  employed  in  a 
service  now  unknown  to  them.  They  were 
the  carriers,  when  the  tide  and  the  weather 
availed,  of  the  garden-stuff  and  the  fhiit  grown 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  river  frx>m  Wool- 
wich and  Hampton  to  the  London  maiketi. 
The  green  and  firmly-packed  pyramids  of  cab- 
bages that  now  load  the  waggons  were  then 
piled  in  boats :  and  it  was  the  same  with  firoit 
One  of  the  most  picturesque  siehts  Sir  Biohiid 
Steele  ever  eigoyed  was  when  he  encountered, 
at  the  early  dawn  of  a  summer's  day,  **  a  fleet  <rf 
Biohmond  gardeners,"  of  which  "  ten  sail  of 
apricot-boats"  formed  a  prominent  and  fit- 
grant  part.  Turnpike-roads  and  railways  here 
superseded  this  means  of  convevanoe,  wfaidi 
oould  only  be  made  available  when  the  tide 
served. 

The  observances  on  the  Thames  customeiy 
in  the  olden  time  still  continue,  though  oo 
a  very  reduced  scale.  The  Queen  hss  btf 
watermen,  but  they  have  only  been  employed 
as  the  rowers  of  her  barge  twice  since  htf 
accession  to  the  throne ;  once  when  Ber 
Majesty  and  Prince  Albert  visited  tha 
Thames  Turmel;  and  again  when  Piiaoe 
Albert  took  water  at  AVhitehall,  and  was  rowed 
to  the  city  to  open  the  Coal-exchange.  Be- 
sides the  Queen's  watermen,  there  are  itiQ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


829 


extant  the  dukes'  and  lords'  watermen;  the 
Lord  Minor's  and  the  City  Companies',  as  woU 
as  those  belonging  to  the  Admiralty.  The 
above  cooatitute  what  are  called  the  privileged 
watermen,  having  certain  rights  and  emolu- 
ments appertaining  to  them  which  do  not  loll 
to  the  lot  of  the  class  generally. 

The  Queen's  watermen  are  now  only 
eighteen  in  number.  Thoy  have  no  payment 
except  when  actually  employed,  and  then  they 
have  10«.  for  such  employment.  They  have, 
however,  a  suit  of  clothes ;  a  red  jacket,  with 
the  royal  arms  on  the  buttons,  and  dark 
tiouserSjpresented  to  tliem  once  every  two 
years.  They  have  also  the  privileges  of  the 
servants  ai  the  household,  such  as  exemption 
from  taxes,  &c.  Most  of  them  are  proprietors 
of  lighters,  and  are  prosperous  men. 

The  nrivileges  of  the  retainers  of  tlie  nobles 
m  the  Stuart  days  linger  still  among  the  lords' 
and  dukes'  watermen,  but  only  as  a  mere 
shadow  of  a  fading  substance.  There  are  five 
or  six  men  now  who  wear  a  kind  of  livery.  I 
heard  of  no  particular  fashion  in  this  hvery 
being  observed,  either  now  or  within  the 
memory  of  the  waterman.  Their  only  privi- 
lege is  that  they  are  free  from  impressment 
In  the  war  time  these  men  were  more  tliau 
twenty-five  times  as  numerous  as  they  are  at 
present;  in  fact  they  are  dying  out,  and  the 
last  ^  dukes,"  and  the  last  "  lord's  "  privileged 
watermen  are  now,  as  I  was  told,  '*  on  their  last 
legs." 

The  Lord  Mayor's  watermen  are  slill  un. 
diminished  in  number,  the  complement  being 
thirty-six.  Of  these,  eiglit  are  water- bailiffs, 
who,  in  any  procession,  row  in  a  boat  before 
the  Lord  Mayor's  state -bai-^e.  The  other 
twenty-eight  are  Uie  rowers  of  the  cliief  magis- 
trate's barge  on  his  aquatic  excursions.  They 
are  all  free  from  impressment,  and  are  supplied 
with  a  red  jacket  and  dark  trousers  every  two 
years,  the  city  arms  being  on  the  buttons. 

One  of  these  men  told  me  that  he  had  been 
a  Lord  Mayor's  man  for  some  yt.ui's,  and  made 
about  eight  journeys  a-year,  *'  swan-hoppiug 
and  such-hke,"  the  show  beiug,  as  liu  said,  a 
regular  thing :  10s.  a  voyage  was  paid  eacli  man. 
It  was  jolly  work,  my  informant  stated,  some- 
times, was  swan-hopping,  though  it  depended 
on  the  Lord  Mayor  for  the  time  being  whether 
it  was  jolly  or  not.  lie  had  heard  say,  that 
in  the  old  times  the  Lord  Mayor's  bargemen 
had  spiced  wine  regularly  when  out.  But  now 
they  had  no  wine  of  any  sort — ^but  sometimes, 
when  a  Lord  Mayor  pleased;  and  he  did  not 
always  please.  My  mformant  was  a  lighter- 
man as  well  as  a  Lord  Mayor's  waterman,  and 
was  doing  well. 

Among  other  ])rivilcged  classes  ore  the 
'* hog-grubbers  "  (us  they  are  called  by  tlic 
other  watermen),  but  their  number  is  now 
only  fbur.  These  hog-grubbers  ply  only  at 
the  Pelican  stairs ;  thev  have  been  old  sailors 
in  the  navy,  and  are  hcensed  by  tlio  Tiinity 
house.    17o  apprenticeship  or  freedom  of  the 


Watennan's  Company  in  that  case  being  neces- 
■ar>'.  "  There  was  from  forty  to  filly  of  them, 
sir,"  said  a  waterman  to  mo,  **  when  I  was  a 
lad,  and  I  am  not  fifty-three,  and  fine  old 
fellows  they  were.  But  they're  all  going  \m 
notliing  now." 

The  Admiralty  watermen  arc  another  pri- 
vileged class.  They  have  a  suit  of  clothes  onco 
every  two  years,  a  dark-blue  jacket  and 
trousers,  with  an  anchor  on  the  buttons. 
They  also  wear  badges,  and  are  exempt  from 
impressment.  Their  business  is  to  row  the 
officials  of  the  Admiralty  when  they  vibit 
Deptfbrd  on  Trinity  Monday,  and  on  all  oc- 
casions of  business  or  recreation.  They  aro 
now  about  eighteen  in  number.  They  receive 
no  salary,  but  are  paid  per  voyage  at  the  same 
rate  as  the  Lord  Mayors  watermen.  There 
was  also  a  class  known  as  "the  navy  water- 
men," who  eigoyed  the  same  privileges  as  the 
others,  but  they  are  now  extinct  Such  of 
the  city  companies  as  retain  their  barges  have 
also  their  own  watermen,  whose  services  are 
rarely  put  into  requisition  above  twice  a-year. 
The  Stationers'  Company  have  lately  relin- 
quished keeping  their  barge. 

The  present  number  of  Thames  watermen 
(privileged  and  unprivileged)  is,  I  am  in- 
formed by  an  officer  of  the  Waterman's  Hall, 
about  1600.  Tho  Occupation  Abstract  of  1841 
gives  the  number  of  London  boat,  barge,  and 
watermen  as  ]Gr)4.  The  men  themselves  have 
very  loose  notions  as  to  tlieir  number.  One 
man  computed  it  to  me  at  112,000;  another  ut 
14,000.  This  is  endontly  a  traditional  com- 
putation, handed  down  from  tho  days  wht-n 
watermen  were  in  greater  requisition.  To  en- 
title any  one  to  ply  for  hire  on  the  river,  or  to 
work  about  for  payment,  it  is  provided  by  tlio 
laws  of  the  City  that  he  shall  have  duly  and 
truly  served  a  seven-years'  apprenticeship  to 
H  litrtinsed  waterman,  and  shall  have  taken  up 
his  freedom  at  "NVatermau's  Hall.  I  licard 
many  complaints  of  this  regulation  being  in- 
fringed. There  were  now,  I  was  told,  about 
lliU  men  employtnl  by  tlie  Custom-house  and 
in  tlie  Thames  Police,  wlio  were  not  free  water- 
men. *•  There's  a  good  many  from  Rochester 
way,  sir,"  one  waterman  said,  *•  and  doTni  that 
way.  They've  got  in  throufjh  the  interest  of 
members  of  Piu'liameut.,  and  such-hke,  while 
there's  many  free  watenncn,  that's  gone  to 
tlic  expense  of  taking  up  their  freedom,  just 
stiirving.  But  we  ore  going  to  see  about  it, 
and  it's  liigh  time.  Either  give  us  back  tho 
money  we've  paid  for  our  rights,  or  let  us  have 
our  proper  rights — tliafs  what  I  say.  Why, 
only  yesterday,  there  was  two  accidents  on  tho 
river,  though  no  lives  were  lost.  Both  was 
owing  to  unlicensed  men.'* 

**It's  neither  this  nor  that,"  said  an  old 
waterman  to  me,  alluding  to  the  decrease  in 
their  number  and  tlieir  eiu-ninps,  "  people  may 
talk  as  they  hke  about  what's  been  the  ruin  of 
us — it's  nothing  but  new  London  Bridge. 
When  my  old  father  heard  that  the  old  bridge 


3.10 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THB  LONDON  POOR. 


was  to  come  down,  *  Bill,'  says  he, '  it'll  be  up 
with  the  watermen  in  no  time.  If  the  old 
bridge  had  Blood,  how  would  all  these  steamers 
have  shot  Lct  ?  Some  of  them  could  never 
have  got  through  at  all.  At  some  tides,  it  was 
so  hard  to  shoot  London  Bridge  (to  go  clear 
through  the  arches),  that  people  wouldn't 
txnst  themselves  to  any  but  watermen.  Now 
any  fool  might  manage.  London-bridge,  sir, 
depend  on  it  has  ruined  us.'" 

The  pUces  where  the  watermen  now  ply, 
are,  on  tlio  Middlesex  shore,  beginning  irom 
London  Bridge,  down  the  river,  Somers  Quay, 
Upper  Custom-house  Quay,  Lower  Custom- 
house Quay,  Tower  Stairs,  Lrongate  Stairs, 
St.  Katharine's,  Alderman's  Stairs,  Hermitage 
Stairs,  Union  Stairs,  Wapping  Old  Stairs, 
Wapping  New  Stairs,  Execution  Dock,  Wap- 
ping  Dock,  New  Crane  Stairs,  Shadwell  Dock 
Stairs,  King  James's  Stairs,  Cold  Stairs,  Stone 
Stairs,  Hanover  Stairs,  Duke's  Shore,  Lime- 
house  Hole,  Chalk  Stones,  'ffasthouse,  and 
Horseferry.  On  tlie  Surrey  side,  beginning 
from  Greenwich,  are  Greenwich,  Lower  Water- 
gate, Upi)er  Water-gate,  Geoige's  Stairs, 
Deptford  Stairs,  Dog-and-Duck  Stairs,  Cuck- 
old's Point,  Horseferry  Road,  Globe  Stairs, 
King-and-Queen  Stairs,  Surrey  Canal  Stairs, 
Hanover  Kow,  Church  Stairs,  Rotherhithe 
Stairs,  Prince's  Stairs,  Cherry  Garden,  Foun- 
tain High  Stairs,  East  Lane,  Mill  Stairs,  Horse 
and  Groom  Now  Stairs,  George's  Stairs,  Horse 
and  Groom  Old  Stairs,  Pickle  Herring  Stairs, 
Battle  Bridge  Stairs,  and  London  Bridge 
Stnint. 

Above  London  Bridge,  the  watermen's 
stairs  or  stations  on  the  Middlesex  shore  are, 
London  Bridge,  All  Hallows,  Southwark 
liriilge,  Paul's  Wharf,  Blackfriars,  Fox-under- 
the->till,  Adelphi,  Hungerford,  Whitehall- 
Stairs,  Westminster  Bridge,  Horsefeny,  Yanx- 
hall,  and  Hammersmith.  On  the  opposite 
shore  are  London  Bridge,  Horseshoe  Alley, 
Bankside,  Southwark  Bridge,  Blackfriars 
Hodges,  Waterloo  Bridge,  Westminster  Bridge, 
Stangate  Stairs,  Lambeth  Stairs,  Yauxhall 
Bridge,  Nine  Elms,  and  the  Rod  House,  Bat- 
terseo.  Beyond,  at  Putney,  and  on  both  sides 
of  the  river  up  to  Richmond,  boats  are  to  be 
hod  on  liire,  but  the  watermen  who  work  them 
are  known  to  their  London  brethren  as  **  up- 
country  watermen" — ^men  who  do  not  regu- 
larly ply  for  hire,  and  who  are  not  in  regular 
attendance  at  the  river  side,  though  duly 
licensed.  They  convey  passengers  or  luggage, 
or  packages  of  any  kind  adapted  to  the 
burden  of  a  boat  of  a  light  draught  of  water. 
When  they  are  not  employed^  their  boats  are 
kept  chained  to  piles  driven  into  the  water's 
edge.  These  men  occasionally  work  in  the 
market  gardens,  or  undertake  any  job  within 
their  power;  but,  though  they  are  civil  and 
honest,  they  are  only  partially  employed  either 
on  or  off  the  river,  and  ore  very  poor.  Some- 
times, when  no  better  employment  is  in  pros- 
pect, they  stand  at  tlie  toll-bridges  of  Putney, 


Hammaramith,  or  Kew,  and  oiEBr  to  canry 
pasaamgers  across  for  ibib  price  of  the  toll. 
Since  the  prevalence  of  steam-packets  as  a 
means  of  locomotion  along  the  Thames,  the 
"  stairs,'*  (if  so  they  may  be  called),  above 
bridge,  are  for  the  most  part  almost  nominal 
stations  for  the  watermen.  At  London  Bridge 
stairs  (Middlesex  side),  there  now  fie  but 
three  boats,  while,  before  the  steam  ei»,  or 
rather  before  the  removal  of  the  old  London 
Bridge,  ten  times  that  number  of  boats  were 
to  be  *' hailed  "  there.  At  Waterloo  and  South- 
wark bridges,  a  man  stands  near  the  toll-gate 
offering  a  water  conveyance  no  dearer  than  the 
toll ;  but  it  is  hopeless  to  make  this  propositioQ 
when  the  tide  is  low,  and  these  men,  I  am 
assured,  hardly  make  eightpence  a-day  when 
offering  this  ftitile  opposition.  The  stain 
above  bridge  most  frequented  by  the  water- 
men, are  at  the  Bed  House,  Battersea,  where 
there  are  many  visitors  to  witness  or  take 
part  in  shooting-matches,  or  for  dinner  ox 
picnic  parties. 

Down  the  river,  the  Greenwich  stairs  are 
the  most  numerously  stocked  with  b<Mt8.  Or- 
dinarily about  thirty  boats  are  to  be  eni^aged 
there,  but  the  business  of  the  watermen  is  not 
one-twentieth  so  much  to  convey  yssengen 
as  to  board  any  sailing  vessels  beating  up  for 
London,  and  to  inquire  with  an  offer  of  their 
services  (many  of  them  being  pilots)  if  thef 
can  be  of  any  use,  either  aboard  or  ashore. 

The  number  of  **  stairs  "  which  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  recognised  stations  of  watermen 
plying  for  hire,  are,  as  I  hare  shown  by  the 
foregoing  enumeration,  75.  The  watermen 
plying  at  these  places,  I  am  told,  by  the  best- 
informed  men,  average  seventy  a  **  stairs." 
This  gives  525  men  and  boats,  bnt  that,  how- 
ever,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  presents  no 
criterion  of  the  actual  number  of  persons 
authorised  to  act  as  watermen. 

Near  the  stairs  below  bridge  the  watermen 
stand  looking  out  for  customers,  or  they  sit 
on  an  a^acent  form,  protected  firom  the  wea- 
ther, some  smoking  and  some  dosing.  They 
are  weather-beaten,  strong-looking  men,  and 
most  of  them  are  of,  or  above,  the  middle 
age.  Those  who  are  not  privileged  work  in 
the  same  way  as  the  privileged,  wear  all 
kinds  of  dresses,  but  generally  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  sailor's  garb,  such  as  a 
strong  pilot-jacket  and  thin  canvas  trooseis. 
The  present  race  of  watermen  have,  I  am 
assured,  lost  the  sauciness  (with  occasional 
smartness)  that  distinguished  their  prede- 
cessors. They  are  mostly  patient,  plodding 
men,  enduring  poverty  heroically,  and  shrink, 
ing  far  more  than  many  other  classes  from 
any  application  for  parish  relief.  "  There  is 
not  a  more  independent  lot  that  way  in 
London,"  said  a  waterman  to  me,  *'  and  God 
knows  it  isn't  for  want  of  all  the  claims  which 
being  poor  can  give  us,  that  we  dont  apply  to 
the  workhouse."  Some,  however,  are  obliged 
to  spend  their  old  age,  when  incapable  of 


Eh 

m 
o 


GQ      ^ 


e 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  i*OOJi. 


331 


kbour,  in  the  union.  Half  or  more  than  one- 
half  of  the  Thames  watermen,  I  am  credibly 
iufoi-med,  can  read  and  write.  They  used  to 
drink  quantities  of  bcor,  but  now,  from  the 
BtreiKi  of  altered  circumstances,  tbey  ai'e  gono- 
ndly  temperate  men.  The  watermen  are 
nearly  all  married,  and  have  ftuuilies.  Some 
of  their  wives  work  for  the  8loi)-tailors.  They 
all  reside  in  the  small  streets  near  the  river, 
usually  in  single  rooms,  rented  at  from  Is.  Od, 
to  2$.  a-week.  At  least  three-fourths  of  the 
Tkotermen  have  apprentices,  and  they  nearly 
all  are  sons  or  relatives  of  the  watermen.  For 
tills  I  heard  two  reasons  assigned.  One  was, 
that  lads  whose  childhood  was  passed  among 
boats  and  on  the  water  contracted  a  taste  for 
A  waterman's  life,  and  were  unwilling  to  be 
apprenticed  to  any  other  calling.  The  other 
reason  was,  that  the  poverty  of  the  watenncn 
compelled  them  to  bring  up  their  sons  in  this 
manner,  as  the  readiest  mode  of  giving  them 
a  trade ;  and  many  thus  apprt>nticed  become 
seamen  in  the  merchant  service,  and  occa- 
sioDollv  in  the  royal  ua\7,  or  get  emplo^-ment 
as  working-lightermen,  or  on  board  the  river 
steamers. 

At  each  stairs  there  is  what  is  called  a 
'Hnmway  and  causeway  club,"  to  which  the 
men  contribute  each  2s,  per  quarter.  One  of 
the  regulations  of  these  clubs  is,  that  the 
oldest  men  have  the  first  tiun  on  Monday, 
and  the  next  oldest  on  Tuesday,  and  so  on, 
through  the  several  days  of  the  week,  until 
Saturday,  which  is  the  apprentices'  day.  The 
fund  raised  by  the  Us.  subscription  is  for 
keeping  the  causeway  clean  and  in  repair. 
There  is  also  a  society  in  connexion  with  the 
whole  body  of  watermen,  called  the  **  Pro- 
tection Society,"  to  proceed  against  any  parties 
who  infringe  upon  their  pri\ilegos.  To  this 
society  they  pay  Id.  per  week  each.  The 
Greenwich  watermen  are  engaged  generally 
OS  pilots  to  colliers,  and  other  small  crafts. 

From  one  of  the  watermen,  plying  near  the 
Tower,  I  had  the  following  statement: — 

"  I  have  been  a  waterman  eig}it-aud-twenty 

years.     I   served  my  seven   years   duly  and 

truly  to  my  father.     1  liml  nothing  but  ray 

keep    and    clothes,   and    that's    the    regular 

custom.     We  must  serve  scvun  years  to  be 

free  of  the  river.     It's  the  same  now  in  our 

apprenticeshix).     No  pay;  and  some  masters 

will  neither  wash,  nor  clothe,  nor  mend   a 

l>oy:    and  all  that  ouglit  to  bo  done  by  the 

laaster,   by  rights.      Times  and  musters  is 

harder  than  ever.    After  my  time  was  out  I 

^vni  to   sea,  and  was   pretty  lucky  in  my 

Voyages.    I  was  at  sea  in  the  merchant  service 

^ve  years.    When  I  came  back  I  bought  a 

l>oat.      My  father  helped  mo  to  start  as  a 

'^vatenuan  on  the  Thames.      The  boat  cost 

*iio  twenty  guineas,  it  would  cany  eight  fares, 

It  cost  2/.  15«.  to  be  made  un  apprentice,  nnd 

r^boiit  4/.  to  have  a  license  to  start  for  myself. 

in  my  fiithiir's  time — ^from  what  I  know  when 

X  was  his  apprentice,  and  what  I've  heard  him 


waterman's  was  a  jolly  life.  He  earned 
16s.  to  i8«.  a-day,  and  spent  it  accordingly. 
WTien  I  firtit  started  for  myself,  twenty-eight 
years  ago,  I  made  Vis.  to  145.  a-dav,  mora 
than  I  make  in  a  week  now,  but  that  was 
before  steamers.  Many  of  us  watermen  saved 
money  then,  but  now  we're  starving.  These 
good  times  lasted  for  me  nine  or  ten  years, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  good  times  I  got 
niivried.  1  was  justified,  my  earnings  was 
good.  But  steamers  oame  in.  and^  we  were 
\kTeoked.  My  father  was  in  the  Eiver  Fen- 
cibles,  which  was  a  bodv  of  men  that  agreed 
to  volunteer  to  sen'e  on  board  ships  that  went 
on  convoys  in  the  war  times.  The  watermen 
was  bound  to  supply  so  many  men  for  tliat 
and  for  the  fleet  I  can't  coll  to  mind  the 
year,  but  the  fuU  number  wasn't  supplied,  and 
there  was  a  press.  Some  of  my  neighboure, 
watermen  now,  was  of  the  press-gang.  "When 
the  press  was  on  there  was  a  terrible  to  do, 
and  all  sorts  of  shifts  among  tlie  watermen. 
The  yoimg  ones  ran  away  to  their  motliers, 
and  kept  in  hiding.  I  was  too  young  theu,-r 
I  was  an  apprentice,  too, —  to  bo  pressed. 
But  u  lieutenant  once  put  his  hand  on  my 
poll,  and  said,  *  My  fine  red-headed  fellow, 
you'll  be  the  veiy  man  fbr  me  when  you're 
old  enough.'  Mine's  a  veiy  bad  trade  —  I 
make  from  \0s.  to  V-ls.  a- week,  and  that's  all 
my  wife  and  me  has  to  live  on.  I've  no 
children — Uiank  the  Lord  for  it:  for  I  seo 
tliat  several  of  the  watermen's  children  nui 
about  without  shoes  or  stockings.  On  Mon- 
day I  tamed  Is.  \)d.,  on  Tuesday,  Is.  7c/.,  on 
Weilnosday,  which  was  a  very  wet  day,  I*., 
and  yosWrday,  Thursday,  1*.  C</.,  and  up  to 
this  day,  l>i<lay  noon,  I've  earned  nothing  as 
yet.  We  work  Sundays  and  all.  My  expenses 
wlien  I'm  out  isn't  much.  My  wife  puts  mo 
up  a  bit  of  meat,  or  bacon  and  bread,  if  wo 
have  any  in  the  hi>use,  and  if  I've  earned  any- 
thing 1  eat  it  witli  half-arpint  of  beer,  or  a 
pint  at  times.  Ours  is  hard  work,  and  we 
requires  support  if  we  can  only  get  it.  If  I 
bring  no  meat  ^sith  me  to  the  stairs,  I  bring 
some  bread,  and  get  hulf-a-pint  of  coffee  with 
it,  which  is  Ic^.  We  have  to  slave  hard  in 
some  weathers  when  we're  at  work,  and  indeed 
we're  always  eitlier  slaving  or  sitting  quit© 
idle.  Our  principal  customers  arc  people  that 
want  to  go  across  in  a  hurr^'.  At  night — and 
we  take  night  work  two  and  two  about,  two 
dozen  of  us,  in  turn — we  have  double  fares. 
There's  very  few  coimtry  visitors  take  boats 
now  to  see  sights  upon  Uie  river.  The  swell 
of  tlie  steamers  frightens  tliem.  Lost  Friday 
a  lady  and  gentleman  engaged  me  for  2s.  to 
go  to  the  Thames  Tmmel,  but  a  steamer 
passed,  and  Uio  lady  said,  *  Oh,  look  what  a 
surf!  I  don't  like  to  venture;'  and  so  she 
wouldn't,  and  I  sat  five  hours  aft«r  that  before 
I'd  earned  a  farthing.  I  remember  the  first 
steamer  on  the  river ;  it  was  fr«)m  Gravesend, 
I  think.  It  was  good  fi.r  us  men  at  first,  as 
the  passengers  came  ashore  in  boats.    There 


833 


LOKDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


was  no  steam-pien  then,  bat  now  the  big 
foreign  steamen  can  come  alongside,  and 
ladies  and  cattle  and  all  can  step  ashore  on 
platforms.  The  good  times  is  over,  and  we 
are  ready  now  to  snap  at  one  another  for  8«(., 
when  once  we  didnt  care  about  1<.  We're 
beaten  by  engines  and  steamings  that  nobody 
can  well  understand,  and  wheels.** 

*^  Bare  John  Taylor,"  the  water-poet  in  the 
days  of  James  I.  and  Charles  L,  with  whose 
name  I  fonnd  most  of  the  watermen  fkmUiar 
(at  least  they  had  heard  of  him),  complained 
of  the  decay  of  his  trade  as  a  waterman,  inas- 
much as  in  his  latter  days  **  every  Oill  Turn- 
tripe,  Mistress  Tumkins,  Madame  Polecat,  my 
Lady  Trash,  Froth  the  tapter.  Bill  the  tailor, 
Lavender  the  broker,  Whiff  the  tobacco-seller, 
with  their  companion  trulls,  mtist  be  coached." 
He  complained  that  wheeled  conveyances 
ashore,  although  they  made  the  casements 
shatter,  totter,  and  clatter,  were  preferred  to 
boats,  and  were  tlie  ruin  of  (be  watermen. 
And  it  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  the  water- 
flien  of  our  day  complain  of  the  same  detri- 
ment  from,  wheeled  conveyances  on  the  water. 

ThB  LlOHTERMXll  AND  BABOXlUCir. 

Th£6E  are  also  liceoBed  watermen.  The 
London  watermen  rarely  apply  the  term 
bargemen  to  any  persons  working  on  the 
river;  they  confine  the  appellation  to  those 
who  work  in  the  barges  in  the  canals,  and 
who  need  not  be  free  of  the  river,  though 
some  of  them  are  so,  many  of  them  being  also 
seamen  or  old  men-of-war's  men.  The  river 
lightermen  (as  the  watermen  style  them  all, 
no  matter  what  the  craft)  are,  however,  so 
far  a  distinct  class,  that  they  convey  goods 
only,  and  not  passengers :  while  the  watermen 
convey  only  passengers,  or  such  light  goods  as 

{>assengers  may  take  with  them  in  the  way  of 
nggage.  The  lighters  are  the  large  boats 
used  to  carry  the  goods  which  form  t£e  cargo 
to  the  vessels  in  the  river  or  the  docks,  or 
fhim  the  vessels  to  the  shore.  The  barge  is  a 
kind  of  larger  lighter,  built  deeper  and 
stronger,  and  is  confined  principally  to  the 
conveyance  of  coaL  Two  men  are  generally 
employed  in  the  management  of  a  barge. 
The  lighters  are  adapted  for  the  conveyance 
of  com,  timber,  stone,  groceries  and  general 
merchandise:  and  the  several  vessels  are 
usually  confined  to  such  purposes — a  com 
lighter  being  seldom  used,  for  instance,  to 
earry  sugar.  The  lighters  and  barges  in 
present  use  are  built  to  carry  fVom  6  to  120 
tons,  the  greater  weight  being  that  of  the  huge 
coal  baiges.  A  lighter  canying  fourteen  tons 
of  merchandise  costs,  when  new,  120/. — and 
this  is  an  average  size  and  price.  Some  of 
these  lighters  are  the  property  of  the  men 
who  drive  them,  and  who  are  a  prosperous 
class  compared  with  the  poor  watermen.  The 
lightermen  cannot  be  said  to  apply  for  hire 
in  the  way  of  the  watermen,  but  they  are 


always  what  Uiey  call  "  on  the  look  out"  If 
a  vessel  arrives,  some  of  them  go  on  board 
and  ofiSar  their  services  to  the  captain  in  case 
he  be  concerned  in  having  his  cargo  tnoks- 
ported  ashore;  or  they  asoertain  to  what 
merchant  or  grocer  goods  may  be  eonaigBed, 
and  apply  to  uem  for  employment  in  lifter* 
age,  unless  they  know  that  soma  partieolur 
l^hteiman  is  regulariy  employed  by  the  oon- 
signee.  There  are  no  settted  chaigoa  each 
tjadeaman  has  his  regular  scale,  or  drives  his 
own  bargains  for  lighterage,  as  he  does  ibrthe 
supply  of  any  other  commodity.  I  heard  no 
complaints  of  underselling  among  the  lighter- 
men, but  the  men  who  drive  their  own  boati 
themselves  sometimes  submit  to  veiy  hard 
bargains.  Laden  lighters,  I  was  told  on  all 
hands,  ought  not,  in  "  anything  like  weather,* 
to  be  worked  by  fewer  than  two  men;  but  the 
hard  bargains  I  have  spoken  of  induce  some 
working  lightermen  to  attempt  feats  beyond 
their  strength,  in  driving  a  laden  lighter 
unassisted.  Sometimes  the  watermen  have  to 
put  off  to  render  assistance,  when  th^  see  a 
lighter  unmanageable.  Lighters  can  only 
proceed  with  the  tide,  and  are  often  moored 
in  the  middle  of  the  river,  waiting  the  tom  of 
the  tide,  more  especially  when  their  load  con- 
sists of  heavy  articles.  The  lighters,  when  not 
employed,  are  moored  alongshore,  often  close 
to  a  waterman's  stairs.  Most  master-lighter- 
men have  offices  by  the  waterside,  and  aU  have 
places  where  '*  they  may  always  be  heard  oV* 
Many  lightermen  are  capitalists,  and  employ  a 
number  of  hands.  The  **  London  Post  OfBoe 
Directory"  gives  the  names  of  176  master- 
lightermen.  If  a  ship  has  to  be  laden  or 
unladen  in  a  hurry,  one  of  them  is  usuilly 
employed,  and  he  sets  a  series  of  lifters  ''on 
the  job,"  so  that  there  is  no  cessation  in  the 
worL  Most  lightermen  are  occasionally  on- 
ployers;  sometimes  engaging  watermen  to 
assist  them,  sometimes  hiring  a  lighter,  in 
addition  to  their  own,  f^m  some  lightennaiL 
A  man  employed  occasionally  by  one  of  the 
greater  masters  made  the  following  state- 
ment:— 

'*  I  work  for  Mr.  — ,  and  drive  a  Ugbter 
that  cost  above  100/.,  mostly  at  merchandise. 
I  have  28s.  a-week,  and  2s.  extra  every  night 
when  there's  nightwork.  I  should  be  rigfat 
well  off  if  that  lasted  all  the  year  through,  bot 
it  don't  On  a  Saturday  night,  when  we've 
waited  for  our  money  till  ten  or  eleven  perhi^ 
master  will  say,  '  I  have  nothing  for  you  on 
Monday,  but  you  can  look  in.'  Hell  say  that 
to  a  dozen  of  us,  and  we  may  not  have  a  job 
till  the  week's  half  over,  or  not  one  at  all 
That's  the  mischief  of  our  trade.  I  havent 
means  to  get  a  lighter  of  my  own,  though  I 
cant  say  I'm  badly  off;  and  I'm  a  single  man ; 
and  if  I  had  a  lighter  I've  no  connexion. 
There's  very  few  of  the  great  lightermen  thai 
one  has  a  regular  berth  under.  I  suppose  I 
midce  14s.  or  10s.  the  year  through,  lumping  it 
all  like." 


LONJOOy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


aM 


Khtennen  who  are  employed  in  the 
36  of  goods  chargeable  wiUi  duty  are 
ly  the  Excise  Office, as  acheck  against 
ayaace  of  contraband  artides.  Both 
ifltoia  of  the  lighter  and  the  x>ersons 
fS  most  be  licensed  for  this  convey- 

cost  being  6t.  yearly.  A  licensed 
I  amployed  casually  by  the  mastor- 
ji  IB  jmown  as  a  jobber,  and  has  65. 
M  aTerage  payment  of  the  regular 

of  the  lighterman  is  20«.  a- week; 
I  employers,  whom  I  heard  warmly 
ig  the  old  masters,  give  dO«.  a-week. 
Ml  to  this  20«.  or  30«.,  as  the  case 
ightwork  ensures  2«.  or  2«.  %d,  extra. 
B  permanent  labourers  under  the 
n  appear  to  be  fairly  paid, 
itster-lightermen,  as  I  said  before, 
rding  to  the  "  Post  Office  Directory," 
mb«r.  I  am  told  that  the  number 
taken  (as  the  Directory  gives  only 
i  have  offices)  at  200  at  the  least,  and 
bis  number  one  half  employ,  on  an 
one  man  each.  The  proprietors  of 
srs  who  average  ten  hands  in  their 
mnot  be  reckoned  among  men  work- 
»  river,  except  perhaps  one-fourth  of 
iber,  but  of  the  other  class  all  work 
M.    The  annual  nxmiber  of  actual 

in  this  department  of  metropolitan 
fill  thus  be  125  proprietors  to  1100 
ietors,  or  1225  in  all,  driving  1100 
t  the  least.  The  bargemen,  who  are 
loyed,  when  convenience  requires,  as 
n,  are  400  or  500,  driving  more  than 

nomber  of  barges ;  but  in  these  are 
ied  many  coal  barges,  which  are  the 
>f  the  coal-merchants  having  whar&. 
iber  of  London  boat-bargemen  and 
n  given  in  the  Occupation  Abstract 
was  1503,  which,  allowing  for  the 
»f  population,  will  be  found  to  differ 
ly  from  the  numbers  above  g^ven. 
jhtermen  differ  little  in  character 
watermen,  but,  as  far  as  their  better 
noes  have  permitted  them,  they 
a  comfortable  homes.  I  speak  of  the 
ightermen,  who  are  also  proprietors ; 
can  all,  with  very  few  exceptions,  read 
They  all  reside  near  the  river,  and 
near  the  Docks — ^the  great  minority 
live  on  the  Middlesex  side.  They 
jer  class  of  men,  both  the  working 
nd  the  men  they  employ.  A  drunken 
in,Iwa8  told,  would  hardly  be  trusted 
Che  watermen  and  lightermen  are 
by  the  by-laws  of  the  City,  passed 
gulation  of  the  freemen  of  the  Com- 
Master,  Wardens,  and  Commonalty 
men  and  Lightermen  of  the  Kiver 
their  widows  and  apprentices,  to  row 
tMMLts,  vessels,  and  other  craft,  in  all 
he  river,  from  New  Windsor,  Berks, 
St  Creek  (below  Gravesend),  Kent, 
.  docks,  canals,  creeks,  and  harbours, 
.  of  the  said  river,  so  far  as  the  tide 


flows  therein.  A  rule  of  the  corporation,  in 
1836,  speoifles  the  construction  and  ^Umen- 
sions  of  the  boats  to  be  built,  after  ^t  date, 
for  the  use  of  the  watermen.  A  wheny  to 
cany  eight  i>ersons,  was  to  be  20|  feet  in 
length  of  keel,  4^  feet  breadth  in  the  mid- 
ships, and  of  the  burden  of  21  cwt  A  skiff  to 
carry  four  persons  was  to  be  14  feet  length  of 
keel,  5  feet  breadth  in  the  midships,  and  1  ton 
burden.  The  necessity  of  improved  construc- 
tion in  the  watermen's  boats,  since  the  intro- 
duction of  steamers  caused  swells  on  the 
river,  was  strongly  insisted  on  by  several  of 
the  witnesses  before  Parliament,  who  produced 
plans  for  improved  craft,  but  the  poverty  of 
the  watermen  has  made  the  regulations  of  the 
authorities  all  but  a  dead  letter.  These  river 
labourers  are  unable  to  procure  new  boats,  and 
th^  patch  up  the  old  onifL 

The  census  of  1841  gives  the  following 
result  as  to  the  number  of  those  employed  in 
boatwork  in  the  metropolis : — 

Boat  and  barge-men  and  women  .  2516 
Lightermen  .  .  '  .  .  1503 
Watermen 1654 

5078 

The  boat  and  barge-men  and  women  thus 
enumerated  are,  I  presume,  those  employed 
on  the  canals  which  centre  in  the  metropolis ; 
so  that,  deducting  these  frx)m  the  5673  la- 
bourers above  given,  we  have  8157,  the  total 
nxmiber  of  boat,  bargemen,  lightermen,  and 
watermen,  belong  to  the  Thames. 

Steak  Navigation. 

I  HAVE  now  to  speak  of  the  last  great 
change  in  river  transit — the  introduction  of 
steam  navigation  on  the  river  Thames.  The 
first  steamboat  used  in  river  navigation,  or, 
indeed,  in  any  navigation,  was  one  built  and 
launched  by  Fulton,  on  the  river  Hudson, 
New  York,  in  1807.  It  was  not  until  eleven 
years  later,  or  in  1818,  that  the  ftrst  English 
river  steamboat  challenged  the  notice  of  the 
citizens  as  she  commenced  her  voyage  on  the 
Thames,  running  daily  from  the  Dundee 
Arms,  Wapping,  to  Gravesend  and  back. 
She  was  called  **  Margery,"  and  was  the  pro- 
perty of  a  company,  who  started  her  as  an 
experiment.  She  was  about  the  burden  of 
the  present  Gravesend  steamers,  but  she  did 
not  possess  covered  paddle-wheels,  being 
propelled  by  uncovered  wheels  (which  were 
at  the  time  compared  to  ducks'  feet,)  pro- 
jecting from  the  extremity  of  the  stem. 
The  splashing  made  by  the  strokes  of  tlie 
wheels  was  extreme,  and  afforded  a  subject 
for  all  the  ridicule  and  vnX  the  watermen 
were  masters  of.  Occasionally,  too,  the 
steamer  came  into  contact  with  a  barge,  and 
broke  one  or  moro  of  her  duck  feet,  which 
might  cauM  a  delay  of  an  hour  or  so  (as  it 


884 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOE. 


was  worded  tome)  before  a  jury  dock-foot 
could  be  Atted,  and  perhaps,  before  another 
mile  was  done,  there  was  another  break  and 
another  stoppage.  These  delays,  which  would 
now  be  intolerable,  were  less  regarded  at  that 
period,  when  the  average  duration  of  a  voyage 
from  Wapping  to  Gravesend  by  the  "  Margery" 
was  about  b\  hours,  while  at  present,  with 
favouring  wind  and  tide,  the  distance  from 
London-bridge  to  Gravesend,  thirty-one  miles 
by  water,  is  done  in  less  than  one  hour  and  a 
half.  The  fares  by  the  first  river  steamer  were 
Ha.  for  the  best,  and  iJ«.  Brf.  for  the  fore  cabin. 
Sailing-packets,  at  that  time,  ran  from  the 
Dundee  Arms  to  Gravesend,  the  fore  being 
1*.  Orf. ;  and  these  vessels  were  sometimes  a 
day,  and  sometimes  a  day  and  a-half  in  ac- 
complishing the  distance.  The  first  river 
stcnmboat,  after  running  les;?  than  three 
months  of  the  summer,  was  abandoned  as  a 
failure.  A  favourite  nickname,  given  by  the 
watermen  and  the  river-side  idlers  to  the  un- 
fortunate "  Margery"  was  "  the  Yankee  Tor- 
pedo." About  that  time  there  had  been  an 
explosion  of  an  American  steamer,  named  the 
"  Torpedo,"  with  loss  of  life,  and  the  epithet, 
doubtless,  had  an  influence  in  deterring  tho 
timid  from  venturing  on  a  voyage  down  the 
Thames  in  so  dangorous  a  vessel.  The  con- 
struction of  the  "Margery"  was,  moreover, 
greatly  inferior  to  the  steamers  of  the  pre- 
sent day,  as  when  she  shot  off  her  steam 
she  frequently  shot  off  boiling  water  along 
with  it.  One  watennan  told  me  that  he  had 
his  right  hand  so  scalded  by  the  hot  water, 
as  ho  was  near  the  "  Margeiy,"  in  his  boat, 
that  it  was  disabled  for  a  week. 

In  the  following  summer  another  steamer 
was  started  by  another  company — the  "  Old 
Thames."  The  '*  Old  Thames  "  had  paddle- 
wheels,  as  in  the  present  build,  her  speed 
was  better  by  about  ono  mile  in  ten  than 
that  of  her  predecessor,  and  her  success  was 
greater.  She  ran  the  same  route,  at  the 
same  prices,  until  the  "  Mtyestic,"  the  third 
river  steamer,  was  started  in  the  same  year 
by  a  rival  company,  and  the  fares  were  reduced 
to  2*.  Qd.  and  2.i.  The  "Majestic"  ran  ft*om 
the  Tower  to  (Jravesend.  At  this  tinip,  and 
twenty  )  o;irs  afterwards,  the  watermen  had  to 
convoy  passengers  in  boats  to  and  from  the 
steamers,  as  one  of  the  watermen  has  state<l 
in  the  narrative  I  have  given.  This  was  an 
additional  source  of  employment  to  them, 
and  led  to  frequent  quarrels  among  them  as 
to  their  terms  in  conveying  passengers  and 
luggage ;  and  these  quarrels  letl  to  lioquent 
complaints  from  tho  captains  of  the  steamers, 
owng  to  thvir  passengers  b(»ing  subject  to  an- 
noyances and  occasioned  extortions  from  the 
watermen.  In  1«20,  two  smaller  boats,  the 
**  Favourite "  and  the  "  Sons  of  Commerce  ' 
were  started,  and  the  distance  was  accom- 
plished in  half  the  time.  It  was  not  until 
1880,  however,  that  steam  navigation  became 
at  all  general  above  bridge. 


The  increase  of  the  tirer  steambottts  from 
1830  is  evinced  by  the  following  TaUe  :^ 


Nmnbtrof 

Nombor 

Tear*. 

of  Voyagct. 

1820 

4 

227 

1830 

20 

2844 

1825 

48 

8S48 

Thus  we  have  an  increase  in  Uie  ten  ye«n 
from  1820  to  1830  of  16  steameiB;  and  in 
the  five  years  from  1880  to  1835,  of  28  over 
tlio  number  employed  in  1880;  and  of  39 
over  the  ninnber  of  1820. 

During  the  next  thirty  years — that  ia  from 
1820  to  1850, — there  was  on  increase  of  66 
steamers. 

The  diminution  in  the  time  oeenpied  bytlie 
river  steamboats  in  executing  their  voyages,  is 
quite  as  remarkable  as  the  increase  in  their 
numbers.  In  1820,  four  boats  performed  227 
voyages ;  or  presuming  that  they  ran,  at  tbit 
perio<l,  26  weeks  in  tho  year,  Obf  voyages  each, 
or  about  two  a- week.  In  1880,  ft^owing  the 
same  calculation,  20  steamers  accomplished 
2844  voyages,  being  117  each,  or  between  4 
and  5  voyages  a- week.  In  1885,  48  steamers 
made  884;3  voyages,  being  205  voyages  each, 
or  about  8  a-week.  During  this  time  some  of 
tho  steamers  going  the  longer  distances,  such 
as  to  l^ichmond,  Gravesend,  &o.  ran  only 
one,  two,  or  three  days  in  the  week,  which 
accounts  for  the  paucity  of  voyages  compared 
with  the  number  of  vessels. 

In  1820,  only  227  voyages  were  accomplished 
during  the  season  of  twenty-six  weeks;  in 
180O,  half  that  number  of  voyages  were  accom- 
plishod  daily  during  a  similar  tenn,  and  daring 
the  whole  of  that  term  the  river  steamboats 
convoyed  27,055,200  passengers.  The  amount 
expended  in  this  mode  of  transit  exceeds  a 
quarter  of  a  million  sterling,  or  upwards  of 
half-a- crown  a-head  for  the  entire  metropolitan 
population. 

The  consequences  of  the  increase  of  steam- 
navigation  commanded  the  attention  of  Par- 
liament in  the  year  1831,  when  voluminous 
evidence  was  taken  before  a  Committee  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  but  no  Icgisladvo  enact- 
ments follow<Hl,  the  raanagonont  of  the  steam 
traffic,  as  well  as  that  of  Sil  other  river  traific, 
being  L  ft  in  the  hands  of  the  Navigation 
Committee  of  the  Corporation  of  London,  of 
the  composition  of  which  body  I  have  already 
spoken.  "  Collisions  have  taken  place,"  said 
Sir  John  Hall,  in  1836 ;  "  barges,  boats,  and 
craft,  have  l>een  swamped,  and  valuable  pro« 
perty  destroyed,  from  the  crowded  and  nar- 
row space  of  the  passage  through  the  Pool ; 
and  human  life  has,  in  somo  instances,  ftl^) 
fallen  a  sai^ritice  from  such  coUisions,  ami 
in  othors,  from  the  effect  of  the  undulations 
of  tho  water  produced  by  the  action  of  tho 
paddle-wheels  of  the  steamboats,  —  rircnw- 
stances  which  have  been  aggravated  by  tho 
unnecessary  velocity  with  which  some  of 
thoso  vessels    have  been    occasionally  pro- 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


335 


pelled."  The  Tetnrns  laid  before  ParliAinent 
show  three  deaths,  in  1834,  attribntable  to 
fiteam  craft.  In  the  year  1835,  the  number  of 
deaths  from  the  same  causes  was  no  less 
than  ten.  In  all  these  cases  inquests  were 
held.  In  1834,  the  number  of  deaths,  firom 
•11  causes,  whether  of  oceident  or  suicide  on 
the  river,  as  investigated  by  the  coroner,  was 
flfty-four;  the  deaths  caused  by  steamboats 
being  one-eighteenth  that  number;  while,  in 
1935,  the  deaths  Arom  all  causes  were  forty-one, 
tbe  steamboats  having  occasioned  loss  of  life 
to  nearly  one-fourth  of  that  number. 

To  obviate  the  danger  and  risk  to  boats,  it 
was  suggested  to  the  committee  that  the 
steamers  should  not  be  propelled  beyond  a 
eertnin  rate,  and  that  an  indicator  should  be 
placed  on  board,  which,  by  recording  the  num- 
ber of  revolutions  of  the  paddle-wheels,  should 
show  the  speed  of  the  steam-vessel,  while  ex- 
cessive speed,  when  thus  detected,  was  to  en- 
tail punishment  It  was  shown,  however, 
that  the  number  of  times  the  wheel  revolves 
ftlTords  no  criterion  of  the  speed  of  the  vessel, 
as  regards  the  space  traverse«l  in  a  given 
period.  Her  speed  is  affected  by  depth  of 
water,  weight  of  cargo,  number  of  pnssengers, 
by  her  superior  or  infbrior  construction  an<l 
handling,  and  most  especially  by  hor  ^o\r\^ 
with  or  against  the  tide;  while,  in  nil  these 
eircnmstances  of.var}'ing  speed,  ns  reitfnrds 
rates  of  progress,  the  revolutions  of  tlie  pad- 
dle-wheels might,  in  every  fifteen  minutes, 
vaij  little  in  number.  The  tide  moves,  ebb 
md  flow,  on  the  average,  three  miles  an  hour. 
Mr.  Rowland,  the  harbour-master,  has  said, 
touching  the  proper  speed  of  steam-vessels  on 
the  river : — "  Four  miles  an  hour  through  the 
water  against  the  tide,  and  seven  with  the 
tide,  would  give  ample  speed  for  the  steam- 
boats.  An  opportunity  would  thus  bo  afforded 
of  travelling  over  the  ground  against  the  tide 
at  the  rate  of  about  fbur  miles  an  hour,  and 
with  the  tide  they  would  positively  pass  over 
the  ground  at  the  rate  of  about  seven  miles." 
The  rate  at  which  tlie  better  class  of  river 
steamers  progress,  when  fairly  in  motion,  is 
now  from  eight  to  nine  miles  an  hour. 

Although  no  legislative  enactments  for  the 
better  relation  of  the  river  steam  navigation 
took  place  after  the  Iteport  of  the  Committee, 
accidents  from  the  ci^uso  referred  to  are  now 
imfrequont.  In  the  present  year,  I  am  in- 
formed, there  has  been  no  loss  of  life  on  the 
Thames  occasioned  by  steamboats.  This  is 
attributable  to  a  belter  and  clearer  "water 
way"  being  kept,  nnd  to  a  greater  efficiency  on 
the  part  of  the  captains  nnd  helmsmen  of  the 
river  steam  fleet. 

It  is  common  for  people  proceeding  from 
London-bridge  to  Gruvcsend  io  exclaim  about 
the  **  crowds  of  shipping! "  The  fact  is,  how- 
ever, that  notwithstanding  the  great  increase 
in  the  commerce  and  traffic  of  the  capital,  the 
Thames  is  less  crowded  with  shipping  than  it 
was  at  the  beginning  of  the  century.    Mr. 


Banyon,  clerk  to  the  Waterman's  Company,  in 
his  evidence  before  a  Committee  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  described  himself  as  a  *'  practical 
man  twenty-two  years  before  1811."  He  says, 
"There  is  a  wonderful  ilifference  since  my 
time.  I  was  on  the  river  prerious  to  any 
docks  being  made,  when  all  the  trade  of  the 
country  was  laying  out  in  the  river.  .  •  .  . 
The  river  was  then  so  crowded  that  tho  tiers 
used  to  overlap  one  another,  and  we  used  to 
be  obliged  to  l»ing  up  so  as  to  prevent  getting 
athwart  hawse."  I  mention  this  fiict  to  show 
that,  without  the  relief  afforded  by  the  docks, 
steam  navigation  would  be  utterly  imprac- 
ticable. 

The  average  tonnage  of  a  steam-vessel,  of  a 
build  adapted  to  run  between  London  nnd 
Greenwich,  or  Woohrich,  is  70  or  80  tons; 
OTie  adapted  to  run  to  Gravesend  or  beyond  is 
about  180  tons ;  and  those  merely  suitable  for 
plying  between  London-bridge  and  Westmin- 
ster, 40  or  60  tons.  What  is  tho  nimibf?r  of 
persons,  p«^r  ton,  which  may  naftly  bo  en- 
trusted to  the  conveyance  of  stenmboata, 
authorities  aro  not  agreed  upon.  Mr.  W. 
Cunningham,  the  captain  of  n  Woolwich 
steamer,  represented  it  to  the  committee  as 
four  or  five  to  the  ton,  though  he  admits  that 
five  to  the  ton  inconvenienced  the  passengers 
by  crowding  them.  The  tonnage  of  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham's vessel  was  77 ;  his  average  number 
of  passengers,  "on  extreme  freights,"  was 
200 ;  yet  he  once  carried  500  persons,  tliough, 
by  his  own  admission,  385  would  involve 
crowding. 

Tho  changes  wrought  in  the  appearance  of 
the  river,  and  in  the  condition  of  the  water- 
man, by  the  introduction  of  steamers,  have 
been  rapid  and  marked.  Not  only  since  the 
steam  era  have  new  boats  and  new  companies 
gradually  made  their  appearance,  but  new 
piers  have  sprung  up  in  the  course  of  the 
Thames  fh)m  Gravesend  to  Richmond.  Of 
tliese  piers,  that  at  Hungerford  is  the  most 
remarkable,  as  it  is  erected  fairly  in  the  river ; 
and  on  a  fine  summer's  day,  when  filled  with 
well-dressed  persons,  waiting  •*  for  their  boat," 
it  has  a  very  animated  appearance.  A  long, 
wooden  framework,  which  rises  into  a  kind  of 
staircase  at  high  water,  and  is  a  sloping  plat- 
form  at  low  water,  connects  the  pier  with 
Hungerfbrd-bridge.  At  Southwnrk  and  Vaux- 
hall  bridges  the  piers  are  constructed  on  the 
abutments  of  an  arch,  ami  a  staircase  conducts 
the  passenger  to  tho  bridge.  On  the  north 
side  of  the  river  are,  three  at  London-bridpr«N 
one  at  Southwark-bridge,  at  Paul's-wlinrf 
(Blackfriars),  Temple,  Anindel-street,  Water- 
loo-bridge, Fox-undrr-the-hill,  George- street, 
Adelphi,  Hungerford,  Pimlico,  Cadogan-pier, 
Chelsea,  Battersea-bridge,  Hammersmith,  and 
Kew.  On  the  other  side  are,  two  at  Rich- 
mond, one  at  Putney,  Red  House,  Battersea ; 
Nino  Elms,  Lambeth,  Westminster-briil*;*^, 
and  London-bridge.  Below  bridge,  on  the 
Middlesex  side,  the  piers  are,  the  Tunnel, 


330 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Limehoose-hole,  Brunswick,  North  Woolwich, 
and  Purfleet.  On  tho  Surrey  side  there  are 
two  piers  at  Gravesend,  one  at  Rosherville, 
Erith,  Woolwich,  East  Greenwich,  Greenwich, 
and  the  Commercial-docks,  Rotherhiihe. 

Tho  piermen  at  the  pier  belonging  to  the 
Gravesend  Diamond  Company  (the  oldest 
company  now  flourishing,  as  it  was  started  in 
June  1828),  and  to  others  of  similar  charac- 
ter, are  seven  in  number.  At  Hungerford, 
however,  there  are  eleven  piermen;  and 
taking  the  steamboat-piers  altogether,  it  mav 
be  sfliely  said  there  are  four  men  to  each 
on  an  average,  or  108  men  to  42  such  piers. 
The  piermen  are  of  three  classes  as  regards 
the  rates  of  remuneration. 

The  piermaster,  who  is  the  general  super- 
intendent of  the  station,  has  d&«.  a-week; 
the  others  have  20«.  and  2l5.  These  men 
are  not  confined  to  any  one  duty;  as  the 
man  who  takes  the  tickets  from  the  pas- 
sengers one  day  may  assist  merely  in  moor- 
ing, or  in  "  touting  "  the  next — though  a  good 
touter  is  not  often  changed.  The  colour  of 
the  tickets  is  changed  daily,  unless  a  colour 
is  "run  out,"  in  which  case  another  colour 
must  bo  substituted  until  a  supply  can  be 
obtained.  The  majority  of  the  piermen  have 
been  watermen,  or  seamen,  or  m  some  way 
connected  with  river  work.  They  are,  for 
the  most  part,  married  men,  supporting  fami. 
lies  in  tlie  best  manner  that  their  means 
will  admit. 

From  a  gentleman  connected  with  a  Steam- 
packet  Company  I  had  tho  pleasure  of  hearing 
A  very  good  character  of  these  men,  while  by 
the  men  themselves  I  was  informed  that  they 
were,  as  a  body,  fairly  treated,  never  being  dis- 
niissed  without  reasons  assigned  and  due 
inquiry.  The  directors  of  such  vessels  as  are 
in  tho  hands  of  companies  meet  weekly, 
and  among  their  general  business  they  tlien 
investigate  any  complaints  by  or  against  tho 
men,  who  are  sometimes    suspended    as 


night,  one  of  the  crew  usually  sleeps  on  boaid 
to  protect  what  property  may  be  kept  there, 
and  to  guard  against  fire.  The  crew  go  on 
board  about  two  hours  before  the  itami 
starts,  to  clean  her  thoroughly ;  the  engineer 
and  his  people  must  be  in  attendance  about 
that  time  to  get  the  steam  np ;  and  the  etp- 
tain  about  half-an-hour  or  an  nour  befbre  the 
boat  leaves  her  mooring,  to  see  that  ererythkig 
is  in  order. 

The  river-steamers  generally  commence  ma- 
ning  on  Good  Friday  or  Easter  Monday,  and 
continue  until  the  1st  of  October,  or  a  littk 
later  if  the  weather  be  fine.  Each  steamor 
carries  a  captain,  a  mate,  and  three  men  m 
crew,  with  an  engineer,  a  stoker,  and  a  call-bof 
— or  eight  hands  altogether  on  board.  Ha 
number  daily  at  work  on  the  liTer-tteamen  if 
thus  552 :  so  that  including  the  piermen,  the 
clerks,  and  the  "  odd  men,"  between  700  aai 
800  persons  are  employed  in  the  steam  naviga> 
tion  of  the  Thames.  Calculating  each  veyiga 
to  average  six  miles,  the  extent  of  ateam  navi- 
gation on  the  Thames,  performed  daily  in  the 
season,  is  no  less  than  8280  miles.  The 
captains  receive  from  2/.  to  8/.  per  week ;  the 
mates,  from  dO«.  to  d5«. ;  the  crew,  25«.  eaeh; 
the  call-boy.  7«. ;  the  engineer,  from  8/.  to  81.; 
and  the  stokers,  30*. 

The  class  of  persons  travelling  by  these 
steamboats  is  mixed.  The  wealthier  not  im- 
ft«quently  use  them  for  their  exouisicHis  up  or 
down  the  river;  but  the  great  siipport  of  the 
boats  is  fh>m  the  middle  and  wofking  dasaea, 
more  especially  such  of  the  working  class  (in- 
cluding tlie  artisans)  as  reside  in  the  anburba, 
and  proceed  by  this  means  of  conveyance  to 
their  accustomed  places  of  business :  in  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  larger  steamers,  a  band  of 
music  adds  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  paasengew; 
but  with  this  the  directors  of  the  Tesed  have 
nothing  to  do  beyond  giving  their  consent  to 
gratuitous  conveyance  of  the  murioians  who 
go  upon  speculation,  their  remuneration  being 


i 


LONDON  OMNIBUS  DRIVERS  AND 
CONDUCTORS. 


a 
punishment,  though  such  cases  are  unfhsquent  ( what  they  can  collect  firom  the  passengers. 
All  the  men  employed  on  board  the  river-  j 
steamers  are  free  watermen,  excepting  those  j 
working  in  the  engine-room.     In  the  winter  i 
some  of  them  return  to  the  avocation  of  water- 1 
men — hiring  a  boat  by  the  month  or  week,  if 
they  do  not  possess,  as  many  do,  boats  of  their 
own.     In  the  course  of  my  inquiries  among 
the  merchant  seamen,  I  heard  not  a  few  con- 
temptuous opinions  expressed  of  the  men  on 
board  the  river-croft.      There  is  no  doubt, 
however,  that  the  captain  of  a  nver steamer, 
who  is  also  the  pilot,  must  have  a  quick  and 
correct  eye  to  direct  his  vessel  out  of  the  crowd 
of  others  about  London-bridge,  for  instance, 
without  collision.       The  helmsman   is  fre- 
quently the  mate  of  the  steamer — sometimes, 
but  rarely,  one  of  the  crew — while  sometimes 
tho  captain  himself  relieves  the  mate  at  the 
helm,  and  then   the    mate    undertakes  the 
piloting  of  the  vessel.     During  the  season, 
when  a  steam-boat  is  "made  safe"  for  the 


The  subject  of  omnibus  conveyance  is  one  to 
tho  importance  of  which  the  aspect  of  eveiy 
thoroughfare  in  London  bears  witness.  Yet 
the  dweller  in  the  Strand,  or  even  in  a  greater 
thoroughfare,  Cheapside,  can  only  fonn  a  par- 
tial notion  of  the  magnitude  of  this  mode  of 
transit,  for  he  has  but  a  partial  mw  of  it;  ke 
sees,  as  it  were,  only  one  of  its  details. 

Tho  routes  of  the  several  omniboaes  aie 
manifold.  Widely  apart  as  are  their  atartiiig- 
points,  it  will  be  seen  how  their  cooraea  tend 
to  common  centres,  and  how  generally  what 
may  be  called  the  great  trunk-lines  of  the 
streets  are  resorted  to. 

The  principal  routes  lie  north  and  south) 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


g87 


L  west,  through  the  central  parts  of 
to  and  from  the  extreme  suburbs. 
iority  of  them  commence  running  at 
the  morning*  and  continue  till  twelve 
;  succeeding  each  other  during  the 
t  of  the  day  every  five  minutes.  Most 
have  two  charges — 3<<.  for  part  of  tJie 
I  snd  Oif.  for  the  whole  distance. 
nmibuses  proceeding  on  the  northern 
them  routes  are  principally  the  fbl- 

Ulaaes  run  from  the  Eyre  Arms,  St. 
food,  by  way  of  Baker-street,  Oxford- 
legent-street,  Charing-cross,  Westmin- 
Ige  and  road,  and  past  the  Elephant 
ue,by  the  Walworth-road,  to  Camber- 
s.  Some  turn  off  from  the  Elephant 
16  omnibus  people  call  it)  and  go  down 
w  Kent-road  to  the  Dover  milway- 

while  others  run  the  same  route,  but 
fipom  the  Nightingale,  LisRon-grove, 
of  the  Eyre  Arms.  The  Waterloos 
from  the  York  and  Albany,  Kegent's- 

way  of  Albany-street,  Portland-road, 
itreet,  and  so  over  Waterloo-bridge,  by 
edoo,  London,  and  Walworth-roads,  to 
reil-gsite.  The  Waterloo  Association 
lo  a   branch  to    Holloway,   viA   the 

Villas.  There  are  like\«ise  others 
un  from  the  terminus  of  the  South- 
.  Railway  in  the  Waterloo-road,  v\& 
1-street,  to  the  railway  termini  on  the 
ode  of  London-bridge,  and  thence  to 
he  Eastern  Counties  in  Shoreditch. 
Sungorford-markets  pursue  the  route 
mden  Town  along  Tottenham  Court- 
u  to  Hungerford ;  and  many  run  ivom 
t  to  Paddington. 

Kentish  Town  run  from  the  Eastern 
B  station,  and  from  Whitechapel  to 

Town,  by  way  of  Tottenham  Court- 

lampsteads  observe  the  like  course  to 
.  Town,  and  then  run  straight  on  to 
ead. 

EUng's-crosses  run  from  Kennington- 
the  Blackfriar's-road  and  bridge,  Fleet- 
Jhanoery-lane,  Gray's-inn-lsne,  and  the 
id,  to  Euston-square,  while  some  go  on 
len  Town. 

Great    Northerns,    the   latest   route 

travel  from  Uie  railway  terminus, 
lane,  King's-cross,  to  the  Bank  and 
way-stations,  both  in  the  city  and 
he  Thames ;  also  to  Paddington,  and 

Kennington. 
favourites'  route  is  from  Westminster 

along  the  Strand,  Chancery-lane, 
on-lane,  and  Coldbath-fields.  to  the 
Islington,  and  thence  to  Holloway; 
•me  of  them  run  down  Fleet-street,  and 
the  General  Post-office,  and  thence  by 
-road  to  the  Angel  and  to  Holloway. 
irourites  idso  run  from  Holloway  to  the 

Islington    and    Kennington    line   is 


from  Bamsbuiy-park,  by  the  Post-office  and 
Blaokfriars-bridge,  to  Kennington-gate. 

The  Camberwells  go  from  Gracechurch- 
street,  over  London-bridge,  to  Camberwell, 
while  a  very  few  start  from  the  west  end  of 
the  town,  and  some  two  or  three  from  Fleet- 
street  ;  the  former  crossing  Westminster  and 
the  latter  Blackfriars-bridge,  while  some  Nel- 
sons run  from  Oxford-street  to  Camberwell  or 
to  Brixton. 

The  Brixtons  and  Claphams  go,  some  from 
the  Regent-circus,  Oxford-street,  by  way  of 
Begent-street,  over  Westminster-bridge ;  and 
some  from  Gracechurch-street,  over  London- 
bridge,  to  Brixton  or  Clapham,  as  the  cose 
may  be. 

The  Paragons  observe  the  same  route,  and 
some  of  these  conveyances  go  over  Blackfriar's- 
bridge  to  Brixton. 

The  Carshaltons  follow  the  track  of  the 
Mitchams,  Tootings,  and  Claphams,  and  go 
over  London-bridge  to  the  Bonk. 

The  Paddingtons  go  from  the  Royal  Oak, 
Westboume-Green,  and  from  the  Pine-apple- 
gate  by  way  of  Oxford-street  and  Holbom  to 
the  Bank,  the  London-bridge,  Eastern  Coun- 
ties, or  Blackwall  railway  termini ;  while  some 
reach  the  same  destination  by  the  route  of  the 
New-rood,  City-road,  and  Finsbury.  These 
routes  are  also  pursued  by  the  vehicles  lettered 
"New-road  Conveyance  Association,"  and 
"  London  Conveyance  Company ;"  while  some 
of  the  vehicles  belonging  to  the  same  pro- 
prietors run  to  Notting-hill,  and  some  have 
branches  to  St.  John's  Wood  and  elsewhere. 

The  Wellingtons  and  Marlboroughs  pursue 
the  some  track  as  the  Paddingtons,  but  some 
of  them  diverge  to  St.  John's  Wood. 

The  KensaJl-greens  go  from  the  Regent- 
circus,  Oxford-street,  to  the  Cemetery. 

The  course  of  the  Bayswaters  is  from  Bays- 
water  viA  Oxford-street,  Regent-street,  and  the 
Strand,  to  the  Bank. 

The  Bayswaters  and  Kensingtons  run  frt)m 
the  Bank  vid  Finsbiuy,  and  then  by  the  City- 
road  and  New-road,  down  Portland-road,  and 
by  Oxford-street  and  Piccadilly  to  Bayswater 
and  Kensington. 

The  Hammersmith  and  Kensingtons  con- 
vey their  passengers  from  Hammersmith,  by 
way  of  Kensington,  Knightsbridge,  Piccadilly, 
&G,  to  the  Bank. 

The  Richmond  and  Hampton  Courts,  from 
St.  Paul's-churehyard  to  the  two  places  in- 
dicated. 

The  Putneys  and  Bromptons  run  from 
Putney-bridge  viA  Brompton,  &c.  to  the  Bank 
and  the  London-bridge  railway  station. 

The  Chelseas  proceed  from  the  Man  in  the 
Moon  to  the  Bank,  Mile-end-road,  and  City 
railway  stations. 

The  Chelsea  and  Islingtons  observe  the 
route  from  Sloane-square  to  the  Angel,  Isling- 
ton,  travelling  along  Piccadilly,  Regent-street, 
Portland-road,  and  the  New-road. 

The    Royal   Blues   go    from   Pimlico  viA 


d89 


hOVDOS  LABOUB  JND  Tii£  tOKDON  POOB. 


GrosTenor-gsfta,  Piccadilljr,  the  Strand,  &c  to 
the  Blackwall  railway  station. 

The  direction  of  the  Pimliooa  is  throngh 
Westminster,  Whitehall,  Strand,  &e.  to  White- 
chapel. 

The  Marqness  of  Westminsters  follow  the 
rente  Arom  the  Vanxhall-hridge  viA  Millbank, 
Westminster  Ahhey,  the  Strand,  &c.  to  the  Bank. 

The  Deptibrds  go  from  Oracechurch-street, 
and  over  London-bridge,  and  some  from 
Charing-cross,  over  Wostminster-bridge,  to 
Deptford. 

The  rente  of  the  Nelsons  is  from  Charing, 
cross,  over  Wcstminster-bridge,  and  by  the 
New  and  Old  Kent-roads  to  Deptford,  Green- 
wich, and  Woolwich;  some  go  from  Grace- 
church-street,  over  London-bridge. 

The  Shoreditchas  pnrsne  the  direction  of 
Chelsea,  Piccadilly,  tlio  Strand^  ise,  to  Shore- 
ditch,  their  starting-place  being  Battersea- 
bridge. 

The  Hackneys  and  Claptons  ran  from  Ox- 
ford-street to  Clapton-square. 

Barber's  ran  from  the  Bank,  and  some  from 
Oxford-stroet,  to  Clapton. 

The  BUckwalls  ran  some  from  Sloane-etreet 
to  tho  Docks,  and  the  Bow  and  Stratfords 
from  different  parts  of  the  West-end  to  their 
respective  destinations. 

I  have  enumerated  these  several  conveyances 
frt>m  the  information  of  persons  connected 
with  the  trade,  using  the  tenns  they  used, 
which  bett4*r  disUnguish  tiie  respective  routes 
than  the  names  lettered  on  the  carriages,  whicli 
would  but  puzzle  the  reader,  the  principal 
appellation  giving  no  intimation  of  tlie  des- 
tinstion  of  the  omnibus. 

Tho  routes  nbove  specified  are  pursued  by 
a  series  of  vehicles  belonging  to  one  company 
or  to  one  firm,  or  one  individual,  the  number 
of  their  vehicles  varying  from  twelve  to  fifty. 
One  omnibus,  however,  continues  to  run  from 
the  Bank  to  Finchloy,  and  one  frxsm  the  Angel 
to  Hampton  Court. 

The  total  number  of  omnibuses  traversing 
the  streets  of  London  is  about  8000,  paying 
dut^'  including  mileage,  averaging  0/.  per  month 
each,  or  3ii4,000/.  per  annum.  The  number 
of  conductors  and  drivers  is  about  7000  (in- 
cluding a  thousand  **odd  men," — a  term  that 
will  be  explained  hereafter),  paying  annually 
•Vt.  each  fen*  their  licenses,  or  llbOL  collec- 
tively. Tlio  receipts  of  each  Tehicle  vary  from 
;!/.  to  4/.  per  day.  Estimating  the  whole  3000 
at  8/.,  it  follows  that  the  entire  sum  expended 
annually  in  omnibus  hire  by  the  people  of 
London  amounts  to  no  less  than  8,285,000/., 
Avliich  is  more  than  80«.  a-head  for  eveiy  man, 
woman,  and  child,  in  the  metropolis.  Tlio 
average  journey  as  regards  length  of  each 
omnibus  is  six  miles,  and  that  distance  is  in 
some  cases  travelled  twelve  times  a-day  by 
each  omnibus,  or,  as  it  is  called,  **  six  there 
and  six  back."  Some  perform  the  journey 
only  ten  times  a-day  (each  omnibus),  and 
some,  but  a  minority,  a  leas  number  of  times. 


Now  taking  the  average  as  between  fort 
and  fifty  xmles  a-day,  travelled  by  each 
bus,  and  that  I  am  assured  on  the 
authority  is  within  the  mark,  while  sizty 
a-day  might  exceed  it,  and  computin 
omnibuses  running  daily  at  8000,  we  fii 
travel,"  as  it  was  worded  to  me,  jspwtk 
140,000  miles  a-day,  or  a  yearly  travel  oi 
than  60/)00,000  of  miles :  an  extent  tl 
most  defies  a  parallel  among  any  dis 
popularly  familiar.  And  that  this  estia 
no  way  exceeds  the  truth  is  proved  by  th 
annually  paid  to  the  Excise  for  "adl 
which,  as  before  stated,  amounts  on  an  « 
to  91.  each  **  bus,"  per  month,  or,  ecUae 
to  324,000/.  per  annum,  and  this  at  1^ 
mile  (tiie  rate  of  duty  chaigod)  givea  01^ 
miles  as  the  distance  traveUed  by  tba 
number  of  omnibuses  eveiy  year. 

On  each  of  its  journeys  experienced  p 
have  assured  me  an  omnibus  camea  4 
average  fifteen  persons.  Neariy  allaxolii 
to  carry  twenty-two  (thirteen  inside  an 
out),  and  that  number  |>erha]>8  is  mam 
exceeded,  while  fifteen  is  a  fair  compst 
for  §s  every  omnibus  has  now  the  two 
Sd,  and  G</.,  or,  as  the  busmen  call 
*'  long  uns  and  short  uns,"  there  are  t« 
of  passengers,  and  the  number  of  J 
throuc^  the  whole  distance  on  each  jc 
of  the  omnibus  is,  as  I  liave  said,  a  fail 
putation:  for  sometimes  the  vehiele  is  i 
empty,  as  a  set-off  to  its  being  damn 
other  times.  This  computation  whom 
daily  "  travel,"  reckoning  ten  jouxneys 
of  450,000  passengers.  Thus  we  mig 
led  to  believe  that  about  one-fourth  the  < 
population  of  the  metropdis  and  its  ad 
men,  women,  and  children,  the  inaal 
hospitals,  gaols,  and  workhouaee,  pei 
peers,  and  their  families  all  indnded, 
daily  travelling  in  omnibuses.  But  ii 
be  borne  in  mind,  that  as  most  oo 
travellen  use  that  convenient  mode  ei 
veyance  at  least  twice  a-day,  we  may  ooi 
the  number  of  indiriduals  at  226;000,  < 
lowing  tliroe  jonraeys  as  an  average 
travel,  at  150,000.  Calculating  the  pq 
of  each  passenger  at  4^.,  and  ao  allovB 
tlic  set-off  of  the  "  short  uns"  to  the  * 
uns,"  we  have  a  daily  reoeq»t  for  on 
fares  of  8,480/.,  a  weekly  receipt  ci  56, 
and  a  yearly  receipt  of  2,008,650/.;  wh 
will  be  seen  is  several  thoosands  k« 
the  former  estimate:  so  that  it  may  be  i 
assured,  that  at  least  tliree  miUiona  of  a 
is  annually  expended  on  omnibus  ftit 
London. 

The  extent  of  individual  travel  perfio 
by  some  of  the  omnibus  drivers  is  enon 
One  man  tdd  me  that  he  had  drivn 
**  bus  "  seventy-two  nules  (twelve  stages « 
miles)  eveiy  day  for  six  years,  with  th 
ception  of  twelve  miles  leas  evoy  ai 
Sunday,  so  that  this  man  had  driven  i 
years  170,666  miles. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOS. 


830 


Obioin  of  Omnibuses. 

This  THst  extent  of  omnibas  transit  has 
been  the  growth  of  twenty  years,  as  it  was  not 
until  the  4th  July,  1820,  that  Mr.  Shillibeer, 
now  the  proprietor  of  the  patent  mourning 
eoiches,  stoited  the  first  omnibus.  Some 
works  of  authority  as  books  of  reference, 
have  represented  that  Mr.  Shillibeer's  first 
omnibus  ran  from  Charing-cross  to  Green. 
wish.  Mid  that  the  charge  for  outside  and 
indde  plaees  was  the  same.  Such  was  not 
the  case;  the  first  omnibus,  or  rather,  the 
fiitt  pair  of  tliose  yehides  (for  Mr.  Shillibeer 
started  two),  ran  from  the  Bank  to  the  York- 
shire Stingo.  Neither  could  the  charge  out 
ad  in  be  the  some,  as  there  were  no  outside 
passengers.  Mr.  SbilUbeer  was  a  naval  officer, 
tod  in  his  youth  stepped  ftom  a  midshipman's 
duties  into  the  business  of  a  coach-builder, 
he  learning  that  business  from  the  late  Mr. 
Eitchett,  ^  Long  Acre.  Mr.  Shillibeer  then 
established  himself  in  Paris  as  a  builder  of 
English  esiriages,  a  demand  for  which  had 
sprang  up  after  the  peace,  when  the  current 
of  English  travel  was  directed  strongly  to 
France.  In  this  speculation  Mr.  ShiJilibeer 
vts  eminently  successful.  He  built  carriages 
for  Prince  Polignac,  and  others  of  the  most 
influential  men  under  the  dynasty  of  the  elder 
branch  of  the  Bourbons,  and  had  a  bazaar  for 
the  sale  ofliis  vehicles.  He  was  thus  occu- 
pied in  Palis  in  1810,  when  M.  Lafitto  first 
gtarted  the  omnibuses  which  ore  now  so 
common  and  so  well  managed  in  the  French 
ei|ntal.  Lafitte  was  the  banker  (afterwards 
the  minister)  of  Louis  Philippe,  and  the  most 
active  man  in  establishing  the  Messagerics 
Boysles.  Five  or  ax  years  after  the  omni- 
buses had  been  successfully  introduced  into 
Paris*  Mr.  Shillibeer  was  employed  by  M. 
Lafitte  to  build  two  in  a  superior  style.  In 
executing  this  order,  Mr.  Shillibeer  thought 
that  so  comfortable  and  CGonomicnl  a  mode  of 
conveyance  might  be  advantageously  intro- 
duced in  London.  He  accordingly  disposed 
of  his  Parisian  establishment,  and  come  to 
London,  and  started  his  omnibus  as  I  have 
narrated.  In  order  that  the  introduction  might 
have  eveiy  chan<;ft  of  success,  and  have  the 
fWl  prestige  of  respectability,  Mr.  Shillibeer 
Inrought  over  with  him  from  Paris  two  youths, 
both  the  sons  of  British  naval  officers ;  and 
these  young  gentlemen  were  for  a  few  weeks 
his  **  conductors."  They  were  smartly  dressed 
in  "  blue  doth  and  togs,"  to  use  the  words  of 
iny  informant,  after  the  fashion  of  Lafitte*s  con- 
ductors, each  dress  costing  5/.  Their  address- 
ing any  foreign  passenger  in  French,  and  the 
I'rench  style  of  the  afikir,  gave  rise  to  an 
opinion  that  Mr.  Shillibeer  was  a  Frenchman, 
and  that  the  English  were  intlebted  to  a  fo- 
reigner for  the  improvement  of  their  vehi<;ular 
transit,  whereas  Mr.  Shillibeer  had  served  in 
the  British  navy,  andwus  bom  in  Tottenham- 


court-road.  His  speculation  was  particuloi-ly 
and  at  once  successful.  His  two  vehicles 
carried  each  twenty-two,  and  were  filled  every 
journey.  The  form  was  that  of  the  present 
omnibus,  but  larger  and  roomier,  as  the 
twenty-two  were  all  accommodated  inside,  no- 
body being  outside  but  the  driver.  Three 
horses  yoked  abreast  were  used  to  draw  these 
carriages. 

There  were  for  many  days,  until  the  novelty 
wore  olf,  crowds  assembled  to  see  the  omni- 
buses start,  and  many  ladies  and  gentlemen 
took  their  places  in  them  to  the  Yorkshire 
Stingo,  in  order  that  they  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  ridinp:  back  again.  The  fare  was 
one  shilling  for  the  whole  and  sixpence  for 
half  the  distance,  and  each  omnibus  mado 
twelve  journeys  to  nnd  fro  every  day.  Thus 
Mr.  Shillibeer  established  a  diversity  of  fares, 
regulated  by  distance;  a  regulation  which  was 
afterwards  in  a  great  measure  abandoned  by 
omnibus  proprietors,  and  then  re-established 
on  our  present  threepenny  and  sixpenny  pay- 
ments, the  "long  uns"  and  the  "short  uns." 
Mr.  Shillibeer's  receipts  were  100/.  a-week. 
At  first  he  provided  a  few  books,  chiefly  maga- 
zines, for  the  perusal  of  his  customers ;  but 
this  peripatetic  library  was  discontinued,  for 
the  customers  (I  give  the  words  of  my  in- 
formant) "boned  the  books."  When  the 
yoimg  -  gentlemen  conductors  retired  from 
their  posts,  they  were  succeeded  by  persons 
hired  by  Mr.  Shillibeer,  and  liberally  paid, 
who  were  attired  in  a  sort  of  velvet  livery. 
Many  weeks  had  not  elapsed  before  Mr.  Shilli- 
beer found  a  falling  off  in  his  receipts,  although 
he  ascert.iined  that  there  was  no  falling  oflf  in 
the  public  supi>ort  of  his  omnibuses.  He  ob- 
tained information,  however,  that  the  persons 
in  his  employ  robbed  him  of  at  least  20/.  a-week, 
retaining  that  sum  out  of  the  receipts  of  the  two 
omnibuses,  and  that  they  had  boasted  of  their 
cleverness  and  their  lucrative  situations  at  a 
champagne  supper  at  the  Yorkshire  Stingo. 
This  necessitated  a  change,  wliich  Mr.  ShiUi- 
beer  effected,  in  his  men,  but  without  prose- 
cuting the  otfenders,  and  still  it  seemed  that 
defalcations  continued.  That  they  continued 
was  soon  shown,  and  in  "  a  striking  manner," 
fls  I  was  told.  As  an  experiment,  Mr. 
Shillibeer  expended  300/.  in  the  construction 
of  a  macliine  fitted  to  the  steps  of  an  omnibus 
wliich  should  record  the  number  of  passen- 
gers as  they  trod  on  a  plate  in  entering  and 
leaving  the  vehicle,  arranged  on  a  similar 
principle  to  the  tell-tales  in  use  on  our  toll- 
bridges.      The    inventor,   Mr.   ,  now  of 

Woolwich,  liimself  worked  the  omnibus  con- 
taining it  for  a  fortnight,  and  it'  supplied  a 
correct  index  of  the  number  of  passengers : 
but  at  the  fortnight's  end,  one  evening  after 
dark,  the  inventor  was  hustled  aside  while 
waiting  at  the  Yorkshire  Stingo,  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  the  machine  was  smashed  by 
some  unkuoiMi  men  with  sledge-hammers. 
Mr.  Shillibeer  then  had  recourse  to  the  uso 


No.  LXXIV. 


I)  A) 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


t)f  tiuch  clocks  09  were  used  in  the  French 
oninibiisos  m  a  check.  It  was  publicly  notified 
thnt  it  was  the  business  of  tlic  conductor  to 
mwve  the  hand  of  the  clock  a  given  distance 
^liiMi  a  passenger  entcn^d  the  vehicle,  hut 
thi^  plan  did  not  succeed.  It  is  common  in 
rrnncc  for  a  passenger  to  inform  the  pro- 
piietor  of  any  neglect  on  the  part  of  his 
f.(  rvant,  hut  Mr.  Shillibeer  never  received  any 
%\\c\\  intimation  in  London. 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Shillibeer's  Fiucccss 
cj.ntinued.  for  he  insured  punctuality  and 
cinlity;  and  tlio  cheapness,  cleanliness,  and 
smartness  of  his  omnibuses,  were  in  most 
advantapoous  contrast  'with  the  liigh  chM^es, 
dirt,  din^inesM,  and  rudeness  of  the  drivers 
of  many  of  the  "  short  stages."  The 
short -stage  proprietors  were  loud  in  their 
railings  against  what  they  were  pleased  to 
describe  as  a  French  innovation.  In  the 
course  of  from  six  to  nine  months  Mr.  Sliilli- 
beer  had  twelve  omnibuses  at  work.  Tlie 
new  omnibuses  ran  from  the  Dank  to  Pa<l. 
din«.'ton,  both  by  the  route  of  Uolbom  and 
Oxfonl-street,  as  well  as  by  Finsbury  and  the 
N<.".v  -  road.  Mr.  Shillibeer  feels  convinced, 
that  hiul  he  started  fifty  omnibuses  instead  of 
two  in  the  first  instance,  a  fortune  might  have 
been  realised.  In  1881-2,  his  omnibuses 
becjinie  general  in  the  great  street  thorough- 
fares ;  and  as  the  short  stages  were  run  ofif 
the  road,  the  proprietors  started  omnibuses  in 
op]>oviti<ni  to  Mr.  Shillibeer.  The  first  omni- 
buses, how<ivcr,  started  after  Mr.  Shilliliecr's 
weit>  not  in  opposition.  They  were  the  Cale- 
donians, and  were  the  property  of  Mr.  ShilU- 
beer's  brother-in-law.  The  third  startetl,  which 
were  two-horse  vehicles,  were  foolishly  enough 
called  "Lcs  Dames  Blanches;**  but  as  the 
namo  gave  rise  to  much  low  wit  in  Equivoques 
it  was  abandoned.  The  original  omnibuses 
wen?  calb'd  "  Shillibeers  "  on  the  panels,  from 
Uk*  n:ime  of  their  originator;  and  the  name  is 
still  prevalent  on  tliose  conveyances  in  New 
York,  which  afibrds  us  another  proof  that  not 
in  his  own  country'  is  a  benefacrtor  honoured, 
until  perhaps  his  death  makes  honour  as 
little  worth  as  an  epitaph. 

The  opposition  omnibuses,  however,  con- 
tinned  to  increase  as  more  and  more  short 
stages  were  a1>andoncd;  and  one  oppositionist 
called  his  omnibuses  **Shillib<'ers/*  so  that  the 
real  and  the  sham  Shillibeers  were  known  in 
the  streets.  The  opposition  became  fiercer. 
The  "  busses,"  as  they  came  to  be  called  in  a 
year  or  two,  crossed  each  other  and  raced  or 
drove  their  jwles  recklessly  into  the  back  of 
cue  another;  and  accidents  and  squabbh^s 
and  loitering  grew  so  frequent,  and  tlie  time 
of  the  police  magistrates  was  so  much  occupied 
with  "  omnibus  business."  that  in  1832  the 
matter  was  mentioned  in  Parliament  as  a  ntd- 
s:\nce  requiring  a  remedy,  and  in  1^30  a  Bill 
was  brought  in  by  the  Government  and  passed 
for  the  **  T^egulation  of  Onmibuses  (as  well  as 
other  conveyances)  in  and  near  the  metropo- 


lis." Two  sessions  after,  Mr.  Alderman  Wood 
brought  in  a  bill  for  the  better  regulation  of 
omnibuses,  which  was  also  passed,  and  one  of 
the  prorisions  of  the  bill  was  that  Uie  drivers 
and  conductors  of  omnilmaes  shoTild  Im! 
licensed.  The  office  of  Registrar  of  Licenses 
was  promised  by  a  noble  lord  in  office  to  Mr. 
Shillibeer  Tas  I  am  informed  on  good  autho- 
rity), but  the  appointment  was  given  to  the 
present  Commissioner  of  the  City  Police,  and 
the  office  next  to  the  principal  was  offered  to 
Mr.  Shillibeer,  which  Uiat  gentleman  dedined 
to  accept  The  reason  assigned  for  not  ap. 
pointing  him  to  the  registrarship  was  that  he 
was  connected  with  omnibuses.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  1834,  Sir.  Shillibeer  abandoned  bis 
metropolitan  trade,  and  began  ninning  omni- 
buses from  London  to  Greenwich  and  Wool- 
wich, employing  20  carriages  and  120  horses; 
but  the  increase  of  steamers  and  the  opening 
of  the  Greenwich  RaOway  in  18.35  affected  hii 
trade  so  materially,  that  Mr.  Shillilieer  fell 
into  arrear  with  his  payments  to  the  Stamp 
Office,  and  seizures  of  his  property  and  re- 
seizures  after  money  was  paid,  entailed  snch 
heavy  expenses,  and  such  a  hindrance  to  Mr. 
Shillibeer's  business,  that  his  failure  ensued. 

I  have  l>een  thus  somewhat  faU,  in  my 
detail  of  Mr.  Shillibeer's  career,  as  his  proce- 
dures are,  in  truth,  the  histoiy  of  the  transit 
of  the  metropolis  as  regards  omnibases.  I 
conclude  this  portion  of  ^e  snbject  with  the 
following  extracts  frx>m  a  pariiamentary  paper, 
**  Supplement  to  the  Votes  and  Proeeedingt, 
Veneris,  7®  die  Julii,  1843,**  containing  the 
petition  of  George  Shillibeer. 

'*  That  in  1840,  and  after  several  yean 
of  incessant  application,  the  Lords  of  tlie 
Treasniy  caused  Mr.  Gordon,  their  then 
financial  secretary,  to  enquire  into  your  peti- 
tioner's case ;  and  so  frilly  satisfied  was  that 
gentleman  with  the  hardships  and  cruel  wrongs 
which  the  department  of  Stamps  and  Taxes 
had  inflicted  upon  your  petitioner,  that  he 
(Mr.  Gordon)  promised,  on  behalf  of  the 
Lords  of  the  Treasury,  early  redress  should 
be  granted  to  your  petitioner,  either  by  a 
Government  appointment  adequate  to  the  loss 
ho  had  sustained,  or  pecuniary  compensation 
for  the  injustice  which,  upon  a  thorough  in- 
vestigation of  the  facts,  Mr.  Gordon  assured 
your  petitioner  he  had  fuUy  established,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  Lords  of  the  Treasunr. 

**  That  in  proof  of  the  sincerity  of  Mr. 
Gordon,  he,  in  his  then  official  capacity  of 
secretary  to  the  said  Lords  of  her  Migesty** 
Treasury,  applied,  in  April  1841,  to  the  then 
heads  of  two  Government  di^artments,  viz. 
the  Marquess  of  Normanby  and  the  Bight 
Hon.  Henry  Laboucherc,  to  appoint  your  pe- 
titioner *  Inspector  General  of  Public  Cjtf- 
riages,*  or  some  appointment  in  the  Railway 
department  at  the  Board  of  Trade ;  but  these 
applications  l>eing  unsuccessful,  Mr.  Gordon 
applied  and  obtained  for  your  iietitioner  the 
proniise  of  one  of  the  twenty-five  app<nntxnentj 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LOS  DON  i*OOR, 


811 


of  Reeeiyer-General  of  County  Courts  (testi- 
moniiils  of  your  petitioner's  fitness  beinp:  at 
the  Treaspr)'),  the  bill  for  establisliing  wliich 
was  then  in  2>rogress  through  Parliament. 

**  That  shortly  after  youi*  petitioner's  claims 
had  been  admitted,  and  redress  promised  by 
the  Lords  of  the  Treasury,  Mr.  Gordon  re- 
signed his  situation  of  secretary,  and  on  tlie 
Otih  May,  1841,  your  petitioner  again  saw  Mr. 
Gordon,  who  assm^ed  your  petitioner  that  but 
for  the  fact  of  the  miscellaneous  estimates 
bein^  made  up  and  passed  for  tliat  year,  yoiu* 
petitioner's  name  should  have  been  placed  in 
them  for  a  grant  of  5000/.,  further  observing 
that  your  petitionei-'s  was  a  case  of  very  great 
I  hunlship  and  injustice,  and  assuring  your 
!  petitioner  that  he  (Mr.  Gordon)  would  not 
quit  the  Treosuxy  without  stating  to  his  sue- 
I  eeasor  that  your  petitioner's  caso  was  one  of 
peculiar  severity',  and  desened  imniodiaU^  at- 
tention and  redress." 
And  so  the  matter  remains  virtuidi y  tit  an  end. 
1  will  now  give  the  regulations  and  statistics 
of  the  French  omnibuses,  which  I  am  enabled 
to  do  thit>ugh  the  kindness  of  u  gtrntlenum  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  much  valuable  infor- 
mation. 

As  the  regulations  of  the  French  laiblic 
ctmveyances  (des  voUurcs  faisaut  le  transport 
tncommuft)  are  generally  considered  to  liave 
worked  admirably  well,  I  present  a  digest  of 
(hem.  The  earlier  enactments  provide  for  the 
numbering  of  the  conveyances  and  for  the 
licensing  of  all  connected  with  thoin. 

The  laws  which  provide  the  royulations  are 
of  the  following  dates :  I  enumerate  them  to 
(  nbow  how  closely  the  French  Government  has 
I  attended  to  Uie  management  of  hired  vehicles. 
Dec.  14,  1780;  Aug.  14,  1700;  0  Vendemiaire, 
An  VI.  (Sep.  80,  1707) ;  11  Friniaire,  An 
Ml.  (Dee.  1,  1798) ;  12  Messidor,  An  VIII. 
(July  1,  1800;  3  Bniraaire,  An  IX.  (Oct. 
20,  1800);  Dec.  30,  1818;  July  2.>.  18>0 ; 
Aug.  1,  1820;  March  20,  1830;  Sep.  1">, 
1838,  and  Jan.  5,  1846.  The  471st,  474th, 
470th,  and  484th  Articles  of  the  Tenal  Code 
also  i-elate  to  this  subject. 

The  piincipal  regulations  now  in  force  are 
the  following : — 

Tlie  proprietors  of  all  public  conveyances 
(for  hire)  shall  be  numbered,  licensed,  and 
find  such  security  as  shall  be  satisfactory  to 
the  autliorities.  Every  proprietor,  before  he 
can  change  the  locality  of  his  establishment. 
is  bound  to  give  forty-eight  hours'  notice  of 
his  intention  to  remove.  The  sale  of  such 
establisliinents  can  only  be  effected  by  un- 
dertakers (eHtrepreneur$)y  duly  authorised 
for  the  purpose;  and  the  privilege  of  the 
undertaker  is  not  transferable,  either  wholly 
or  partially,  without  the  sanction  of  the 
authorities.  The  proprietors  cannot  employ 
any  conductors,  drivers,  or  porters,  but  such 
as  have  a  license  or  pennit  (permi*  de  con- 
duire,  5cc).  Neither  can  a  master  retain  or 
transfer  any  such  permit  if  the  holder  of  it 


have  left  his  sen-ice;  it  must  be  given  up 
within  twenty- four  hours  at  the  prefecture 
(chief  office)  of  police,  and  the  date  of  the 
man's  entering  and  leaving  his  employ  must 
be  inscribed  by  his  late  master  on  the  back  of 
the  document.  Proprietors  must  keep  a  register 
of  the  names  and  abodes  of  their  ilrivers  and 
conductors,  and  of  their  numbers  as  entered 
in  the  books  of  the  prefecture ;  aUo  a  daily 
entry  of  the  numbers  of  the  vehicles  in  use,  as 
engraved  on  the  plates  alKxed  to  th«-Hi,  and  a 
record  of  the  conduct  of  tlie  men  to  wliom 
they  have  been  entrusted.  No  proprietor  to  be 
allowed  to  employ  a  di-iver  or  conductor  whose 
permit  through  ill-conduct  or  any  cause  has 
been  withdrawn.  In  case  of  the  contravention 
of  tliis  regulation  by  any  one,  the  I'lying  (/a 
circulation)  of  his  cmrioge  is  to  be  stopped, 
eitlicr  temporarily  or  definitely.  No  carriage 
shall  be  entnisted  to  either  driver  or  con- 
ductor, if  either  be  in  a  state  of  evident  un- 
cleanUness  (malproprete).  No  horse  known  to 
be  vicious,  disease^!,  or  incapable  of  work,  is  to 
bo  employed. 

The  couductoi's  iu:e  to  maintain  order  in 
their  v(>hieles,  and  to  observe  that  the  passen- 
gci*s  place  themselves  so  as  not  to  incom- 
mode one  another.  They  are  not  to  take 
more  persons  tlian  they  ai'e  authorised  to 
convey,  which  number  must  be  notified  in  the 
interior  and  on  the  exterior  of  the  omnibus. 
They  are  also  forbidden  to  admit  individuals 
who  may  be  drunk,  or  clad  in  a  manner  to 
disgust  or  annoy  the  other  passengers  ;  neither 
must  they  admit  dogs,  or  suifer  persons  who 
may  drink,  sing,  or  smoke  to  remain  in  tlie 
carriages;  neither  must  they  carry  pai-cels 
which,  from  their  size,  or  the  nature  of  their 
contents,  may  incommode  the  passengers. 
Conductors  must  not  give  the  coachman  the 
word  to  go  on  until  each  passenger  leaving  the 
omnibus  shall  have  quitted  the  footstep,  or 
until  each  passenger  entering  the  omnibus 
shall  have  been  seated.  Every  person  so 
entering  is  to  bo  asked  where  he  wishes  to  be 
set  down.  All  property  left  in  tlie  omnibus 
to  be  conveyed  to  the  prefecture  of  police.  It 
is,  moreover,  the  conductor's  business  to  light 
the  carriage  lamps  after  night-fall. 

The  drivers,  before  they  can  be  allowed 
to  exercise  their  profession,  must  produce 
testimoniids  as  to  their  possessing  the  ne- 
cessaiy  skill.  They  are  not  to  gfidlop  their 
horses  under  any  circumstances  whatever. 
They  are  required,  moreover,  to  drive  slowly, 
or  at  a  widk  {uupas),  in  the  markets  and  in  the 
narrow  streets  where  only  two  carriages  can 
pass  abreast,  at  the  descent  of  the  bridges, 
and  ui  all  parts  of  the  public  ways  wher« 
there  may  be  a  stoppage  or  a  rapid  slope. 
Wherever  the  width  of  the  streets  permits  it, 
the  omnibus  must  be  driven  ot  least  three  feet 
from  the  houses,  where  there  is  no  footpath 
(froUoir);  and  where  th^re  is  a  footpath,  two  feet 
from  it  They  must,  as  much  as  possible,  keep 
the  wheels  of  their  vehicle  out  of  the  gutters. 


342 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


No  driver  or  condactor  can  exercise  his 
profession  under  the  age  of  eighteen;  and  be- 
fore being  authorised  to  do  so,  he  must  show 
that  his  morals  and  trustworthiness  are  such 
as  to  justify  his  appointment.  (The  ordon- 
nance  then  provides  for  the  licensing,  at  the 
coKt  of  70o.,  of  these  officers,  by  the  police,  in 
the  way  I  have  already  described.)  They  arc 
not  permitted  to  smoko  while  at  their  work, 
Dor  to  take  off  their  coats,  even  during  the 
tultriost  weather.  The  omnibuses  ore  to  pull 
up  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  street ;  but  if 
there  be  any  hindrance,  then  on  the  left. 


The  foregoing  regulations  (the  infractions  of 
which  are  punishable  through  the  ordinazy 
tribunals)  do  not  materially  differ  from  those 
of  our  own  country,  though  they  may  be  more 
stringently  enforced.  The  other  provisions, 
however,  are  materially  different.  The  Frencii 
Ooyemment  Axes  the  amount  of  fare,  pre. 
scribes  the  precise  route  to  be  observed  and 
the  time  to  be  kept,  and  limits  the  number  of 
omnibuses.  On  the  12th  August,  1840,  th«y 
were  387  in  number,  running  alonff  30  Unea, 
which  are  classed  under  the  head  of  li  nrates 
{enlreprUea),  in  the  following  order:— 


BoutM. 

No.  of  Lines. 

Ko.  of 
Carriages. 

Nos.aeDOidiiig 
totheUowMc 

1  Omnibus  Orl^anoisos 

and  Diligentea .... 

2  Dames  r^imics    .... 

3  Tricyles    

1  '» 

8 
1 

4 

a 

2 
9 
2 
8 

1 
2 

1 

131 

20 
11 
47 
19 
13 
10 
30 
33 
12 
13 
8 

1  to  151 

132  to  180 
181  to  191 
102  to  288 
230  to  237 
2.^8  to  270 
271  to  280 
200  to  319 
320  to  332 
333  to  304 
303  to  870 
380  to  387 

4  Favoritos 

3   B^amaises 

0   Citadinos 

7  U  align  olios — «^zelles 

8  Hirondelles 

0  Parisiennes 

10  ConstAu tines 

11  Excellcntes 

12  Gauloises 

30 

887 

In  order  to  prevent  the  inconvenience  of 
too  rijfidly  defined  routes,  a  system  of  inter- 
com nnmication  has  been  cstnblishod.  At  a 
given  point  {bureau  den  correspondancfi),  a 
passonger  may  always  be  transferred  to  another 
omnibus,  the  conductor  giving  him  a  free 
ticket;  and  so  may  roncli  his  destination,  or 
the  nearest  point  to  it,  from  any  of  the  start- 
ing-places. This  system  now  exists,  but  very 
piulially,  on  some  of  the  London  lines. 

The  number  conveyed  by  a  l*arisian  omni- 
bus is  fixed  at  10 ;  each  vehicle  is  to  be  drawn 
by  two  horses,  and  is  to  unite  **  all  the  con- 
ditions of  soUdity,  commodiou^ness,  and  ele- 
panco  that  may  be  desirable/'  In  order  to 
ensure  these  conditions,  the  French  Govern- 
ment  directs  in  what  manner  every  omnibus 
shall  l>o  built.  Those  built  prior  to  the  pro- 
mulgation of  the  ordonnanc^  (Aug.  12, 1840), 
regulating  the  construction  of  these  vehicles, 
are  still  allowed  to  bo  "in  circulation ; "  but 
after  the  1st  of  January,  1832,  no  omnibus  not 
constructed  in  exact  accordance  with  the  do- 
tails  laid  down  will  be  allowed  '*  to  circulate." 
The  height  of  the  omnibus  is  fixed,  as  well  as 
the  length  and  the  width ;  the  circumference 
of  the  wheels,  the  adjustment  of  the  springs, 
ihe  hanging  of  the  body,  the  formation  of  too 
ventilators,  the  lining  and  cushioning  of  the 
interior,  the  dimensions  of  the  footsteps,  and 


the  disposition  of  tlie  lamps,  which  are  thiee 
in  number. 

The  arrangements,  where  a  footpath  is  not 
known  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  a  gutter  is 
in  existence,  are  tolerably  significant  of  dis- 
tinctions between  the  streets  of  the  French 
and  English  capitals. 

I  shall  now  pass  to  the  consideration  of  tbe 
English  vehicles  as  they  are  at  present  ooo- 
ducted. 

Omkibus  Psopbieto&s. 

The  <<  labourers"  immediately  oonneeted 
with  the  trade  in  omnibuses  are  the  propos- 
tors,  drivers,  conductors,  and  time-jLeejMfs- 
Tlioso  less  immediately  but  still  in  connexion 
with  the  trade  are  the  **  odd  men  "  and  the 
horsekeepers. 

The  earlier  history  of  omnibus  propneton 
presents  but  a  series  of  stru^les  and  minoos 
lawsuits,  one  proprietor  with  another,  notil 
many  were  ruined ;  and  then  several  opposed 
companies  or  individuals  coalesced  or  *^^' 
and  these  proprietaries  now  present  a  uniieuf 
and,  I  believe,  a  prosperous  body.  They  poe- 
sess  in  reality  a  monopoly  in  omnibus  coo- 
veyance ;  but  I  am  assured  it  would  not  he 
easy  under  any  other  plan  to  serve  the  puUi^ 
better.    All  the  proprietors  of  omnibuses  wi9 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


348 


be  said  to  be  in  union,  as  thej  act  systemati- 
eally  and  by  arrangement,  one  proprietary  with 
another.  Their  profits  are,  of  course,  ap- 
portioned, like  those  of  other  joint-stock  com- 
panies, according  to  the  number  of  shares 
held  by  individual  members.  On  each  route 
one  member  of  the  proprietary  is  appointed 
('*  directed  ")  by  his  co-proprietors.  The  di- 
rectory may  be  classed  as  the  **  executive  de- 
portment*' of  the  body.  The  director  cun 
(Usplar«  a  diiver  on  a  week's  notice :  but  by 
gome  directors,  who  pride  themselves  on  deal- 
ing summarily,  it  seems  that  the  week's  notice 
i>»  now  and  then  dispensed  with.  The  con- 
ductor lie  can  displace  at  a  day's  notice.  The 
"04M  men"  sometimes  supply  the  jilaces  of 
thi>  officitils  so  discharged  until  a  meeting  of 
the  ]»roprietary,  held  monthly  for  the  most 
part,  when  now  officers  arc  appointed;  there 
bi'iug  always  an  abundance  of  applicants,  who 
senil  or  carry  in  testimonials  of  their  fitness 
from  persons  known  to  the  proprietors,  or 
known  to  reside  on  the  line  of  the  route.  The 
director  may  indeed  appoint  either  driver  or 
conductor  at  his  discretion,  if  he  see  good 
reason  to  do  so.  The  driver,  however,  is 
generally  appointed  and  paid  by  the  proprie- 
tor, while  the  conductor  is  more  particularly 
the  servant  of  the  association.  The  proprie- 
taries have  so  far  a  monopoly  of  the  road,  that 
they  allow  no  new  omnibuses  to  be  started 
upon  it.  I  f  a  speculator  should  be  bold  enough 
to  start  new  conveyances,  the  pre-existing  pro- 
prietaries put  a  greater  number  of  conveyances 
OB  the  route,  so  that  none  are  well  filled; 
and  one  of  the  old  proprietaries'  vehicles  im- 
mediately precedes  the  omnibus  of  the  specu- 
lator, ana  another  immediately  follows  it ;  and 
thus  three  vehicles  are  on  the  ground,  which 
may  yield  only  customers  for  one :  hence,  as 
the  whole  number  on  the  route  has  been 
largely  increased,  not  one  omnibus  is  well 
fdled,  and  the  speculator  must  in  all  probability 
be  mined,  while  the  associated  proprietors 
suffer  but  a  temporary  loss.  So  well  is  this 
now  underatood,  that  no  one  seems  to  think 
«f  embarking  his  money  in  tho  omnibus  trade 
unless  he  "  buys  his  times,"  that  is  to  say, 
unless  he  arranges  by  purchase ;  and  a  "  now 
man"  will  often  pay  400/.  or  500/.  for  his 
"  tunes,"  to  have  the  privilege  of  running  his 
vehicles  on  a  given  route,  and  at  given  periods ; 
in  other  words,  for  the  privilege  of  becoming  a 
recognised  proprietor. 

The  proprietors  pay  their  servants  ftiirly,  as 
f^  general  rule ;  while,  as  a  universal  rule, 
they  rigidly  exact  sobriety,  punctuality,  and 
<^leanliness.  Their  great  difficulty,  all  of  them 
<?onnur  in  stating,  is  t^  ensure  honesty.  Every 
proprietor  insists  upon  the  excessive  difficulty 
of  tnisting  men  with  uncounted  money,  if  the 
Tiipn  feel  there  is  no  efficient  check  to  ensure 
to  their  employers  a  knowledge  of  the  exact 
nmount  of  their  daily  receipts.  Several  plans 
liave  been  resorted  to  in  order  to  obtain  the 
ilesired  check.    Mr.  Shillibeer's  I  have  already 


given.  One  plan  now  in  practice  is  to  engage 
a  well-dressed  woman,  sometimes  accompanied 
by  a  child,  and  she  travels  by  the  omnibus ; 
and  immediately  on  leaving  it,  fills  up  a  paper 
for  the  proprietor,  showing  the  number  of 
insidos  and  outs,  of  short  and  long  fiures. 
This  method,  however,  does  not  ensure  a 
thorough  a<^ciiracy.  It  is  difficult  for  a  woman, 
who  must  take  such  a  place  in  the  vehicle  as 
she  can  ^aX^  to  ascertain  the  precise  number  of 
ontsidtfs  and  tlieir  respective  lares.  So  diffi- 
ctdt,  that  I  am  assured  such  a  person  has 
returned  a  smalkr  number  than  was  actually 
conveyed.  One  gentlemnn  who  was  formerly 
an  omni!)us  proprietor,  told  me  ho  employed  a 
'•  lodyliko,"  and,  as  ho  believed,  trusty  woman, 
as  a  '* check;'*  but  by  some  means  tho  con- 
ductors found  out  tlio  calling  of  the  "lady- 
like ■'  womau,  treated  her,  and  she  made  very 
favourable  returns  for  the  conductors.  An- 
other lady  was  observed  by  a  conductor,  who 
bears  an  excellent  character,  and  who  men- 
tioned the  circumstance  to  me,  to  carry  a 
small  bag,  from  which,  whenever  a  passenger 
got  out,  she  drew,  not  very  deftly  it  would 
seem,  a  bean,  and  placed  it  in  one  glove,  as 
lathes  carry  their  sixpences  for  the  fare,  or  a 
pea,  and  placed  it  in  the  other.  This  process, 
the  conductor  felt  assured,  was  "  a  check ;" 
that  the  beans  indicated  tlio  "  long  uns,"  and 
the  peas  the  "short  uns:''  so,  when  the 
uuhapi)y  woman  desired  to  be  put  down  at  the 
bottom  of  Cheapside  on  a  wintry  evening,  he 
contrived  to  land  her  in  tho  very  thickest  of 
the  mud,  handing  her  out  with  great  polite- 
ness. I  may  here  observe,  before  I  enter 
upon  the  subject,  that  the  men  who  have 
maintained  a  character  for  integrity  regard 
tho  checks  with  great  bitterness,  as  they 
naturally  feel  more  annoyed  at  being  sus- 
pected than  men  who  may  be  dishonestly  in- 
clined. Another  conductor  once  foimd  a  me- 
morandum-book in  his  omnibus,  in  which  were 
regularly  entered  the  "  longs  "  and  "  shorts.'* 
One  proprietor  told  me  he  had  once  em- 
ployed religious  men  as  conductors;  "but," 
said  he.  "  tiiey  grew  into  thieves.  A  Method- 
ist parson  engaged  one  of  his  sons  to  me^ 
it's  a  good  while  ago — and  was  quite  indig- 
nant that  I  ever  made  any  question  about  the 
young  man's  honesty,  as  ho  was  strictly  and 
religiously  brought  up ;  but  he  tinned  out  one 
of  the  worst  of  the  whole  batch  of  them.'* 
One  check  resorted  to,  as  a  conductor  informed 
me,  was  found  out  by  them.  A  lady  entered 
the  omnibus  carrying  a  brown- paper  parcel, 
loosely  tied,  and  making  a  tear  on  the  edge  of 
the  paper  for  every  "short"  passenger,  and  a 
deeper  tear  for  every  "  long."  This  difficulty 
in  finding  a  check  where  an  indefinite  amount 
of  money  passes  through  a  man's  hands — and 
I  am  by  no  means  disposed  to  undervalue  the 
difficulty — has  led  to  a  summary  course  of 
procedure,  not  unattended  l)y  serious  evils. 
It  appears  that  men  are  now  discharged  sud- 
denly, at  a  moment's  notice,    and  with  no 


tiU 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


reason  assigned.  If  a  reason  be  demanded, 
tlio  answer  is,  **  You  are  not  wanted  any 
longer.**  Probably,  the  discharge  is  on  ac- 
count of  the  man's  honesty  being  suspected. 
But  whether  the  suspicion  be  well  founded  or 
!  unfounded,  the  consequences  are  equally 
serious  to  the  individual  discharged ;  for  it  is 
i  a  rule  observed  by  the  proprietors  not  to  em- 
I  ploy  any  man  discharged  from  another  line. 
He  will  not  be  employed,  I  am  assured,  if  ho 
can  produce  a  good  character ;  and  even  if  the 
"'  'bus  he  worked "  had  been  discontinued  as 
no  longer  required  on  that  route.  New  men, 
who  arc  considered  imconnected  with  all  versed 
in  omnibus  tiicks,  are  appointed ;  and  this 
course,  it  was  intimated  to  me  very  strongly, 
was  ogreeable  to  the  proprietors  for  two 
reasons — as  widely  extendhig  their  patron- 
age, and  as  always  placing  at  their  command 
a  largo  body  of  unemployed  men,  whose  ser- 
vices can  at  any  time  be  called  into  requisition 
at  reduced  wages,  should  **  slop-drivers "  be 
desirable.  It  is  next  to  impossible,  I  was 
further  assured,  for  a  man  discharged  from  on 
omnibus  to  obtain  other  employ.  If  the 
director  goes  so  far  as  to  admit  that  he  has 
nothing  to  allege  against  the  man's  character, 
lie  will  yet  give  no  reason  for  his  discharge ; 
and  an  inquirer  naturally  imputes  the  Tvitli- 
holding  of  a  reason  to  tJie  mercy  of  the  di- 
rector. 

Omkibus  Drivers. 

The  driver  is  paid  by  the  week.  His  re- 
muneration is  34«.  a-week  on  most  of  the 
lines.  On  others  he  receives  21*.  and  his  box 
— that  is,  the  allowance  of  a  fare  each  journey 
for  a  seat  outside,  if  a  seat  bo  so  occupied. 
In  fine  weather  this  box  plan  is  more  remune- 
rative to  the  driver  than  the  fixed  payment  of 
34*.;  but  in  wet  weather  he  may  receive 
nothing  fh)m  the  box.  Tlie  average  then  tlie 
year  through  is  only  84*.  a-week ;  or,  perhaps, 
rather  more,  as  on  some  days  in  sultr>'  weather 
the  driver  may  moke  6*.,  **  if  the  'bus  do  twelve 
journeys,"  from  his  box. 

The  omnibus  drivers  have  been  butchei's, 
farmers,  horsebreakers,  cheesemongers,  old 
Btage-coachmen,  broken-down  gentlemen,  turf- 
men, gentlemen's  servants,  grooms,  and  a  very 
small  sprinkling  of  mechanics.  Nearly  all 
can  read  and  write,  the  exception  being  do- 
si.Ti}>ed  to  me  as  a  singularity ;  but  there  ore 
such  exceptions,  and  all  must  have  produced 
^'ood  characters  before  their  appointment 
The  minority  of  them  are  married  men  with 
families;  their  residences  being  in  all  parts, 
and  on  both  sides  of  the  Thames.  I  did  not 
hear  of  any  of  the  wives  of  coachmen  in  regular 
employ  working  for  the  slop  •  tailors.  *'We 
can  keep  our  wives  too  respectable  for  that,*' 
one  of  tbem  said,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry. 
Their  children,  too,  are  generally  sent  to 
school ;  frequently  to  the  national  schools. 
Their  work  is  exceedingly  hard,  tlieir  lives 


being  almost  literally  spent  oo  the  ooach-box. 
The  most  of  them  most  enter  "  the  yard**  at 
a  quarter  to  eight  in  the  morning,  and  must 
see  that  the  horses  and  carriages  are  in  a 
proper  condition  for  work;  and  at  half-past 
eight  they  start  on  their  long  day*s  lal>onr. 
They  perform  ( I  speak  of  the  most  frequented 
lines),  twelve  journeys  during  Uie  day,  and 
are  so  engaged  until  a  quarter-past  eleven  it 
night.  Some  are  on  their  box  till  past  mid- 
night. During  these  hours  of  laboor  they 
have  twelve  '*  stops ;"  half  of  ten  and  half  of 
fifteen  minutes'  duration.  They  genendlj 
breakfast  at  home,  or  at  a  coffee-riiop,  if  nn- 
married  men,  before  they  start;  and  dine  at 
the  inn,  where  the  omnibus  almost  invariably 
st(»p8,  at  one  or  other  of  its  destinations,  u 
the  driver  be  distant  from  Ids  home  at  his 
dinner  hour,  or  be  immorried,  he  arranges  to 
dine  at  the  public-house ;  if  near,  his  wSb.  or 
one  of  his  children,  brings  him  his  dinner  in 
a  revered  basin,  some  of  them  being  provided 
with  hot-water  plates  to  keep  the  contents 
proi>erly  warm,  and  that  is  usually  eaten  at 
Uic  public-house,  with  a  pint  of  beer  for  the 
accompanying  beverage.  The  relish  with 
which  a  man  who  has  been  employed  several 
hours  in  the  open  air  ei^joys  his  dinner  can 
easily  be  understood.  But  if  his  dinner  is 
brought  to  him  on  one  of  his  shorter  trips,  he 
often  hears  the  cry  before  he  has  completed 
his  meal,  "  Time 's  up  !*'  and  he  oanies  the 
remains  of  his  repast  to  be  consmned  at  his 
next  resting-place.  His  tea,  if  broitjgbt  to  him 
by  his  family,  he  often  drinks  within  the  om- 
nibus, if  there  be  an  opportunity.  Some  earn 
their  dinners  witli  tliem,  and  eat  them  cold. 
All  these  men  live  "  well ;"  that  is,  they  have 
sufficient  dinners  of  animal  food  ensry  di^, 
with  beer.  They  are  strong  and  healthy  men, 
for  their  calling  requires  both  strengtii  and 
health.  Each  driver,  (as  well  as  the  time- 
keeper and  conductor),  is  licensed,  at  a  yearlj 
cost  to  him  of  0*.  From  a  diiver  I  had  the 
following  statement: — 

"I  have  been  a  driver  fourteen  years.  I 
was  brought  up  as  a  builder,  but  had  friends 
tliat  was  using  horses,  and  I  sometimes  as- 
sisted them  in  driving  and  grooming  when  I 
was  out  of  work.  I  got  to  like  that  sort  of 
work,  and  thought  it  would  be  better  than  my 
own  business  if  I  could  get  to  be  connected 
with  a  'bus ;  and  I  had  friends,  and  first  got 
employed  as  a  time-keeper;  but  Tve  been  a 
driver  for  fourteen  years.  Tm  now  paid  bf 
the  week,  and  not  by  the  box.  It*s  a  fair 
pa>-ment,  but  we  must  live  well.  It's  hard 
work  is  mine ;  for  I  never  have  any  rest  but  a 
few  minutes,  except  every  other  Sunday,  and 
then  only  two  hours ;  that  *s  the  time  of  a 
journey  there  and  back.  If  I  was  to  ask  leare 
to  go  to  church,  and  then  go  to  work  again,  I 
know  what  answer  there  would  be — *  You  eas 
go  to  church  as  often  as  you  like,  and  we  can 
get  a  man  who  doesn't  want  to  go  there.' 
The  cattle  I  drive  are  equal  to  gentlemen's 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


345 


carriage -hones.  One  I've  driven  five  years, 
and  I  believe  she  was  worked  five  years  before 
I  drove  lier.  It's  very  hard  work  for  Uie 
horses,  but  I  don't  know  that  they  are  over- 
worked in  'bosses.  The  starting  after  stopping 
is  the  hardest  work  for  them ;  it 's  such  a 
terrible  strain.  I've  felt  for  the  poor  things 
on  a  wet  night,  with  a  'bus  fhll  of  big  people. 
I  think  that  it 's  a  pity  that  anybody  uses  a 
bearing  rein.  There 's  not  many  uses  it  now. 
It  bears  up  a  horse's  head,  and  he  can  only  go 
on  pulling,  pulling  up  a  hill,  one  way.  Take 
off  his  bearing  rein,  and  he'll  relieve  the  strain 
on  him  by  beuing  down  his  head,  and  flinging 
his  w^ht  on  the  collar  to  help  him  pulL  If 
a  man  had  to  carry  a  weight  up  a  hill  on  his 
back,  how  would  he  like  to  have  his  head  tied 
back?     Perhaps  you  may  have  noticed  Mr. 

'8  horses  pull  the  'bus  up  Holbom  Hill. 

They're  tightly  borne  up ;  but  then  they  are 
veiy  fine  animals,  fat  and  fine :  there 's  no 
such  cattle,  perhaps,  in  a  London  'bus — least- 
ways there  *8  none  better — and  they're  borne 
op  for  show.  Now,  a  jib-horse  won't  go  in  a 
bearing  rein,  and  will  without  it.  I've  seen 
that  myself;  so  what  can  be  the  use  of  it? 
It  'a  just  teasing  the  poor  things  for  a  sort  of 
luhion.  I  must  keep  exact  time  at  every 
place  where  a  time-keeper's  stationed.  Not  a 
minute 's  excused — ^there  's  a  fine  for  the  least 
delay.  I  can't  say  that  it's  often  levied ;  but 
still  we  are  liable  to  it  If  I've  been  blocked, 
I  must  make  up  for  the  block  by  galloping ; 
and  if  I'm  seen  to  gallop,  and  anybody  tells 
our  people,  I'm  called  over  the  coals.  I  must 
drive  as  quick  with  a  thunder-rain  pelting  in 
my  £ace,  and  the  roads  in  a  muddle,  and  the 
horses  starting  —  I  can't  call  it  shying,  I  have 
'em  too  well  in  hand, — at  every  flash,  just  as 
quick  as  if  it  was  a  fine  hard  road,  and  fine 
weather.  It 's  not  easy  to  drive  a  'bus ;  but  I 
can  drive,  and  must  drive,  to  an  inch :  yes, 
sir,  to  hidf  On  inch.  I  know  if  I  can  get  my 
horses'  heads  through  a  space,  I  can  get  my 
sphnter-bar  through.  I  drive  by  my  pole, 
making  it  my  centre.  If  I  keep  it  fair  in  the 
centre,  a  carriage  must  follow,  unless  it's 
slippery  weather,  and  then  there 's  no  calcu- 
lating. I  saw  the  first  'bus  start  in  1829.  I 
beard  the  first  'bus  called  a  Punch-and-Judy 
carriage,  'cause  you  could  see  the  people  inside 
without  a  frame.  The  shape  was  about  the 
same  as  it  is  now,  but  bigger  and  heavier.  A 
'bus  changes  horses  four  or  five  times  aday, 
According  to  the  distance.  There 's  no  cruelty 
to  the  horses,  not  a  bit,  it  wouldn't  be  allowed. 
I  fancy  that  'busses  now  pay  the  proprietors 
WelL  The  duty  was  2^^.  a-mile,  and  now  it 's 
\\d.  Some  comiMmies  save  twelve  guineas 
a- week  by  the  doing  away  of  toll-gates.  The 
'stablishing  the  threepennies — the  short  uns 
^— has  put  money  in  their  pockets.  I'm  an 
"Unmarried  man.  A  'bus  driver  never  has 
time  to  look  out  for  a  wife.  Every  horse  in 
our  stables  has  one  day's  rest  in  every  four ; 
V)ut  it's  no  rest  for  the  driver." 


Omnibus  Condcciobs. 

The  conductor,  who  is  vulgarly  known  au 
the  "  cad,"  stands  on  a  small  projection  at  tlie 
end  of  the  omnibus ;  and  it  is  his  office  to 
admit  and  set  down  every  passenger,  and  to 
receive  the  amount  of  fare,  for  which  amount 
he  is,  of  course,  responsible  to  his  employers. 
He  is  paid  4».  a-day,  which  he  is  allowed  to 
stop  out  of  the  monies  he  receives.  He  fills 
up  a  waybill  each  journey,  with  the  number  of 
passengers.  I  find  that  nearly  all  classes  have 
given  a  quota  of  their  number  to  the  list  of 
conductors.  Among  them  are  grocers,  drapers, 
shopmen,  barmen,  printers,  tailors,  shoe- 
makers, clerks,  joiners,  saddlers,  coach-build- 
ers, porters,  town-travellers,  carriers,  and  fish- 
mongers. Unlike  the  drivers,  the  majority  of 
the  conductors  are  unmarried  men ;  but,  per- 
haps, only  a  mere  migority.  As  a  matter  of 
necessity,  every  conductor  must  be  able  to 
read  and  write.  They  are  discharged  more 
frequently  than  the  drivers ;  but  they  require 
good  chtiracters  before  their  appointment. 
From  one  of  them,  a  very  intelligent  man,  I 
had  the  following  statement : — 

**I  am  85  or  30,  and  have  been  a  conductor 
for  six  years.  Before  that  I  was  a  lawyer's 
clerk,  and  then  a  picture-dealer;  but  didn't 
get  on,  though  I  maintained  a  good  character. 
I'm  a  conductor  now,  but  wouldn't  be  long 
behind  a  'bus  if  it  wasn't  from  necessity.  It's 
hard  to  get  anything  else  to  do  that  you  can 
keep  a  wife  and  family  on,  for  people  won't 
have  you  from  off  a  'bus.  The  worst  part  of 
my  business  is  its  uncertainty,  I  may  be  dis- 
charged any  day,  and  not  know  for  what.  If 
I  did,  and  I  was  accused  unjustly,  I  might 
bring  my  action ;  but  it's  merely,  *  You're  not 
wanted.'  I  think  I've  done  better  as  a  con- 
ductor  in  hot  weather,  or  fine  weather,  than  in 
wot ;  though  I've  got  a  good  journey  Avhcn  it's 
come  on  showery,  as  people  was  starting  for  or 
starting  from  the  City.  I  had  one  master, 
wlio,  when  his  'bus  came  in  full  in  the  wet, 
used  to  say,  'This  is  prime.  Them's  God 
Almighty's  customers ;  he  sent  them.'  I've 
heard  him  say  so  many  a  time.  We  get  far 
more  ladies  and  children,  too,  on  a  fine  day  ; 
they  go  more  a- shopping  then,  and  of  an 
evening  they  go  more  to  public  places.  I  pay 
over  my  money  every  night.  It  runs  from 
405.  to  4/.  4a.,  or  a  little  more  on  extraordinary 
occasions.  I  have  taken  more  money  since 
the  short  uns  were  established.  One  day 
before  that  I  took  only  18s.  There  's  three 
riders  and  more  now,  where  there  was  two 
formerly  at  the  higher  rate.  I  never  get  to  a 
public  place,  whether  it 's  a  chapel  or  a  play- 
house, unless,  indeed,  I  get  a  holiday,  and  that 
is  once  in  two  years.  I've  asked  for  a  day's 
holiday  and  been  refused.  I  was  told  I  might 
take  a  week's  holiday,  if  I  liked,  or  as  long  as  I 
lived.  I'm  quite  ignorant  of  what's  passing  in 
the  world,  my  time 's  so  taken  up.     We  only 


340 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOM. 


know  what's  going  on  fVom  hearing  people 
talk  in  the  'bus.  I  never  care  to  rend  the 
paper  now,  though  I  used  to  like  it.  If  I  have 
two  minutes  to  spare,  I'd  rather  take  a  nap 
than  anything  else.  Wc  know  no  more  politics 
than  the  backwoodsmen  of  America,  because 
we  haven't  time  to  care  about  it.  I've  fallen 
asleep  on  my  step  as  the  "bus  was  going  on, 
und  almost  fallen  off.  I  have  often  to  put  up 
with  insolence  from  vulgar  fellows,  who  think 
it  fun  to  chaff  a  cad,  as  they  call  it.  There 's 
no  help  for  it.  Our  masters  won't  listen  to 
complaints  :  if  we  are  not  satisfied  we  can  go. 
Conductors  are  a  sober  set  of  men.  We  must 
be  sober.  It  takes  eveiy  fartliing  of  our  wages 
to  live  well  enough,  and  keep  a  wife  and 
family.  I  never  knew  but  one  t<;etotaller  on 
the  road.  lie 's  gone  off  it  now,  and  he  looked 
us  if  he  was  coing  off  altogether*  The  other 
dav  a  teetotaller  on  the  'bus  saw  me  take  a 
dnnk  of  beer,  and  ho  began  to  talk  to  me 
about  its  being  wrong ;  but  I  drove  him  mad 
with  argument,  and  the  passengers  took  part 
with  me.  I  live  one  and  a  half  mile  off  the 
place  I  start  from.  In  summer  I  sometimes 
breakfast  before  I  start.  Li  winter,  I  never 
see  my  three  children,  only  as  they're  in  bed ; 
and  I  never  hear  their  voices,  if  they  don't 
wake  up  early.  If  they  cry  at  night  it  don't 
disturb  me ;  I  sleep  so  heavy  after  fifteen 
hours'  work  out  in  Uie  air.  My  wife  doesn't 
do  anything  but  mind  the  family,  and  that's 
plenty  to  do  with  ^oung  children.  My  busi- 
ness is  so  uncertain.  Why,  I  knew  a  con- 
ductor who  found  he  had  paid  Gd,  short — ^he 
had  left  it  in  a  comer  of  his  pocket ;  and  he 
handed  it  over  next  morning,  and  was  dis- 
charged for  that — he  was  reckoned  a  fooL 
They  say  the  sharper  the  man  the  better  the 
'busman.  There's  a  great  deal  in  understand- 
ing the  business,  in  keeping  a  sharp  look-out 
for  people's  hailing,  and  in  working  the  time 
properly.  If  tlie  conductor 's  slow  the  driver 
can't  get  along ;  and  if  the  driver  isn't  up  to 
the  mark  the  conductor's  bothered.  Tve 
always  kept  time  except  onc«,  and  that  was  in 
such  a  fog,  that  I  had  to  walk  by  the  horses' 
heads  with  a  link,  and  could  hardly  see  my 
hand  that  held  the  link;  and  after  all  I  lost 
my  'bus,  but  it  was  all  safe  and  right  in  the 
end.  We're  licensed  now  in  Scotland-yard* 
They're  far  civiller  there  than  in  Lancaster- 
place.  I  hope,  too,  they'll  be  more  particular 
in  granting  licenses.  They  used  to  grant  them 
day  after  day,  and  I  believe  made  no  inquiry. 
It  '11  be  better  now.  I've  never  been  fined :  if 
I  had  I  should  have  to  pay  it  out  of  my  own 
pocket.  If  you  plead  ^ty  it 's  5*.  If  not, 
and  it's  very  hard  to  prove  that  you  did  display 
your  badffe  properly  if  the  City  policeman — 
there's  alwa^  one  on  the  look-out  for  us— 
swears  you  didn't,  and  summons  you  for  that : 
or,  if  you  plead  not  guilty,  because  you  weren't 
guilty,  you  may  pay  1/.  I  don't  know  of  the 
checks  now ;  but  I  know  there  are  such  people. 
A  man  was  discharged  the  other  dny  because 


ho  was  accused  of  having  returned  three  out 
of  thirteen  short  He  offered  to  make  oath  he 
was  correct;  but  it  was.of  no  use — he  wenC 

Omnibus  Timcksepebs. 

Akotheb  dais  employed  in  the  omnibus 
trade  are  the  timekeepers.  On  some  routfls 
there  are  five  of  these  men,  on  others  fbnr. 
The  timekeeper's  duty  is  to  start  the  omnibus 
at  the  exact  moment  appointed  b^  the  pro- 
prietors, and  to  report  any  delay  or  irregularis 
in  the  arrival  of  tlie  vehicle.  His  ho\m  m 
the  same  as  those  of  the  driven  and  ooo- 
ductors,  but  as  he  is  stationary  his  work  is 
not  so  fatiguing.  His  remuneration  is  gens- 
rally  21«.  a  week,  but  on  some  stations  move. 
He  must  never  leave  the  spot  A  tbuekeepor 
on  Keimington  Common  has  d8f .  a  week.  Us 
is  employed  10  hours  daily,  and  has  a  box  (o 
shelter  him  from  the  weather  when  it  is  fooL 
He  has  to  keep  time  for  forty  'bosses.  Ths 
men  who  may  be  seen  in  the  great  thorou^- 
fares  noting  eveiy  omnibus  that  passes,  sis 
not  timekeepers ;  Uioy  are  employed  oy  Govsni- 
ment,  so  that  no  omnibus  may  run  on  the  lios 
without  paying  the  duty. 

A  timekeeper  made  the  following  statebiitt 
tome: — 

**  I  was  a  grocer's  assbtant,  but  was  out  of 
place  and  had  a  friend  who  got  mo  a  time- 
keeper's office.  I  have  21«.  a  week.  Mineli 
not  hard  work,  but  it's  very  tiring.  You  hardly 
ever  have  a  moment  to  csll  your  own.  If  we 
only  had  our  Sundays,  like  other  working- 
men,  it  would  be  a  grand  relief.  It  would  bs 
veiy  easy  to  get  an  odd  man  to  work  eveiy 
other  Sunday,  but  masters  care  nothing  about 
Sundays.  Some  'busses  do  stop  ronning  from 
11  to  1,  but  plenty  keep  running.  Sometimes 
I  am  so  tired  of  a  night  that  I  dare  hardly 
sit  down,  for  fear  I  should  fall  asleep  and  lose 
my  own  time,  and  that  would  bo  to  lose  wj 
place.  I  think  timekeepers  continue  longer 
in  their  places  than  the  others.  W^e  hsTS 
nothing  to  do  with  money-taldng.  I'm  i 
single  man,  and  get  all  my  meals  at  the  •^- 
Inn.  I  dress  my  own  dinners  in  the  tap-room* 
I  have  my  tea  brought  to  me  from  a  cofise- 
shop.  I  can't  be  said  to  have  any  home — just 
a  bed  to  sleep  in,  as  I'm  never  ten  minutss 
awake  in  the  house  where  I  lodge." 

The  "odd  men"  are,  as  their  name  imports* 
the  men  who  are  employed  oocasionally,  or,  n 
they  term  it,  •*  get  odd  jobs."  These  form  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  unemployed.  If  i 
driver  be  ill,  or  absent  to  attend  a  summoiUH 
or  on  any  temporary  occasion,  the  odd  man  is 
called  upon  to  do  the  work.  For  this  the  odd 
man  receives  lOd,  a  journey,  to  and  tro.  One 
of  them  gave  me  the  following  account  >- 
'*  I  was  brought  up  to  a  stable  life,  and  had  to 
shift  for  myself  when  I  was  17,  as  my  parents 
died  tlien.  It's  nine  years  ago.  For  two  of 
tliree  years,  till  this  few  months,  I  drove  a'bns. 
I  yas  di^ch'iij^cd  witli  a  week's  notice,  anf\ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


317 


don't  know  for  what — it's  no  use  asking  for  a 
iMson  :^  I  wasn't  wanted.  I've  been  put  to 
shifts  since  then,  and  almost  everything's 
pledged  that  could  be  pledged.  I  had  a  de- 
cent stock  of  clothes;  but  they're  all  at  my 
Tmcle'a.  Last  week  I  earned  3^.  ^d.,  the  week 
before  1«.  8^,  but  this  week  I  shall  do  better, 
(ay  &«.  I  have  to  pay  1«.  Qd.  a  week  for  my 
gaxreU  Im'  a  single  man,  and  have  nothing 
but  a  bed  left  in  it  now.  I  did  live  in  a  better 
place.  If  I  didnt  get  a  bite  and  sup  now  and 
then  with  some  of  my  old  mates  I  think  I 
eonldnt  lire  at  all.  Mine's  a  wretched  life, 
tnd  a  Teiy  bad  trade." 

Hicnanif -CoAOH  and  Cabuen.  ' 

I BATB  liew  described  the  earnings  and  con- 
ditions of  the  diivers  and  conductors  of 
the  London  omnibuses,  and  I  proceed,  in 
doe  order,  to  treat  of  the  Metropolitan  Hack- 
n^«H)oach  and  Cabmen.  In  official  language, 
n  omnibos  is  "a  Metropolitan  Stage-cariiage," 
and  a  *'  cab**  a  **  Metropolitan  Hackney •'  one : 
Um  legal  distinction  being  that  the  stage- 
carriages  porsue  a  given  route,  and  the  pas- 
MDgers  are  mixed,  while  the  iare  is  fixed  by 
the  proprietor;  whereas  the  hackney-cai-rietge 
plies  for  hire  at  an  appointed  "  stand,"  cariies 
no  one  but  the  party  hiring  it,  and  tlie  fare  for 
80  doing  is  regiuated  by  law.  It  is  an  ottence 
for  the  omnibus  to  stand  still  and  ply  for  hire, 
whereas  the  driver  of  the  cab  is  liable  to  bo 


punished  if  he  ply  for  hire  while  his  vehicle  is 
moving. 

According  to  the  Occupation  Abstract  of 
1841,  the  number  of  "Coachmen,  Coach- 
guards,  and  Postboys"  in  Great  Britain  at 
that  time  was  14,409,  of  whom  13,013  were 
located  in  England,  1123  in  Scotland,  295  in 
Wales,  and  only  138  in  the  whole  of  the 
British  Isles.  Tho  returns  for  the  metropolis 
were  as  follows : — 

Coach,  cab,  and  omnibus  owners    .    050 
Coachmen,    coach     and    omnibus 

guards,  and  postboys  .  .  5428 
Grooms  and  ostlers  •  .  .2780 
Horse-dealers  and  trainers      .        .    240 


Total 


.  9104 


In  1831  the  number  of  "  coacho^Tiers, 
drivers,  grooms,  ttrc,"  was  only  1322,  and  the 
**  horse-dealers,  stable,  hackney-coach,  or  fly- 
keepers,"  055,  or  2047  in  all;  so  that,  assuming 
these  returns  to  be  correct,  it  follows  that  this 
class  must  have  increased  7027,  or  more  Uian 
quadrupled  itself  in  ten  years. 

The  returns  since  the  above-mentioned 
I)eriods,  however,  show  a  still  more  rapid  ex- 
tension of  the  class.  For  these  I  am  again 
indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  the  Commissioners 
of  Police,  for  whose  consideration  and  assist- 
ance I  have  again  to  tender  my  warmest 
thanks. 


ABETUBN  OF  THE  NUMBER  OF  PERSONS  LICENSED  AS  HACKNEY-DRIVERS, 

STAGE-DRIVERS,  CONDUCTORS,  AND  WATERMEN, 

FROM  THE  YEARS  1843  TO  1850. 


Tear. 

Haoknoy  Driven. 

Btogo  Drivers. 

Couductors. 

Watermen. 

Total. 

1843 

4,027 

1,740 

1,854 

371 

8,692 

1844 

4,927 

1.833 

1,901 

390 

9,111 

1840 

6,199 

1,825 

1,930 

303 

9,317 

1846 

5,350 

1,806 

2,051 

354 

9,020 

1847 

5,109 

1,830 

2,009 

342 

9,290 

1848 

6,231 

1,730 

2,017 

352 

9,830 

1849 

6,487 

1,731 

2,020 

376 

9.019 

1850* 

6,114 

1,403 

1,484 

352 

8,413 

Totals.    . 

41,050 

14,023 

17,332 

2,899 

73,804     ' 

By  this  it  will  be  seen  that  tho  drivers  and 
conducton  of  the  metropolitan  stage  and 
hackney  carriages  were  in  1849  no  less  than 
9019,  whereas  in  1841,  including  coachmen  of 
aU  kinds,  guards  and  postboys,  there  were 
only  5428  in  the  metropolis ;  so  that  within 
the  last  ten  years  the  class,  at  the  very  least, 
mast  have  more  than  doubled  itself. 

Hackkey-Coaches  and  Cabs. 

1  SHALL  now  proceed  to  give  an  account  of 
the  rise  and  progress  of  the  London  hackney- 

*  From  1st  Hsj  to  ith  September,  inclusive. 


cabs,  as  well  as  the  decline  and  fall  of  the 
London  hackney-cosuihes. 

Nearly  all  the  writers  on  the  subject  state 
that  hackney-coaches  were  first  established  in 
London  in  1025  ;  that  they  were  not  then  sta- 
tioned in  the  streets,  but  at  the  principal  inns , 
and  that  their  number  grew  to  be  considerable 
after  the  Restoration.  There  seems  to  be  no 
doubt  that  thcso  conveyances  wcro  first  kept 
at  the  inns,  and  sent  out  when  required — as 
poet-chaises  were,  and  are  still,  in  country 
towns.  It  may  very  well  be  doubted,  however, 
whether  the  year  1025  has  been  correctly  fixed 
upon  as  that  in  which  hackney-carriages  were 


348 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


esUblished  in  London.  It  is  so  asserted  in 
Mocpherson's  **  Annals  of  Commerce,"  but  it  is 
thus  loosely  and  vaguely  stated :  "  Our  histori- 
oj(rnpher3  of  the  city  of  I/ondon  relate  that  it 
was  in  this  year  (1(1*25)  that  hackney-coaches 
In-st  began  to  ply  in  London  streets,  or  rather 
at  the  inns,  to  be  called  for  as  they  aio  wanted ; 
and  tiiey  were,  at  this  time,  only  twenty  in 
number."  One  of  the  City  "  historiographers,'' 
however,  if  so  he  may  be  called,  makes  a  very 
ditfercnt  statement.  John  Taylor,  the  water- 
man and  th<^  watcr-poet,  says  in  KWl  (two 
yeai-s  before  the  em  usually  assigne«l),  *•  1  do 
not  inveigh  against  any  coaches  that  belong  to 
jiersons  of  worth  and  quality,  but  only  against 
the  caterpillar  swarm  of  hirelings.  They  have 
undone  my  jKwr  trade,  whereof  I  aju  a  mem- 
ber; and  though  1  liK)k  for  no  reformation, 
yet  I  expect  the  benefit  of  an  old  i)roverb, 
•  Give  the  losers  leave  to  speak.'  .  .  .  This  in- 
fernal swarm  of  tnulespellei-s  (hackney-coach- 
men) have  so  ovemui  the  land  tliat  we  can 
get  no  living  upon  the  water ;  for  1  dare  truly 
afiimi  that  in  every  day  in  any  term,  eKpeciall> 
if  the  Court  be  at  Nvhitehidl,  tliey  do  rob  us  of 
our  linngs,  and  carry  WK)  fares  daily  from  us." 

Of  the  establishment  of  hackney-coach 
'^stands/'  we  have  a  more  precise  account. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Oan*ard,  writing  to  Jjord  Statford 
in  I0H8,  says,  **  Hero  is  one  Ca])tain  Baily,  he 
hath  been  a  sea-captain  but  now  Uvhs  on  land, 
about  this  city,  where  he  tries  experiments. 
Ue  hath  erected,  according  to  his  ability, 
some  fonr  hackney-coaches,  put  his  men  in 
livery,  and  appointed  them  to  stand  at  the 
Maypole  in  the  Strand,  giving  them  instruc- 
tions at  what  rate  to  carry  men  into  several 
parts  of  the  town,  whtTC  all  day  Uiey  may  be 
had.  Other  hackney-men,  seeing  this  way, 
they  flocked  to  the  same  ])lace,  and  perform 
the  journeys  at  the  same  rate.  So  that  some- 
times there  is  twenty  of  them  together,  which 
disperse  up  and  down,  that  they  and  otliers 
are  to  be  had  everywhere,  as  watemien  are  to 
be  had  at  the  water-side.  Everybody  is  much 
pleased  with  it."  The  site  of  tho  Maypole 
that  once  "  o'erlooked  the  Strand,'*  is  now  oc- 
cupied by  St.  Mary's  church. 

There  were  after  this  many  regulations 
passed  for  the  better  management  of  hackney- 
coaches.  In  1052  tiieir  number  was  ordered 
to  be  limited  to  200;  in  lOW,  to  300;  in  1«01, 
to  400 ;  in  1094,  to  700.  These  limitations, 
however,  seem  to  have  been  but  little  re- 
garded.  Ciarrard,  writing  in  1038,  says,  "  Here 
is  a  proclamation  coming  forth  about  the 
refonnation  of  hackney-coaches,  and  ordering 
of  other  coaches  about  London.  One  thou- 
sand nine  hundred  was  tho  number  of  hack- 
ney-coaches of  London,  bare  lean  jades,  un- 
worthy to  be  seen  in  so  bravo  a  city,  or  to 
stand  about  a  king's  court."  As  within  the 
last  twenty-soven  years,  when  cabs  and  omni- 
buses were  unknown,  the  number  of  hackney- 
carriages  was  strictiy  limited  to  1200,  it  seems 
little  likely  that  nearlv  two  centuries  earlier 


there  should  have  been  so  many  as  1900.  Jt 
is  probable  that  "glass"  and  "hackney- 
coaches"  had  been  confounded  somehow  in 
the  enumeration. 

It  was  not  until  the  ninth  year  of  Queen 
Anne's  reign  that  an  Act  was  passed  appoint- 
ing Commissioners  for  the  licensing  and  su* 
perintending  of  hackney-coachmen,  l^rior  to 
that  they  seem  to  have  been  regulated  and 
licensed  by  the  magistracy.  The  Act  of  Anne 
authorised  the  number  of  hackney-coaches  to 
be  increased  to  H(K),  but  not  until  the  expira- 
tion of  the  existing  licenses  in  1715.  In  1771 
there  was  again  an  additional  number  of 
hackney-coach  licenses  granted — 1000;  which 
was  made  1200  in  17U9.  In  the  last -men- 
tioned year  a  duty  was  for  the  first  time 
placed  on  hired  carriages  of  all  deseriptions. 
It  was  at  first  f>s.  a- week,  but  that  som  was 
not  long  after  raised  to  10s.  a-weck,  to  be  paid 
in  ailrance ;  while  the  license  was  raised  from 
2/.  10<.  to  f)/.  The  duties  upon  all  hackney- 
carriages  is  still  maintained  at  the  advanced 
rat«'. 

The  hackney-carriages,  when  thmr  number 
became  considerable  after  the  Bestoratioa, 
were  necessarily  small,  though  drawn  by  two 
horses.  The  narrowness  of  the  stiieets  before 
the  great  fire,  and  the  wretched  condition  of 
tho  pavement,  rendered  the  use  of  large  and 
commodious  vehicles  impossible.  Davenant 
says  of  hackney-carriages, "  They  are  unusually 
hung,  and  so  narrow  that  I  took  them  for 
sedans  ow  wheels."  The  hackney-coachman 
then  rode  one  of  his  horses,  postilion-fiuhion ; 
but  when  the  streets  were  widened,  he  drove 
from  his  seat  on  the  box.  In  the  latter  dajs 
of  London  hackney-coaches  they  were  large 
enough  without  being  commodious.  They 
were  nearly  all  noblemen's  and  gentlemen's 
disused  family  coaches,  which  had  been  handed 
over  to  the  coachmaker  when  a  new  carriage 
was  made.  But  it  was  not  long  that  these 
<:oache8  retained  the  comfort  and  cleanhness 
that  might  distinguish  them  when  first  intro- 
duced into  Uie  stand.  The  horses  were,  as  in 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Garrard's  time,  sorry  jades,  some- 
times cripples,  and  the  liamess  looked  as  fn3 
as  tho  carriages.  The  exceptions  to  this  de- 
scription were  few,  for  the  hackney-coachmen 
possessed  a  monopoly  and  thought  it  unchaogts 
able.  They  were  of  the  same  class  of  men— 
nearly  all  geuticmen's  servants  or  their  sons. 
The  obtaining  of  a  license  for  a  hackney-coach 
was  generally  done  tlux)ugh  interest.  It  was 
one  way  in  which  many  peers  and  members 
of  Parliament  provided  for  any  favourite  ser- 
vant, or  for  the  servant  of  a  friend.  These 
"  patrons,"  whether  peers  or  commonera,  were 
not  uni'onimonly  called  "  lords ;"  a  man  was 
said  to  be  sure  of  a  license  if  he  had  **  a  great 
lonl  for  his  friend." 

The  "takings"  of  the  London  hackney- 
coachmen,  as  I  have  ascertained  from  some 
who  were  members  of  the  body,  were  .10/.  lOi. 
a-week  the  year  through,  the  months  of  May, 


STREET-PKKFORMEKS  ON  STILTS. 

[From  a  Sketch.] 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


iUU 


June,  and  July,  being  the  best,  when  their 
earnings  were  from  if)/,  to  18/.  a-week.  Out 
of  this  three  horses  had  to  be  maintained. 
During  the  war  times  the  quality  of  oats  which 
are  now  \Ss.  a  quarter  were  6O9.,  while  hay 
and  the  other  articles  of  the  horses'  consump- 
tion were  proportionately  dear.  The  expense 
of  repair  to  the  coach  or  harness  was  but 
trifling,  as  they  were  generally  done  by  the 
hackney-man  himself,  or  by  some  hanger-on 
at  the  public-houses  frequented  by  the  fra- 
ternity. 

Of  the  personal  expenditure  of  hackney- 
coachmen  when  '*out  for  the  day**  I  had  the 
following  statement  firom  one  of  them : — "  "Wo 
spent  regular  7».  a-day  when  wo  was  out.  It 
was  before  coffee-shops  and  new-fangled  ways 
came  in  as  the  regular  thing  that  I'm  speaking 
of;  breakflast  l«.,good  tea  and  good  bread-and- 
bntter,  as  much  as  you  liked  always,  with  a 
^lasa  of  rum  in  the  last  cup  for  the  *  lacing'  of 
It — always  rum,  gin  weren't  so  much  run  aft^r 
then.  Dinner  was  \b.  (id,y  a  cut  off  some  good 
joint;  beer  was  included  at  some  places  and 
not  at  others.  Any  extras  to  follow  was  extras 
to  pay.  Two  glasses  of  rum-and-water  after 
dmner  Is.,  pipes  found,  and  most  of  us  carried 
our  own  'baccy-boxes.  Tea  the  same  as  break- 
fast, and  *  laced'  ditto.  Supper  the  same  as 
dinner,  or  Bd,  less ;  and  the  rest  to  make  up 
the  Is.  went  for  odd  glasses  of  ale,  or  stout,  or 
'  short* — but  *  short*  (neat  spirits)  was  far  less 
drunk  then  than  now — when  wo  was  waiting, 
or  to  treat  a  friend,  or  such-like.  We  did 
some  good  in  those  days,  air.  Take  day  and 
night,  and  1200  of  us  was  out,  and  perhaps 
every  man  s^ent  his  7«.,  and  that's  1200  times 
Tt."  Followmg  out  this  calculation  we  have 
420/.  per  day  (and  night),  2940/.  a-week,  and 
152,8^/.  a-year  for  hackney-coachmen's  per- 
sonal expenses,  merely  as  regards  their  board. 

The  old  hackney-coachmen  seem  to  have 
been  a  self-indulgent,  improvident,  rather 
than  a  vicious  class ;  neither  do  they  seem  to 
have  been  a  drunken  class.  They  acted  as 
ignorant  men  would  naturally  act  who  found 
themselves  in  the  eEJoymentof  a  good  income, 
with  the  protection  of  a  legal  monopoly.  They 
had  the  sole  right  of  conveyance  within  the 
bills  of  mortality,  and  as  that  important  dis- 
trict comprised  all  tlie  jdaces  of  public  resort, 
and  contained  the  great  mass  of  the  population, 
tbey  may  be  said  to  have  had  a  monopoly  of 
the  metropolis.  Even  when  the  cabs  were 
llrst  established  these  men  exhibited  no  fear 
of  their  earnings  being  affected.  "  But,"  said 
an  intelligent  man,  who  had  been  a  hackney- 
coachman  in  his  younger  days,  and  who  man- 
aged to  avoid  the  general  rmn  of  his  brethren, 
*'but  when  the  cabs  got  to  the  100  then  they 
found  it  out  The  cabs  was  all  in  gentlemen's 
liands  at  first.  I  know  that.  Some  of  them 
'Was  government-clerks  too :  they  had  their 
foremen,  to  be  sure,  but  they  was  the  real  pro- 
prietors, the  gentlemen  was ;  they  got  the 
licenses.    WeU,  it's  easy  to  understand  how 


100  cabs  was  earning  money  fast,  and  people 
couldn't  get  them  fast  enough,  and  how  some 
himdi'eds  of  hackney-coachmen  was  waiting 
and  starving  till  the  trade  was  thrown  open, 
and  then  Uie  hacknev-coachmen  was  clean 
beat  down.  They  fell  off  by  degrees.  I'm 
sure  I  hardly  know  what  became  of  most  of 
them,  but  I  do  know  that  a  many  of  them 
died  in  the  workhouses.  They  hadnt  nothing 
aforehand.  They  dropped  away  gradual.  You 
see  they  weren't  allowed  to  transfer  their 
plates  and  licenses  to  a  cab,  or  they'd  have 
dono  it — plenty  would.  They  were  a  far 
better  set  of  men  than  there's  on  the  cabs 
now.  Tliere  was  none  of  your  fancy-men, 
that's  in  with  women  of  the  town,  among  the 
old  hackney-coachmen.  If  you  remember 
what  they  was,  sir,  you'll  say  they  hadn't  the 
cut  of  it," 

The  hackney-coachmen  drove  very  deliber- 
ately, rarely  exceeding  five,  and  still  more 
rarely  achieving  six  miles  an  hour,  unless  in- 
cited by  the  hope  or  the  promise  of  an  extra 
faro.  These  men  resided  very  commonly  in 
mews,  and  many  of  them  I  am  assured  had 
comfortable  homes,  and  were  hospitable  fel- 
lows in  their  way,  smoking  their  pipes  withi 
one  another  when  **  off  the  stones,"  treating 
their  poorer  neighbours  to  a  glass,  and  talking 
over  the  price  of  oats,  hay,  and  horses,  as  well 
as  the  product  of  the  past  season,  or  the  pro- 
mise of  the  next.  The  majority  of  them  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  or  very  imperfectly, 
and,  as  is  not  uncommon  with  uninformed 
men  who  hod  thriven  tolerably  well  without 
education,  they  cared  little  about  providing 
education  for  their  children.  Politics  they 
cared  nothing  about,  but  they  prided  them- 
selves on  being  "  John-Bull  Englishmen." 
For  public  amusements  they  seem  to  have 
cared  nothing.  ^*  Our  business,"  said  one  of 
them,  "  was  with  the  outside  of  play-houses. 
I  never  saw  a  play  in  my  life." 

As  my  informant  said,  '*  they  dropped  awny 
gradual."  Eight  or  ten  years  ago  a  few  old 
men,  with  old  horses  and  old  coaches,  might 
be  seen  at  street  stands,  but  each  year  saw 
tlieir  numbers  reduced,  and  now  there  is  not 
one ;  that  is  to  say,  not  ono  in  tlio  streets, 
though  there  are  four  hackney-coaches  at  tlie 
railway-stations. 

One  of  tlio  old  fraternity  of  hackney-coach- 
men, who  had,  since  the  decline  of  his  class, 
prospered  by  devoting  his  exertions  to  another 
department  of  business,  gave  mo  the  following 
account : — 

**My  father,"  said  he,  "was  an  hackney- 
coachman  before  me,  and  ^ave  me  what  was 
then  reckoned  a  good  education.  I  could  write 
middling  and  could  read  the  newspaper.  I've 
driven  my  father's  coach  for  him  when  I  was 
fourteen.  "When  I  was  old  enough,  seventeen 
I  think  I  was,  I  had  ahackney-coaeh  and  horses 
of  my  own,  provided  for  me  by  my  father,  and 
so  was  started  in  the  world.  The  first  time 
I  plied  with  my  own  coach  was  when  Sir 


350 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


Francis  Burdett  was  sent  to  the  Tower  from 
his  house  in  Piccadilly.  Sir  Francis  was  all 
the  go  then.  I  heard  a  hackney-coachman 
say  he  would  be  glad  to  drive  him  for  nothing. 
The  hackney-coachmen  didn't  like  Pitt  I've 
heard  my  father  and  his  mates  say  many  a 

time  *D n  Pitt!'  that  was  for  doubling  of 

the  duty  on  hackney-carriages.  Ah,  the  old 
times  was  the  rackety  times !  Tve  often 
laughed  and  said  that  I  could  say  what  perhaps 
nobody,  or  almost  nobody  in  England  can  say 
now,  that  I'd  been  driven  by  a  king.  He  grew 
to  be  a  king  afterwards,  George  IV.  One  night 
you  see,  sir,  I  was  called  off  the  stand,  and  told 
to  take  up  at  the  British  Coffee-house  in 
Cockspur  Street.  I  was  a  lad  then,  and  when 
I  pulled  up  at  the  door,  the  waiter  ran  out  and 
said,  *  You  jump  down  and  get  inside,  the 
Prince  is  a-going  to  drive  hisself.'  I  didn't 
much  like  the  notion  on  it,  but  I  didn't  exactly 
know  what  to  do,  and  was  getting  off  my  seat 
to  see  if  the  waiter  had  put  anything  inside, 
for  he  let  down  the  glass,  and  just  as  I  was 
getting  down,  and  had  my  foot  on  the  wheel, 
out  came  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  four  or  five 
rattlebrained  fellows  like  himself.  I  think 
Mtgor  Hanger  was  one,  but  I  had  hardly  time 
to  see  them,  for  the  Prince  gripped  me  by  the 
ankle  and  the  waistband  of  my  breeches,  and 
lifted  me  off  the  wheel  and  flung  me  right 
into  the  coach,  through  the  window,  and  it 
was  opened,  as  it  happened  luckily.  I  was 
little  then,  but  he  must  have  been  a  strong 
man.  He  didn't  seem  so  very  drunk  either. 
The  Prince  wasn't  such  a  bad  driver.  Indeed, 
he  drove  very  well  for  a  prince,  but  he  didn't 
take  tho  comers  or  the  crossings  careful  enough 
for  a  regular  jarvey.  Well,  air,  the  Prince 
drove  that  night  to  a  house  in  King  Street, 
Saint  James's.  There  was  another  gentleman 
on  the  box  with  him.  It  was  a  gaming-house 
he  went  to  that  night,  but  I  have  driven  him 
to  other  sorts  of  houses  in  that  there  neigh- 
bourhood. He  hadn't  no  pride  to  such  as 
me,  hadn't  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Then  one 
season  I  used  to  drive  Lord  Bairymore  in  his 
rounds  to  the  brothels— twice  or  thrice  a- week 
sometimes.  He  used  always  to  take  his  own 
-fnne  with  him.  After  waiting  till  near  day- 
light^ or  till  daylight,  I've  carried  my  lord, 
girls  and  all — fine  dressed-up  madams — to 
Billingsgate,  and  there  I've  left  them  to  break- 
fast at  some  queer  place,  or  to  slang  with  the 
fishwives.  What  times  them  was,  to  be  sure ! 
One  night  I  drove  Lord  Barrymore  to  Motlier 
Cummins's  in  Lisle  Street,  and  when  she  saw 
who  it  was  she  swore  out  of  the  window  that 
she  wouldn't  let  him  in  —  he  and  some  such 
rackety  fellows  had  broken  so  many  things 
the  last  time  they  were  there,  and  had  dis- 
graced her,  as  she  called  it,  to  the  neighbour- 
hood. So  my  lord  said,  *  Knock  at  the  door, 
tiger ;  and  knock  till  they  open  it.'  He  knocked 
and  knocked  till  every  drop  of  water  in  tlie 
house  was  emptied  over  us,  out  of  the  windows, 
but  my  lord  didn't  like  to  be  beaten,  so  he 


stayed  and  stayed,  but  Mother  Cummins 
wouldn't  give  way,  and  at  last  he  went  home. 
A  wet  opei*a-night  was  the  chance  for  us  when 
Madame — I  forget  her  name — Catalini?— 
yes,  I  tliink  that  was  it,  was  perfonmng. 
Many  a  time  I've  heard  it  sung  out — 'A  guinea 
to  Portman  Square' — and  I've  had  it  myself. 
At  the  time  I'm  speaking  of  hackney-coachmen 
took  30«.  a-day,  all  the  year  round.  Why,  I 
myself  have  taken  10/.  and  18/.  a- week  through 
May,  June,  and  July.  But  then  you  see,  sir, 
we  had  a  monopoly.  It  was  in  the  old  Toiy 
times.  Our  number  was  limited  to  1200.  And 
no  stage-carriage  could  then  take  up  or  set 
down  on  the  stones,  not  within  the  biUs  as  it 
was  called — that's  tiie  bills  of  mortality,  three 
miles  round  the  Hoyal  Exchange,  if  I  remem- 
ber right.  It's  a  monopoly  that  ahouldnt 
have  been  allowed,  I  know  that,  but  there  was 
grand  earnings  under  it;  no  glass-coacbes 
could  take  people  to  the  play  then.  Glass 
coaches  is  what's  now  called  flies.  They 
couldn't  set  down  in  the  mortality,  it  was  fine 
and  imprisonment  to  do  it  We  hadn't  such 
good  horses  in  our  coaches  then,  as  is  now  in 
the  streets,  certainly  not.  It  was  war-time, 
and  horses  was  bought  up  for  the  cavaliy,  and 
it's  the  want  of  horses  for  the  army,  and  for 
the  mails  and  stages  arter'axds,  that's  the 
reason  of  such  good  horses  being  in  the  'bossei 
and  cabs.  We  drove  always  noblemen  or 
gentlemen's  old  carriages,  faznily  coaches  they 
was  sometimes  called.  There  was  mostly 
arms  and  coronets  on  them.  We  got  them  di 
the  coachmakers  in  Long  Acre,  who  took  the 
noblemen's  old  carriages,  when   they  made 

new.     The  Duke  of complained  once 

that  his  old  carriage,  TKith  his  arms  painted 
beautiful  on  the  panels,  was  plying  in  the 
streets  at  Is.  a  mile ;  his  arms  ought  not  to  be 
degraded  that  way,  he  said,  so  the  coach- 
maker  had  the  coach  new  painted.  When  the 
cabs  first  came  in  we  didn't  think  much  about 
it ;  we  thought,  that  is,  most  of  us  did,  that 
things  was  to  go  on  in  the  old  way  for  ever; 
but  it  was  found  out  in  time  that  it  was  not. 
When  the  clarences,  the  cabs  that  cany  four, 
come  in,  they  cooked  the  hackney-coechmea 
in  no  time." 

Introduction  of  Cabs. 

Fob  the  introduction  of  hackney-ca6rio(e^  (a 
word  which  it  now  seems  almost  pedantic  to 
use)  we  are  indebted —  as  for  the  introduction 
of  the  omnibuses  —  to  the  example  of  the 
Parisians.  In  1813  there  were  1150  cabriolets 
de  place  upon  the  hackney-stands  of  Paris :  in 
1823,  ten  years  later,  there  were  twelve  upon 
the  hackney-stands  of  London,  but  the  vested 
right  of  the  hackney-coachmen  was  an  ob- 
stacle. Messrs.  Bradshaw  and  Botch,  hov- 
ever,  did  manage  in  1823  to  obtain  hcenses 
for  twelve  cabriolets,  starting  them  at  8ii.  ft 
mile.  The  number  was  subsequently  in- 
creased to  50,  and  then  to  100,  and  in  les^ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


351 


than  nine  years  after  the  first  cab  plied  in  the 
streets  of  London  all  restriction  as  to  their 
number  was  abolished. 

The  form  of  cab  first  in  nse  was  that  of  a 
hooded  chaise,  the  leather  head  or  hood  being 
raised  or  lowered  at  pleaswe.  In  wet,  windy 
weather,  however,  it  was  found,  when  raised, 
to  present  so  great  a  resistance  to  the  progress 
of  the  horse  that  the  head  was  abandoned. 
In  these  cabs  the  driver  sat  inside,  the  vehicle 
being  made  large  enough  to  hold  two  persons 
ind  the  cabman.  The  next  kind  had  a  de- 
tached seat  for  the  driver  alongside  his  fare. 
On  the  third  sort  the  driver  occupied  the  roof, 
the  door  opening  at  the  back.  These  were 
eilled  "  back-door  cabs."  The  *'  covered 
cab,"  carrying  two  inside  with  the  driver  on 
a  box  in  front,  was  next  introduced,  and  it  was 
a  safor  conveyance,  having  four  wheels — the 
preceding  cabs  had  but  two.  The  clarences, 
carrying  four  inside,  came  next ;  and  almost 
It  the  same  time  with  them  the  Hansom's, 
whieh  are  always  called  "showfulls"  by  the 
eabmen.  "  Showfull,"  in  slang,  means  coun- 
terfeit, and  the  *' showfull"  cabs  are  an  in- 
fringement on  Hansom's  patent.  There  are 
BOW  no  cabs  in  use  but  the  two  last-mentioned. 
A  clarence  built  in  the  best  manner  costs 
from  40/.  to  50/.,  a  good  horse  to  draw  it  is 
irorth  18/.  to  20/.,  and  the  harness  4/.  10.5.  to 
5/.  This  is  the  fair  price  of  the  carriage  and 
harness  when  new,  and  from  a  good  shop. 
But  second- hand  cabs  and  harness  are  sold 
and  re-sold,  and  are  repaired  or  fitted  up  by 
jobbing  coachmakers.  Nearly  all  the  greater 
cab  proprietors  employ  a  coach  builder  on  their 
premises.  A  cab-horse  has  been  purchased 
in  Smithfield  for  409. 

Some  of  the  cabmen  have  their  own  horse 
and  vehicle,  while  others,  and  the  great  ma- 
jority, rent  a  cab  and  horse  from  the  pro- 
prietor, and  pay  him  so  much  a  day  or  night, 
having  for  dieir  remuneration  all  they  can 
obtain  for  the  amount  of  rent  The  rent 
required  by  the  most  respectable  masters  is 
I4s.  in  the  season — out  of  the  season,  the  best 
masters  expect  the  drivers  to  bring  home 
abont  9«.  a-day.  For  this  sum  two  good 
horses  are  found  to  each  cab.  Some  of  the 
cab  proprietors,  especially  a  class  known  as 
"  contractors,"  or  **  Westminster  masters,"  of 
whom  a  large  niunber  are  Jews,  make  the 
men  hiring  their  cabs  **  sign "  for  16«.  a-day 
in  the  season,  and  \%s.  out  of  it.  This  system 
is  called  signing  instead  of  agreeing,  or  any 
similar  term,  because  the  6th  <fc  7th  Victoria 
provides  that  no  sum  shall  bo  recovered  from 
drivers  "on  account  of  the  earnings  of  any 
hackney-carriage,  unless  under  an  agreement 
in  writing,  signed  in  presence  of  a  competent 
witness."  The  steadiest  and  most  trusty  men 
in  the  cabdriving  trade,  however,  refuse  to 
Rign  for  a  stipulated  siun,  as  in  case  of  their 
not  earning  so  much  they  may  be  compelled 
Ktunmarily,  and  with  the  penalties  of  fine  and 
imprisonment,  to  pay  that  stipulated  sum.    I 


was  infoimed  by  a  highly  respectable  cab  pro- 
prietor, that  in  the  season  12«.  6(/.  a-day  would 
be  a  fair  sum  to  sign  for,  and  Os.,  or  even  less, 
out  of  the  season.  In  this  my  informant  can- 
not be  mistaken,  for  he  has  practical  experience 
of  cab-driving,  he  himself  often  dri>'ing  on  on 
emergency.  There  arc  plenty,  however,  who 
will  sign  for  10a.,  and  the  consequence  of  this 
branch  of  the  contract  system  is,  that  the  men 
so  contracting  resort  to  any  means  to  make 
their  guinea.  They  drive  swell-mobsmen, 
they  are  connected  with  women  of  the  town, 
they  pick  up  and  prey  upon  drunken  fellows, 
in  coUusion  with  these  women,  and  resort  to 
any  knavery  to  make  np  the  necessar>'  sum. 
On  this  subject  I  give  below  the  statement  of 
an  experienced  proprietor. 

Character  of  Cabdrtvers. 

Among  the  present  cabdrivers  are  to  be 
foimd,  as  I  learned  from  trustworthy  persons, 
quondam  greengrocers,  costermongers,  jewel- 
lers, clerks,  broken-down  gentlemen,  especially 
turf  gentlemen,  carpenters,  joiners,  saddlers, 
coach-builders,  grooms,  stable-helpers,  foot- 
men, shopkeepers,  pickpockets,  swell-mobs- 
men, housebreakers,  innkeepers,  musicians, 
musical  instrument  makers,  ostlers,  some  good 
scholars,  a  good  number  of  brok«^n-down 
pawnbrokers,  several  ex-poHcemen,  draper's  as- 
sistants, barmen,  scene-shifters,  one  baronet, 
and  as  my  informant  expressed  it, "  such  an 
uncommon  sight  of  folks  that  it  would  bo  un- 
common hard  to  say  what  they  was.**  Of  the 
truthfulness  of  the  list  of  callings  said  to  have 
contributed  to  swell  the  numbers  of  the  cab- 
men  there  can  be  no  doubt,  but  I  am  not  so 
sure  of  ^Uhe  baronet."  I  was  told  his  name, 
but  I  met  with  no  one  who  could  positively 
say  that  he  knew  Sir  V C as  a  cab- 
driver.  This  baronet  seems  a  tradition  among 
them.  Others  tell  me  that  the  party  alluded 
to  is  merely  nicknamed  the  Baron,  owing  to 
his  being  a  person  of  good  birth,  and  having 
had  a  college  education.  The  *'  flashiest"  cab- 
man, as  he  is  termed,  is  the  son  of  a  fashion- 
able master-tailor.  He  is  known  among  cab- 
drivers  as  the  *'  Numpareil,"  and  drives  one  of 
the  Hansom  cabs.  I  am  infoiincd  on  ex- 
cellent authority,  a  tenth,  or,  tD  speak  beyond 
the  possibility  of  ca\'il,  a  twelfth  of  the  whole 
number  of  cabdrivers  are  "  fancy  men."  These 
fellows  are  known  in  the  cab  trade  by  a  very 
gross  appellation.  They  are  the  men  who 
live  Tvith  women  of  the  town,  and  are  sup- 
ported, wholly  or  partially,  on  tlie  wages  of 
the  women's  prostitution. 

These  are  the  fellows  who,  for  the  most 
part,  are  ready  to  pay  the  highest  price  for 
the  hire  of  their  cabs.  One  swell-mobsman,  I 
was  told,  had  risen  from  "signing"  for  cabs 
to  become  a  cab  proprietor,  but  was  now  a 
prisoner  in  France  for  picking  pockets. 

The  worse  class  of  cabmen  which,  as  I  have 
before  said,  are  but  a  twelfth  of  the  whole, 


352 


LOSDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS, 


live  ill  Graiiby  Street,  St.  Andrew's  riace,  and 
Kiinilur  looUities  of  tho  Waterloo  Itoad;  iu 
I'liinii  St  root,  Pearl  Rnw,  &c.,  of  the  Borough 
Ui);i(l;  in  Piincos  Street,  and  othoi*3,  of  the 
Loixlon  Uoad;  in  Konic  unpavod  streets  that 
sLroteh  from  thi?  Ni-w  Kent  Koad  to  L<K^k'8 
J'ields;  in  tlie  worst  nai'ts  of  Westminster,  in 
the  vicinity  of  Drury  Lane.  Whiteclmi)el,  and 
of  IJssoii  (irove,  and  wherever  low  deprimty 
ilouiishes.  "  To  get  on  a  cah,'*  I  was  told, 
tind  that  is  tho  regular  phrnsi;,  "  is  the  am- 
hition  of  more  loo8*»  fellows  tlian  for  anything 
else,  as  it's  reckoned  both  an  idle  life  and  an 
exciting  one."  Whetstone  Park  is  full  of  eab- 
num,  hut  not  wholly  of  the  fancy-man  olasa. 
'i'he  better  boit  of  cal»men  nsually  reside  in 
tht!  neighbourliood  of  tlie  cab-proprietors' 
yards,  which  are  in  all  directions.  S(»ine  of 
tlie  hcst  of  these  men  are,  or  rather  hove  been 
mechanic^,  and  liave  L-ft  a  sedentarj'  employ- 
ment, whi<-h  atfected  tlii^ir  health,  for  the  o}>en 
II ir  of  the  cab  business.  Othei-s  of  tlie  best 
desci-iplion  liave  been  connected  with  country 
inuK,  but  the  migority  o£  them  are  London 
men.  They  are  most  of  them  marrie<l,  and 
bringing  up  families  decently  on  earnings  of 
from  15«.  to  '2'»s.  a- week.  Some  few  of  their 
wives  work  with  their  needles  for  the  tailors. 

Some  of  the  cab -yards  are  situated  in  what 
were  old  inn-yards,  or  the  stable-yards  attacheil 
to  gi-eat  houses,  when  great  houses  nourished 
in  ports  of  the  town  that  aie  now  accounted 
vuI^jU".  One  of  those  I  saw  iu  a  verj-  oiuious 
I'lace.  I  was  informed  that  the  yard  was  once 
( )liver  Cromwell's  stable-yard ;  it  is  now  a 
receptacle  for  cabs.  There  are  now  two  long 
ranges  of  wooden  erections,  bljiek  with  age, 
each  caiTioge-house  opening  with  lar^^'e  folding- 
dtiors,  fastened  in  front  with  padlocks,  bolte, 
and  hasps.  In  the  old  caiii age- houses  are 
tlie  modem  cabs,  and  mixed  with  them  are 
superannuated  cabs,  and  the  disjointed  or 
worn-out  bodies  and  wlieels  of  cabs.  Above 
one  range  of  the  buildings,  tlie  red-tiled  roofs 
of  which  project  a  yard  and  more  beyond  the 
exti'rior,  are  apartments  occupied  by  the  stable- 
keepers  and  others.  Nasturtiums  with  their 
liglit  green  leaves  and  bright  orange  flowers 
were  trained  along  light  trellis-work  in  front  of 
the  windows,  and  presented  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  dinginess  around. 

Of  the  cabdrivei*s  there  arc  several  classes, 
according  to  the  times  at  which  they  are  em- 
jdoyed.  These  are  known  in  the  trade  by  the 
names  of  the  "  long-daymen,''  **  the  moniing- 
mon,"  the  *•  long-night  men,''  and  tlie  "  short- 
night  men,"  and  *'  the  bucks."  The  long-day 
man  is  the  driver  who  is  supposed  to  be  driving 
his  cab  tlie  whole  day.  He  usually  fetches 
his  cab  out  betw^een  9  and  10  in  the  morning, 
and  rotums  at  4  or  5,  or  even  7  or  8,  the  next 
morning ;  indeed  it  is  no  matter  at  what  hour 
he  comes  in  so  long  as  ho  brings  the  money 
that  he  signs  for :  the  long-day  men  are 
mostly  employed  for  the  contractors,  thongh 
some  of  the  respectable  masters  work  their 


cabs  with  long-day  men,  but  then  they  leare 
tho  yard  between  8  and  9  and  are  expected  to 
return  between  1:2  an<l  1.  These  drivers  when 
working  for  the  contractors  sign  for  16«.  a-day 
in  the  season,  as  before  stated,  and  12s.  out  of 
the  season ;  and  when  employed  hy  the  re- 
spectable masters,  they  are  expected  to  bring 
homo  14«.  or  0«.,  according  to  the  season  of 
the  yeai*.  The  long-day  men  are  the  partiei 
who  mostly  employ  the  '*  backs,"  or  unliceosed 
diivei't;.  They  are  mostly  out  with  their  eabi 
from  10  to  20  hours,  so  that  their  work  becomes 
more  than  they  can  constantly  endore,  and 
they  are  consequently  gbul  to  avail  themselves 
of  the  services  of  a  buck  for  some  hours  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  (»r  rather  night.  The  morning 
man  generally  goes  out  abi:»ut  7  in  the  morning 
tmd  returns  to  the  yai*d  at  G  in  the  evening. 
Those  who  contract  sign  to  bring  home  from 
1U«.  to  lis.  per  day  in  the  senson,  and  7s.  for 
the  rest  of  the  year,  while  those  working  for 
the  better  class  of  masters  arc  expected  to 
give  the  pi-oprietor  85.  a- day,  and  &s.  or  Us.  i^ 
cording  to  the  time  of  the  year.  The  momiog 
man  has  only  one  hoi*se  found  him,  wheren 
the  long-day  man  has  two,  and  returns  to  tlif 
yard  to  change  horses  between  three  and  tii 
ill  the  afternoon.  The  long-night  man  goei 
out  at  0  in  tho  evening  and  returns  at  10  in 
tho  morning.  He  signs  when  working  for 
<'un tractors  for  7s.  or  8s.  per  night,  at  the  best 
time  of  the  year,  and  5s.  or  ha.  at  the  bad. 
Tho  rent  required  by  the  good  masters  di£&n 
scarcely  from  these  stuns.  He  has  only  one 
lioi'se  found  him.  The  shortpnight  man  fetches 
Ids  cab  out  at  6  in  tlie  evening  and  retnms  it 
(( in  the  moniing,  bringing  with  him  Os.  in  the 
season  and  4s.  or  -V.  out  of  it.  The  contraetora 
employ  scai-cely  any  short-night  men,  while 
the  better  masters,  have  but  few  long-day  or 
long-night  men  working  for  them.  It  is  oobr 
such  persons  as  the  Westminster  masters  who 
like  the  horses  or  the  men  to  be  out  so  miny 
hours  together,  and  they,  as  my  InformtDt 
said,  "dt»n't  core  what  liecomes  of  either,  so 
long  as  the  day's  money  is  brought  to  them." 
Tho  bucks  oi-t^  unlicensed  eabdrivers,  who  ve 
employed  by  those  who  have  a  hcense  to  tike 
charge  of  the  cab  while  the  rcgalar  drivcre  are 
at  theur  meals  or  ei^oying  themselves.  Theee 
bucks  ai'e  generally  cabmen  who  have  bees 
deprived  of  their  license  through  bad  condoet, 
and  who  now  pick  up  a  hving  by  ^'rubbing  np* 
(that  isjpohshing  the  brsss  of  the  cabs)  on  the 
raidi,  and  ''giving  out  buck"  as  it  is  called 
amongst  the  men.  They  usually  loiter  about 
the  watering-houses  (tliepublie-honses)  of  tke 
cab-stands,  and  pass  most  of  their  time  in  the 
tap-rooms.  They  are  mostly  of  intempenti 
habits,  being  generally  "  confirmed  sots."  Vay 
few  of  tliem  are  married  men.  They  have 
been  fancy-men  in  their  prime,  but,  to  use  the 
words  of  one  of  the  craft,  **  got  turned  up." 
They  seldom  sleep  in  a  bed.  Some  few  hive 
a  bedroom  in  some  obscure  part  of  the  toim, 
but  tho  most  of  them  loll  aboat  and  doze  in 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


358 


t]j«  tap-rooms  by  day,  and  sleep  in  the  cabs  by 
uight.  When  tlie  wateiing-honses  close  they 
resort  to  the  night  coffee-shops,  and  pass  the 
time  there  till  Uiey  are  wanted  as  bucks. 
\Mien  they  take  a  job  for  a  man  they  have  no 
regular  agreement  with  the  driver,  but  the 
rule  is  that  they  shall  do  the  best  they  can. 
If  Uiey  take  2$,  they  give  the  driver  one  and 
keep  the  other  for  themselves.  If  Is.  Ot/.  they 
usually  keep  only  QA.  The  Westminster  men 
have  generally  got  their  regular  bucks,  and 
these  mostly  take  to  the  cab  with  the  second 
horse  and  do  all  the  night-work.  At  three  or 
Coor  in  the  morning  they  meet  the  driver  at 
Mme  appointed  stand  or  watering-place.  Bur- 
leigh Street  in  the  Strand,  or  Palace  Yard,  are 
the  &voarite  places  of  rendezvous  of  the  West- 
minster men,  and  then  they  hand  over  to  the 
long-day  man  "  the  stuff**  as  they  call  it.  The 
regular  driver  has  no  check  upon  these  men, 
but  unless  they  do  well  they  never  employ 
them  again.  For  "  rubbing  up  "  the  cabs  on 
the  stand  these  bucks  generally  get  6^/.  in  the 
season,  and  for  this  they  are  expected  to  dish- 
clout  the  whole  of  the  panels,  clean  the  glasses, 
ind  polish  the  harness  and  brasses,  the  cab- 
driver  having  to  do  these  things  liiroself  or 
having  to  pay  for  it.  Some  of  the  bucks  in 
the  season  will  make  from  2«.  to  *Z».  OJ.  a-day 
by  rubbing  up  alone,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say 
what  they  make  by  driring.  Tliey  ore  the 
most  extortionate  of  all  cab-drivers.  For  a 
shilling  fare  they  will  generally  demand  25. 
and  for  a  y».  fare  they  will  get  5*.  or  G«.,  ac- 
cording  to  tlie  character  of  the  party  driven. 
Earing  no  licenses,  they  do  not  caro  what 
they  charge.  If  the  number  of  the  cab  is 
taken,  and  the  regular  driver  of  it  siuiimoncd, 
the  party  overcharged  is  unable  to  swear  that 
the  regular  driver  was  the  individual  who  de- 
frauded him,  and  so  the  case  is  dismissed.  It 
is  supposed  that  the  bucks  moke  quite  as 
much  money  as  the  drivers,  for  they  oi-e  not  at 
all  particular  as  to  how  tliey  get  their  money. 
The  great  majority,  indeed  99  out  of  100,  have 
been  in  prison,  and  many  more  than  once,  and 
they  consequently  do  not  care  about  revisiting 
gaol.  It  is  calculated  that  there  are  at  least 
800  or  1000  bucks,  hanging  about  the  London 
cab-stands,  and  these  ore  mostly  regular 
thieves.  If  they  catch  any  person  asleep  or 
drunk  in  a  cab,  they  are  sure  to  have  a  dive 
into  his  pockets ;  nor  are  they  partieulor  if  the 
party  belong  to  their  own  class,  for  I  am  as- 
siu-ed  that  they  steal  from  one  another  while 
dozing  in  tlie  cabs  or  tap-rooms.  Very  few  of 
the  respectable  masters  work  their  cabs  at 
night,  except  those  who  do  so  merely  because 
they  have  not  stable-room  for  the  whole  of 
tlicir  horses  and  vehicles  at  the  same  time. 
Some  of  the  cabdrivers  are  the  owners  of 
the  vehicles  they  drive.  It  is  supposed  that 
out  of  the  0000  drivers  in  London,  at  least 
2000,  or  very  nearly  hdf,  are  small  masters, 
and  they  are  amongst  the  most  respectable 
men  of  the  ranki.    Of  tlie  other  half  of  the 


cabdrivers  about  1500  are  long-day  men, 
and  about  100  long-night  men  (there  are 
only  a  few  yards,  and  they  are  principally 
at  Islington,  that  employ  long-night  men ) .  Of 
the  morning-men  and  the  short-night  men 
there  are,  as  near  as  I  can  learn,  about  500 
belonging  to  each  class,  in  addition  to  the 
small  masters. 

The  Watermen. 

The  Waterman  is  an  important  officer  at  tho 
cab-stand.  He  is  indeed  the  master  of  tho 
rank.  At  some  of  the  larger  stands,  sucli  as 
tliat  at  the  London  and  Birmingham  llailway 
terminus,  there  are  four  watermen,  two  being 
always  on  duty  day  and  night,  filleen  hours 
by  day  and  nine  by  night,  the  day-waterman 
becoming  the  night-waterman  the  following 
week.  On  the  smaller  stands  two  men  do  this 
work,  changing  their  day  and  night  labour  in 
tlie  same  way.  The  waterman  must  see  that 
there  is  no  '* fouling"  in  the  rank,  that  there 
is  no  straggling  or  crowding,  but  that  each 
cab  maintains  its  proper  place.  He  is  also 
bound  to  keep  the  best  order  he  can  among 
the  cabmen,  and  to  restrain  any  ill-usage  of 
the  horses.  The  waterman's  remuneration 
consists  in  the  receipt  of  \d.  from  every  cab- 
man who  joins  his  rank,  for  which  the  cab- 
man is  supplied  with  water  for  his  horse, 
and  \d.  for  every  cabman  who  is  hired  ofl'  the 
rank.  There  are  now  850  odd  watermen,  and 
they  must  be  known  as  trusty  men,  a  rigid 
inquiry  bcijig  instituted,  and  tmexceptional 
references  demanded  before  an  appointment 
to  the  office  takes  place.  At  some  stands  the 
supply  of  water  costs  these  officers  4/.  a-year, 
at  othci'S  tho  trustees  of  the  waterworks,  or 
the  parishes,  supply  it  gratuitously.  All  the 
watermen,  I  am  informed,  on  good  authority, 
have  been  connected  with  the  working  part  of 
it.  They  must  all  be  able  to  read  and  writ<», 
for  ns  one  of  them  said  to  me,  **  We're  expected 
to  undei*stand  Acts  of  Parliament."  They  are 
generally  strong,  big-boned,  red-faced  men, 
civil  and  honest,  mairied  (with  very  few  excep- 
tions), and  bringing  up  families.  They  are 
great  readers  of  newspapers,  and  in  these 
they  devote  themselves  tirst  of  all  to  the  police 
reports. 

One  of  the  body  said,  "I  have  been  a  good 
many  years  a  waterman,  but  was  brought  up 
a  coaohbuilder  in  a  London  firm.  I  then  got 
into  the  cab-trade,  and  am  now  a  waterman. 
I  make  my  t24«.  a- week  the  year  through  :  but 
there's  stands  to  my  knowledge  where  the  water- 
man doesn't  make  more  than  half  as  much;  and 
that  for  a  man  that's  expected  to  be  respectable. 
He  can  give  his  children  a  good  schooling — 
can't  he,  sir? — on  VZ».  a-week,  and  the  best  of 
keep,  to  be  sure.  AVliy,  my  comings-in — it's  a 
hard  tight  for  nic  to  do  as  much.  I  have 
eight  children,  sir.  I  pay  10/.  a  year  for  three 
tidy  rooms  in  a  mews — that's  rather  more 
than  6«.  a-week ;  but  I  have  the  carriage  place 


;ji 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


below,  and  that  brin^r^  me  in  a  little.  Six  of 
my  children  dou't  com  a  hal^nny  now.  My 
eldest  daughter,  she's  17,  earns  Qd.  a-day  from 
a  slop- tailor.  I  liatc  to  sec  her  work,  work, 
work  away,  poor  lass !  but  it's  a  help,  and  it 
gets  them  bits  of  clothes.  Another  boy  earns 
iSd.  a-day  from  a  coach- builder,  and  lives  with 
mc.  Anotlier  daughter  would  try  her  hand  at 
shiitmaking,  and  got  work  from  a  shirtmakor 
near  Tabernacle  Square ;  and  in  four  days  and 
a  half  she  made  Ave  bodies,  and  they  camo  to 
If.  \0\d, ;  and  out  of  tlhit  she  had  to  pay  l\d. 
for  her  thread  and  that,  and  so  there  was 
1j.  :)(/.  for  her  hard  work ;  but  they  gave  satis- 
faction, her  employer  said,  as  if  tliat  was  a 
grand  comfort  to  her  mother  and  me.  But  I 
Koon  put  a  stop  to  that.  I  said,  *  Come,  come, 
I'll  keep  you  at  home,  and  manage  somehow 
or  anyhow,  rather  than  you  shall  pull  your 
eyes  out  of  your  head  for  \\\d.  a-day,  and  less ; 
Bo  it's  no  more  shirts.'  Why,  sir,  the  last  time 
bn>ad  was  dear — 1847,  was  it? — I  paid  lOn. 
and  %)s,  a- week  for  broad  :  it's  now  about  half 
what  it  was  then  ;  rather  more,  though.  But 
tliere's  one  thing's  a  grand  thing  for  poor  men, 
and  that's  such  prime  and  such  cheap  lish. 
The  railways  have  done  tliat.  In  Xottcnham- 
court-roAil  my  wife  con  buy  good  soles,  as 
many  pairs  for  Qd.  of  a  night,  as  would  have 
been  3<.  Oi/.  before  railways.  That's  a  great 
luxur}'  for  a  poor  man  like  me,  that's  fonder 
c»f  fish  than  meat.  They  ore  a  queer  set  we 
liave  to  do  with  in  the  ranks.  The  *  pounceys,' 
(the  class  I  have  alluded  to  as  fancy-men, 
calh'd  *  pounceys'^  by  my  present  informant), 
are  far  the  wor»t  '  They  sometimes  try  to  bilk 
me,  and  it's  always  hard  to  get  your  dues  from 
contractors.  That's  the  men  what  sign  for 
jicttvy  figures.  Credit  tliem  once,  and  you're 
never  paid — never.  None  signs  for  so  much 
as  the  poimceys.  They'd  sign  for  18*.  Wliy, 
if  a  i>ouncey'8  girl,  or  a  girl  he  knows,  seems 
in  luck,  as  they  call  it — ^tliat  is,  if  she  picks 
tp  a  gentleman,  partickler  if  he's  drunk,  the 
pouncey — Fve  seen  it  many  a  time — jumps 
out  of  the  ranks,  for  he  keeps  a  look-out 
f(jr  the  spoil,  and  he  drives  to  her.  It's  the 
pounceys,  too,  that  mostly  go  gagging  where 
the  girls  walk.  It's  such  a  set  we  have  to 
deal  with.  Only  yesterday  an  out-and-out 
pouncoy  called  me  such  names  about  nothing. 
Why,  it's  sliocking  for  any  female  that  may  be 
pa^ising.  Aye,  and  of  a  busy  niglit  in  the 
Market  (HujTuarket),  when  it's  an  opera- 
uijfht  and  a  play-night,  the  gentlemen's  coach- 
men's as  bad  for  bad  language  as  the  cabmen  ; 
nnil  some  gentlemen's  very  clever  at  that  sort 
of  language,  too.    It's  not  as  it  was  in  Loni 

's  days.     Swells  now  tliink  as  much  of 

one  shilling  as  they  did  of  twenty  then.  ]3ut 
there's  some  swells  left  still.  One  young 
Kwt'll  biings  four  quarts  of  gin  out  of  a  public- 
h<iuse  in  a  pail,  and  the  cabmen  must  drink  it 
oiit  of  i»int  pots.  lie's  quite  master  of  bad 
language  if  they  don't  driuk  fairly.  Another 
swell  gets  a  gallon  of  gin  always  from  Carter's, 


and  cabmen  most  drink  it  ont  of  qoart  pots— 
no  other  way.  It  makes  some  of  them  mod 
drunk,  and  makes  them  drive  like  mad;  for 
they  might  be  lialf  drunk  to  be{^  with. 
Thank  Gml,  no  man  can  say  he's  seen  me  in- 
capable from  liquor  for  four-and-twenty  years. . 
There's  no  racketier  place  in  the  worid  thu 
the  Market.  Houses  open  all  night,  and 
people  going  there  after  Vauxhall  and  them 
places.  After  a  masquerade  at  Vaazhall  Pre 
seen  cabmen  drinking  ^ith  lords  and  gentle, 
men — but  such  lords  g*'t  fewer  every  day; 
and  cockney  tars  tliat  was  handy  with  Uieir  flffts 
wanting  to  tight  Highlanders  that  wasnt ;  and 
the  girls  in  all  sorts  of  dresses  here  and  there 
and  everywhere  among  tliem,  the  paint  off  and 
their  dresses  torn.  Sometimes  calimen  as- 
saults us.  My  mates  have  been  twice  whipped 
lately.  I  haven't,  because  I  know  liow  to 
humour  their  liquor.  I  give  them  fair  play; 
and  more  than  that,  perhaps,  as  I  get  luy  | 
living  out  of  them.  Any  customer  can  pick 
his  own  cab ;  but  if  I'm  told  to  call  one,  or 
nonc's  picked,  tlie  first  on  the  rank,  that's  the 
rule,  gets  the  fare.  I  take  my  meals  at  a  coffee- 
shop  ;  and  my  mate  takes  a  tiuni  for  me  when 
I'm  at  dinner,  and  so  do  I  for  him.  My  coflee* 
shop  cuts  up  1501bs.  a-meat  a-day,  eliiefly  fur 
cabmen.  A  dinner  is  i\\d.  without  beer :  meat 
4</.,  bread  Id,,  vegetables  Id.,  and  waiter  \d,\ 

at  least  I  give  him  a  halfpenny.     At 1 

public-house  I  can  dine  capitally  for  8{i.,  and 
that  includes  a  pint  of  beer.  On  Sundays  there^ 
a  dessert  of  puddings,  and  then  it*8  If.  A 
waterman's  berth  when  it's  one  of  the  best  isn't 
80  good,  I  fancy,  as  a  pri\ileged  cabman's." 

SuatiESTIONS  FOR  PvEOLXATlNa  THE  TlUDE. 

I  SHALL  now  conclude  with  some  statements  of 
sundry  evils  connected  with  the  cab  business, 
under  the  old  and  also  under  the  new  system, 
and  shall  then  offer  suggestions  for  their 
rectification. 

One  cab  proprietor,  after  expressing  his 
oi»inion  that  the  new  police  arrangements  for 
the  regulation  of  the  trade  would  be  a  decided 
improvement,  suggested  it  would  be  an  excel* 
lent  plan  to  make  policemen  of  the  watermen; 
for  then,  he  said,  the  cabmen  thieves  would  be 
reluctant  to  approach  the  ranks.  He  also 
gave  me  the  following  statement  of  what  he 
considered  would  be  greater  improvements. 
*'I  think,"  he  said,  "it  would  do  well  for 
those  in  the  cab-trade  if  licenses  were  made 
10/.  instead  of  5/.,  with  a  regulation  that  bl 
should  be  returned  to  any  one  on  bringing  his 
plates  in  pro\ious  to  leaving  the  trade,  and  so 
not  wanting  his  license  any  longer.  Tb» 
woidd,  I  believe,  be  a  check  to  any  illegal 
transfer,  as  men  wouldn't  be  so  ready'  to  hand 
over  their  plates  to  other  parties  when  they 
disposed  of  their  cabs,  if  they  were  sure^  of  6/. 
in  a  regular  and  legal  way.  I  woidd  also,"  he 
soitl,  *•  reduce  the  duty  from  Irtt.  a- week  to  Jkf 
and  that  would  aUow  cabs  to  ]dy  for  ^d,  a-mile. 
As  everything  is  cheai>er,  I  wonder  people 


LONDON  LABOUli  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


355 


doQ^  want  cheaper  cabs.  'Busses  don't  at  all 
answer  the  purpose;  for  if  it's  a  wet  day, 
almost  every  one  has  to  walk  some  way  to  his 
"biiSf  and  some  way  to  the  house  he's  going  to. 
Sunday  visitors  particularly;  and  they  like 
the  wot  least  of  idl.  Now,  if  cabs  ran  at  G^., 
Ui^  could  take  a  man  and  his  wife  and  two 
children,  and  more,  two  miles  for  I5.,  or  four 
miles  for  2$.,  about  what  the  'busses  would 
charge  four  persons  for  those  distances  :  and 
the  persons  could  go  from  door  to  door  as 
cheap ;  or,  if  not  quite  so  cheap,  they'd  save  it 
in  not  having  their  clothes  spoiled  by  the 
weather,  and  go  far  more  comfortably  than  in 
a  %QS  full  of  wet  people  and  dripping  um- 
bndlas.  I  know  most  cabmen  don't  like  to 
hear  of  this  plan ;  and  why  ?  Because,  by  the 
present  system  they  reckon  upon  getting  a 
ghilling  a- mile ;  and  they  almost  always  do 
get  it  for  an  8</.  fare,  and  for  longer  distances 
oft  enough.  But  it  wouldn't  be  so  easy  to 
overcharge  when  there's  a  fixed  coin  a-mile 
for  the  fare.  It  would  be  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  or  as  many  sixpences  as  miles. 
Now  it's  1«.  4d,  for  two  miles,  and  that's  Is.  6</. 
— 1*.  8<l.  for  over  two  miles,  and  that  means 
^ — of  course  cabmen  don't  carry  change 
unless  for  an  even  sum ;  2«.  4i.  for  over  three 
miles  and  a  half,  and  that's  25.  6r/.  if  not  35., 
and  so  on.  The  odd  coppers  make  cabmen 
like  the  present  way." 

I  now  give  a  statement  concerning  "  foul 
plates  "  and  informers.  It  may,  however,  be 
necessary  to  state  first,  that  every  cab  pro- 
prietor must  be  licensed,  at  a  cost  to  him  of 
5/.,  and  that  he  must  affix  a  plate,  with  his 
number,  &c.,  to  his  cnb,  to  show  that  he  is 
duly  licensed :  wliile  ever>'  driver  and  water- 
man is  licensed  at  a  cost  to  each  of  55.  a-year, 
and  is  bound  to  wear  a  metal  ticket  showing 
his  number.  The  law  then  provides,  that  in 
case  of  unavoidable  necessity^  which  must  be 
proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  tlie  magistrate,  a 
proprietor  may  be  allowed  to  employ  an  un- 
beensed  person  for  twenty- four  hours ;  with 
this  exception,  every  unlicensed  x)erson  acting 
as  driver,  and  every  licensed  person  lending 
his  license,  or  permitting  any  other  person  to 
use  or  wear  his  ticket,  is  to  be  fined  'd.  The 
same  pro>ision  applies  to  any  proprietor 
**  lending  his  license,"  but  with  a  penalty  of 
1(W.    I  now  give  the  statement : — 

*•  You  see,  sir,  if  a  man  wants  to  dispose  of 
hia  cab,  why  he  must  dispose  of  it  as  a  cab. 
Well,  if  it  aint  answered  for  him,  he'll  get 
somebody  or  other  willing  to  try  it  on.  And 
the  new  hand  will  say,  •  I'll  give  you  so  much, 
and  work  your  plates  for  you  ;'  and  so  he  does 
when  a  bargain's  made.  Well,  this  things 
gone  on  till  there's  1000  or  1200  *  foul  plates ' 
in  the  trade;  and  then  government  says, 
•  What  a  lot  of  foul  plates  I  There  must  be  a 
check  to  this.'    And  a  nice  check  they  found. 

Mister (continued  my  informant,  laying 

a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  mister),  the  in- 
former, was  set  to  work,  and  he  soon  ferreted 


out  the  foul  plates,  and  there  was  a  few  sum- 
monses about  them  at  first ;  but  it's  managed 
different  now.  Suppose  I  had  a  foul  plate  in 
my  place  here,  though  in  course  I  wouldn't,  but 

suppose  I  had,  Mister would  drop  in  some 

day  and  look  about  him,  and  say  little  or 
nothing,  but  it's  known  what  he's  up  to.     In  a 

day  or  two  comes  Mister  No.   2,  he's 

Mister  No.  I's  friend;    and  he'll  look 

about  and  say,  *  Oh,  Mister ,  I  see  you've 

got  so-and-so — it's  a  foul  plate.  I'll  call  on 
you  for  25.  in  a  day  or  two.  He  calls  sure 
enough;  and  he  calls  for  the  same  money, 
perhaps,  every  three  months.  Some  pays 
him  55.  a-year  regular ;  and  if  he  only  gets 
that  on  1060  plates,  he  makes  a  good  living  of 
it — only  250/.  a-year,  5/.  a- week,  that's  all. 

In  course  Mister No.  1  has  nothing  to 

do  with  Mister  —  No.  2,  not  he :  it's  always 

Mister  No.  2  what's  paid,  and  never 

Mister No.  1.     But  if  Mister No.  2 

ain't  paid,  then  Mister No.  1  looks  in,  and 

lets  you  know  there  may  be  a  hearing  about 
the  foul  plate ;  and  so  he  goes  on." 

This  same  Mister No.  1 , 1  am  informed 

by  another  cab  proprietor,  is  employed  by  the 
Excise  to  sec  after  the  duty,  which  has  to  be 
paid  every  month.  Should  the  proprietor  be 
behind  with  the  IO5.  a-week,  the  informer  is 
furnished  with  a  warrant  for  the  month's 
money  ;  and  this  he  requires  a  fee  of  from  10». 
to  1/.  (according  to  the  circiunstances  of  the 
proprietor),  to  hold  over  for  a  short  time.  It 
is  difficult  to  estimate  how  many  fees  are  ob- 
tained in  this  way  every  month ;  but  I  am 
assured  that  they  must  amount  to  something 
considerable  in  the  course  of  the  year. 

It  is  proper  that  I  should  add  that  my  in- 
formants in  this  and  other  matters  refer  to 
the  systems  with  which  they  had  been  long 
familiar.  The  new  regulations  when  I  was  en- 
gaged in  this  inquiry,  had  been  so  recently  in 
force,  that  the  cab  proprietors  said  they  could 
not  yet  judge  of  their  effect ;  but  it  was  believed 
that  they  would  be  beneficial.  An  experienced 
man  complained  to  me  that  the  clashing  of  the 
magistrates'  decisions,  especially  when  the  po- 
lice were  mixed  up  with  the  complaints  against 
cabmen,  was  an  evil.  My  informant  also  pointed 
out  a  clause  in  the  2d  and  3d  Victoria,  cap.  71, 
enactuig  that  magistrates  should  meet  once  a 
quarter,  each  fiunishing  a  report  of  his  pro- 
ceedings as  respects  the  *'  Act  for  regulating 
the  Police  Courts  in  the  Metropolis."  Such  a 
meeting,  and  a  comparison  of  the  reports,  might 
tend  to  a  uniformity  in  decisions ;  but  the  clause, 
I  am  told,  is  a  dead  letter,  no  such  meeting 
taking  place.  Another  cab  proprietor  ssdd  it 
would  be  a  great  improvement  if  an  authorised 
officer  of  the  police,  or  a  government  officer, 
had  the  fixing  of  plates  on  carriages,  together 
with  the  inspection  and  superintendence  of 
them  afterwards.  These  plates,  it  was  further 
suggested  to  me,  should  be  metallic  seals,  and 
easUy  perceptible  inside  or  out.  Some  of  the 
cab    proprietors   complain  of  the  stands  in 


u:jO 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Oxford-street  (the  best  in  all  London,  they 
s;iy),  being  removed  to  out-of-the-way  places. 

Among  tho  mutters  I  heard  complained  of, 
that  of  privileged  cabs  was  much  dwelt  upon. 
These  are  the  cabs  which  arc  privileged  to 
stand  within  a  railway  terminus,  waiting  to  bo 
hire<l  on  the  arrival  of  tho  trains.  For  this 
privilege  2s.  a- week  is  paid  by  the  cabmen  to 
some  of  the  railway  companies,  and  a^  much 
as  .■>«.  a- week  to  others.  The  cabmen  complain 
of  this  as  a  monopoly  established  to  their  dis- 
advantage, and  with  no  benefit  to  the  public, 
but  merely  to  the  railway  companies ;  for  there 
are  cab-stands  adjacent  to  all  tho  rwlway 
stations,  at  which  the  public  would  be  supplied 
with  conveyances  in  the  ordinary  way.  The 
horses  in  the  cabs  at  the  railway  stations  are, 
I  am  informed,  amongst  tho  hardest- worked  of 
any  in  London ;  the  following  case  being  put 
to  me  : — **  Suppose  a  man  takes  a  faro  of  four 
persons  and  heavy  luggage  from  the  Great 
Western  Tenninus  to  Milo  End,  which  is  near 
upon  seven  miles,  he  must  then  hurry  back 
again  all  tho  way,  because  he  plies  only  at  the 
railway.  Now,  if  he  didn't,  ho  would  go  to  the 
nighest  cab-stand,  and  his  horse  would  be  far 
Hooncr  relieved.  Then,  perhaps,  he  gets 
another  faro  to  Finsbury,  and  must  hurry 
back  again ;  and  then  another  below  Bromp- 
ton;  and  he  may  live  at  Whitechapel,  and 
have  to  go  home  after  all ;  so  that  his  poor 
horse  gets  *  bashed '  to  bits." 

Another  cab  proprietor  furnished  me  M'ith 
the  following  Btatement  in  writing  of  his  per- 
sonal experience  and  observation  concerning 
the  working  of  the  2J)d  clause  in  the  Haoknoy 
Carriage  Act,  or  that  concerning  the  signing 
before  alluded  to.  **  A  master  i^  in  wnnt  of 
drivers.  A,  B,  and  C  apply.  The  only  ques- 
tions asked  are,  *  Are  you  a  driver  ?  AVhere 
is  your  license  ?  Well !  here,  sign  tljis  paper ; 
my  money  is  so  much.'  In  vcrj'  few  large 
establishments  is  more  caution  used  as  to 
real  character  of  the  driver  than  this;  the 
effect  of  which  is,  that  a  man  with  a  really 
good  character  has  no  better  claim  to  employ 
ment  than  one  of  the  worst.  Then,  as  to  the 
feeling  of  a  man  who  has  placed  himself  under 
such  a  contract.  *  I  must  get  mv  money,*  he 
says,  •  I  will  do  anjihing  to  obtain  it ;  and  as 
a  gaol  hangs  over  my  head,  what  matters 
about  my  breaking  the  law?*  and  so  every 
unfair  trick  is  resorted  to :  and  the  means 
used  are  'gagging,'  that  is  to  say,  driving 
about  and  loitering  in  the  thoroughftires  for 
jobs.  It  is  known  that  some  men  very  seldom 
put  on  the  ranks  at  all.  Some  masters  have 
told  their  drivers  not  to  go  on  the  stand,  as 
they  well  know  that  the  money  is  not  to  bo 
obtained  by  what  is  termed  *  ranking  iL*  Now, 
the  effect  of  this  is,  that  the  thoroughfares  are 
troubled  with  empty  cabs.  It  has  also  this 
effect :  it  causes  great  cruelty  and  overdriving 
to  the  horses;  and  drivers  under  such  cir- 
cumstances frequently  agree  to  go  for  verj- 
mmh  less  than  the  fare,  and  then,  as  they 


term  it,  take  it  out  by  insulting  and  bullying 
their  customers.  It  may  be  said  tiiat  the  law 
in  force  is  sufficient  to  counteract  this ;  but  it 
may  not  bo  known  that  a  great  many  pro- 
tection-clubs exist,  by  contributions  from  cab- 
men,  and  which  clubs  are,  in  fact,  premiums 
for  breaking  the  law ;  for  by  them  a  man  is 
borne  harmless  of  the  consequences  of  being 
fined.  Now,  these  clubs  exist  sometimes  at 
public-houses,  but  in  many  cases  in  the  pro- 
prietors' yards,  the  proprietors  themselves  being 
treasurers,  and  so  becoming  agents  to  induce 
their  servants  to  infiinge  the  law,  for  the  pur- 
I>ose  of  obtaining  for  themselves  a  large  return. 
The  moral  consequence  of  all  this  is,  that  men 
beingdealt  with  and  made  to  suffer  as  criminals, 
that  is  to  say,  being  sent  to  gaol  to  experience 
the  same  treatment,  save  indignity,  as  comicted 
felons,  and  all  this  for  what  they  after  all  be- 
lieve to  be  a  debt,  a  simple  contract  between 
man  and  man ;  the  consequence,  I  repeat,  is, 
that  the  driver  having  served  his  time,  as  it  is 
called,  in  prison,  returns  to  the  trade  a  de- 
graded character  and  a  far  worse  man.  Be  it 
observed,  also,  that  the  fact  of  a  driver  haviog 
been  imprisoned  is  no  barrier  to  his  being, 
employed  again  if  ho  will  but  sign — that's  the 
test.*' 

AccotmT  OF  Crixe  auokost  Cabxek. 

I  UAVE  now  but  to  add  a  comparative  state- 
ment of  the  criminality  of  tho  London  coach 
and  cabmen  in  relation  to  that  of  other 
callings. 

The  metropolitan  criminal  returns  show  us 
that  crime  among  this  class  has  been  un  the 
decline  since  1840.  In  that  year  the  number 
taken  into  custody  by  the  London  police  was 
1310;  from  which  time  until  1813  there  was  a 
gradual  decrease,  when  the  number  of  coach 
and  cabmen  taken  into  custody  was  820. 
After  this  the  numbers  fluctuated  sUghtlj; 
till,  in  1848,  there  were  072  individuals  arrested 
for  various  infractions  of  the  law. 

For  tho  chief  offences  given  in  the  p<£ce 
returns,  I  find,  upon  taking  the  average  for 
tho  last  ten  years,  that  the  criminality  of  \)\^ 
London  coach  and  cabmen  stands  as  follows : 
For  murder  there  has  been  annually  1  indi- 
vidual in  every  20,710  of  this  body  taken  into 
custody ;  for  manslaughter,  1  in  every  2820 ; 
for  rape,  1  in  8468 ;  for  common  assaults,  1  in 
40;  for  simple  loroeny,  1  in  02;  for  wilful 
damage,  1  m  285;  for  uttering  counterfeit 
coin,  1  in  G12 ;  for  drunkenness,  1  in  40 ;  for 
vagrancy,  1  in  278 ;  for  tlie  whole  of  the 
offences  mentioned  in  the  returns,! in  every 6 
of  their  number.  On  comparing  these  resiita 
with  the  criminality  of  other  classes,  we  arrive 
at  the  following  conclusions : — The  tendency 
of  the  metropolitan  coach  and  cabmen  for 
murder  is  less  tlian  that  of  the  weavers  (who 
appear  to  have  the  greatest  propensity  of  all 
classes  to  commit  this  ciimo),  as  well  aa 
sailoi-s    (who   arc  tho  next  criminal  in  this 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB, 


a»7 


respect),  and  labourers,  sawyers,  and  carpen- 
ters. Oo  the  otiier  hand,  howeyer,  the  coach 
ttid  cabmen  wonld  seem  to  be  more  ioclined 
to  this  species  of  atrocity  than  the  tamers, 
eoachmakers,  shoemakers,  and  tailors  ;  the 
Utter,  accoi*ding  to  the  metropolitan  poUce 
returns  for  the  last  ten  years,  being  the  least 
marderoas  oi'  all  classes.  For  manslaughter, 
the  coaeh  and  cabmen  hare  a  stronger  predis- 
poaition  than  any  other  class  that  I  have  yet 
estimated.  The  average  crime  in  this  respect 
iior  ten  ycvurs  is  1  in  20,000  individuals  of  the 
entire  popolation  of  London ;  whereas  the  ave- 
nge for  the  same  period  among  the  London 
coach  and  cabmen  has  been  as  high  as  1  in  every 
S800  of  their  trade.  In  rape  they  rank  less 
eriminal  than  the  labonrers,  carpenters,  and 
veavers,  bnt  still  much  higher  than  the  general 
•verage,  and  considerably  above  the  tailors, 
sawyers,  turners,  shoemakers,  or  eoachmakers. 
In  the  matter  of  common  assaults  they  stand 
the  highest  of  all ;  e\'cn  the  labourers  being 
less  pngnacions  than  they.  Their  honesty 
seems,  nevertheless, to  be  greater  than  common 
report  gives  them  credit  for;  they  being,  ac- 
eoiding  to  the  some  returns,  less  disposed  to 
'Commit  simple  larceny  than  either  labourers, 
sailors,  or  weavers,  though  far  more  dishonest 
than  the  generality  of  the  London  population. 
Nor  arc  they  so  intemperate  as,  from  the 
nature  of  their  calling,  we  should  be  led  to 
imagine.  The  sailors  (who  seem  to  form  the 
most  drunken  of  all  trades,  there  being  1  in 
ever}'  13  of  tliat  body  arrested  for  this  oftence), 
and  the  labourers  (who  come  next),  are  both 
much  more  addicted  to  intoxication  than  the 
eoflch  and  cabmen ;  although  the  latter  class 
appear  to  be  nearly  twice  as  intemperate  as 
the  rest  of  the  people,  the  general  average 
being  1  drunlcard  in  every  81  of  the  entire 
residents  of  the  metropolis,  and  1  in  every  40 
of  the  London  coach  and  cabmon.  Hence  it 
may  be  said,  that  the  great  vices  of  the  class 
at  present  under  consideration  are  a  tendency 
to  manslaughter  and  assault. 

The  cause  of  this  predisposition  to  violence 
against  the  person  on  the  part  of  the  London 
eoach  and  cabmen  I  leave  others  to  explain. 


CAUMEX  AND  rOllTKRS. 

H4^^!«o  dealt  with  the  social  condition  of  the 
conductors  and  drivers  of  the  London  omni- 
buses and  cabs,  1  now,  in  due  order,  proceed 
to  treat  of  the  number,  state,  and  income  of 
the  men  connected  with  the  job  and  glass- 
coaches,  as  well  as  the  flies  for  the  conveyance 
of  persons,  and  the  waggons,  carts,  vans,  drays, 
&c.,  for  the  conveyance  of  goods  from  one  part 
of  the  metropolis  to  another ;  also  of  the  por- 
ters engagi.'d  in  conveyance  by  hand. 

Tho  metropolitan  carriages  engaged  in  the 
conveyance  of  [lossengers  are  of  two  classes, — 
ticketed  and  unlicketed;  that  is  to  say,  Uiosc 
who  ply  for  passengers  in  the  public  sUeuts, 


cany  a  plate  inscribed  with  a  certain  nnmb^, 
by  which  the  drivers  and  owners  of  them  may 
be  readily  known.  Whereas  those  who  do  not 
ply  in  public,  but  are  let  out  at  certain  yards 
or  stabUs,  have  no  badge  alBxed  to  them,  and 
are,  in  many  cases,  scarcely  distinguishable 
ftom  private  vehicles.  The  ticketed  carriages 
include  the  stage  and  hackney-coaches,  or,  in 
modem  parlance,  the  'busses  and  cabs  of 
London.  The  unticketed  carriages,  on  the 
other  hand,  comprise  the  glass-coaches  and 
flies  that,  for  a  small  premium,  may  be  con- 
verted into  one's  own  carriage  for  the  time 
being.  But  besides  these  there  is  another 
large  class  of  hired  conveyances,  such  as  the 
job-carriages,  which  differ  from  the  glass- 
coaches  principally  in  the  length  of  time  for 
which  they  are  engaged.  The  term  of  lease 
for  the  glass-coach  rarely  exceeds  a  day; 
while  the  fly  is  often  taken  by  the  hour ;  the 
•job-carriage,  however,  is  more  commonly  en- 
gaged by  the  moutli,  and  not  unfrequcntly  by 
the  year.  Hence  the  latter  class  of  conveyances 
may  be  said  to  partake  of  the  attributes  of  both 
public  and  private  carriages.  They  are  public, 
in  so  far  as  they  are  let  to  hire  fbr  a  certain 
term  ;  and  private,  ina.smuch  as  they  aro  often 
used  by  the  same  party,  and  by  them  only,  for 
several  years. 

The  tradesmen  who  supply  earn  age -horses 
(and  occasionally  carriages)  by  the  day,  week, 
month,  or  year,  to  all  requiring  such  temporary 
or  continuous  accommodation,  are  termed  job- 
masters, of  whom,  according  to  the  Post-ntfice 
Director}',  there  are  104  located  in  London ; 
51  being  also  cab  proprietors,  and  28  tho 
owners  of  omnibuses.  They  boast,  and 
doubtlessly  with  perfect  truth,  thot  in  their 
stables  are  tho  m(\)or  port  of  the  finest  carriage 
horses  in  the  world.  The  powerful  animals 
which  aro  seen  to  dash  proudly  along  the 
streets,  a  pair  of  them  drawing  a  hirge  carriage 
wth  the  most  manifest  ease,  are,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  not  the  pwperty  of  the  noble- 
man whose  silver  crest  may  adorn  the  glittering 
harness,  but  of  the  job-master.  C>ne  of  those 
masters  has  now  400  hoi-ses,  some  of  which 
are  worth  120  guineas,  and  the  value  is  not 
less  than  CO/,  per  horse,  or  24,000/.  in  all. 
Tho  premises  of  some  of  the  Jt^b-masters  aio 
remarkable  for  their  extent,  their  ventilation, 
and  their  scrupulous  cleanliness.  All  those 
in  a  large  way  of  business  have  establishments 
in  the  country  as  well  as  in  town,  and  at  the 
latter  ore  received  tlie  horses  that  aro  lame, 
that  require  rest,  or  that  are  turned  out  to 
grass.  The  young  horses  that  are  brought 
up  from  the  country  fairs,  or  liavc  been  pur- 
chased of  the  country  breeders  (for  job-masters 
or  Uieir  agents  attend  at  Ilomcostle,  North- 
allerton, and  all  the  great  horse-fairs  in  York- 
shire and  Lincolnshire),  are  generally  conducted 
in  the  first  instance  to  the  counti-y  establish-  j 
ment  of  the  town  master,  which  may  be  at 
Bornet  or  any  place  of  a  like  distance.  These 
ageats  have  what  is   colled  the   pick  of  tho 


No.  LXW. 


»58 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON,  POOR, 


uiorkct.iiot  nnfrequently  visiting  the  premises 
of  tlie  country  liorso  deiUer  and  there  com- 
pleting piircliases  vrithnwt  subjecting  the 
fami.r  (  for  country  hoi-se-breeders  and  dealers 
aro  nearly  nil  farmers)  to  the  trouble  and 
expen<i«'  of  sending  his  cattle  to  tlie  fair ;  and 
it  is  thus  that  the  London  dealers  secure  the 
bost  stock  in  tlie  kingdom.  Until  within 
twonty  or  thirty  years  ago  some  of  the  wealthier 
of  the  nobility  or  gentry,  as  I  have  previously 
intimated,  would  vie  with  each  other  during 
the  r.ondon  season  in  the  display  of  their  most 
perfect  Cleveland  bays,  or  other  description  of 
carriage-horses.  The  animals  were  at  that 
period  walked  to  London  under  the  care  of  the 
coachman  and  his  subordinates,  the  family 
travelling  post  to  town.  Such  a  procedure 
is  now  never  resorted  to.  Very  few  noblemen 
at  present  bring  their  carriage-horses  to  town, 
even  if  within  a  short  railway  distance ;  they 
nearly  nil  job,  as  it  is  invariably  called :  that  is, 
they  hire  carriage-horses  by  the  month  at 
from  twenty  to  thirty  guineas  a  pair,  the  job- 
master keeping  the  animals  by  sending  the 
quantity  of  provender  to  his  customer's  pre- 
mises, and  they  are  groomed  by  his  own 
sen-ants.  "  Why  sir,"  said  a  job-master  to  me, 
"  everybody  jobs  now.    A  few  bishops  do,  and 

lords,  and  diikes,  and  judges.  Lord  D jobs, 

and  lots  of  parsons  and  physicians  ;  yes  lots, 
sir.  The  royal  family  job,  all  but  the  Queen 
herself.    The  Duchess  of  Kent  jobs.    The  late 

Duke   of  C jobbed,   and  no   doubt  the 

present  duke  wUl.  The  Queen  Dowager 
jobbed  regularly.  It's  a  cheaper  and  better 
plan  for  those  that  must  have  good  horses  and 
handsome  carriages.  1  dare  say  all  the  gentle- 
men in  the  Albany  job,  for  I  know  a  many 
that  do.  By  jobbing,  rich  people  can  always 
sf'cure  the  best  horses  in  the  world."  I  may  add, 
that  nny  of  the  masters  of  whom  I  have  spoken 
will  job  a  carriage  duly  emblazoned  (if  ordered 
to  proWde  one) ;  he  will  job  harness,  too,  with 
the  i)roper  armorial  bearings  about  it,  and  job 
coachmen  and  grooms  as  well.  For  the  use  of 
a  lirst-class  carriage  80  guineas  a  year  is  paid. 
A  brougham  with  one  horse  and  a  driver  is 
jobbed  at  1G«.  a-day.  Itut  these  vehicles  are 
usually  supplied  by  jobbing  coach -masters  : 
but  the  jobbing  in  carriages  is  not  so  common 
as  in  horses,  gentlemen  preferring  to  have 
their  own  chariots  or  broughams,  while  the 
jobbing  in  servants  is  confined  principally  to 
ba'.'heb'rs  or  gentlemen  keeping  no  establish- 
ments. 

The  job  trade  I  am  assured  has  increased 
fi\efoM  since  the  general  establishment  of 
r.iilways.  Tn  this  trade  there  is  no  "slop" 
supply.  Even  the  smaller  masters  supply 
hoi-ses  worth  the  money ;  for  to  furnish  bml 
horses  would  be  at  once  to  lose  custom. 
"  Gentlemen  are  too  good  judges  of  horse-flesh," 
a  small  job-mnster  said  to  me,  '*  to  put  up  with 
poor  cnttle,  even  though  they  may  wear  slop 
coats  themselves,  and  rig  their  servants  out  in 
slop   liveries.     Nothing   shows   a  gentleman 


more  tlian  his  horse;  and  they  can't  get 
first-rate  horses  in  the  coontiy  as  they  can  in 
Tendon,  because  they're  bought  np  for  the 
metropolis.'* 

The  men  employed  in  the  job-m asters' yards 
do  not  live  in  the  yards,  except  a  lew  of  the 
higher  sonants,  to  whom  can  be  entrusted  the 
care  of  the  jiremises  and  of  the  costly  animals 
kept  there.  Nearly  all  the  men  in  these  yaids 
have  been  brought  up  as  grooms,  and  most, 
in  stable  phraseology,  **  know  a  horse  weU." 
None  of  them  in  the  better  yards  receive  less 
than  20s.  a- week  in  wages ;  nor  will  any  master 
permit  his  horses  to  Ins  abused  in  any  manner. 
Cruelty  to  a  horse  is  ccrcain  dismissal  if 
detected,  and  is  now,  I  am  glad  tobe  infonsed 
on  good  autJiority,  very  rare  I  may  here 
mention  the  rather  amusing  reply  of  a  rough 
old  groom  out  of  place  to  my  remark  thit 

Mr. would  not  allow  any  of  his  horses  to 

be  in  any  way  abused.  ^*  Abu$fd/"  said  idt 
respondent,  confining  the  meaning  of  the  wad 
to  one  signification  :  *'  Abused !  you  ma}n't  so 
much  as  swear  at  them."  Another  rough- 
spoken  person,  who  was  for  a  time  a  forenm 
to  a  job-master,  told  me  that  he  had  never,  or 
rarely,  any  difficulty  in  making  a  bargain  with 
gentlemen  who  were  judges  of  horses ;  "  but," 
said  he,  '*  ladies  who  set  up  for  judges  are 
dreadful  hard  to  please,  and  talk  dreidfnl 
nonsense.     What  do  they  know  about  tke 

points  of  a  horse  ?   But  of  all  of  'em,  a is 

the  worst  to  please  in  a  horse  or  a  carriage ; 
she  is  the  very  devil,  sir." 

The  people  employed  by  the  job-mastos 
are  strong,  healthy-looking  men,  with  no  lack 
of  grey  hairs — always  a  good  sign  among  them. 
Their  amusements,  I  am  told,  are  confined  to 
an  odd  visit  to  the  play,  more  especially  to 
Astley's,  and  to  skittle-playing.  These  ei^oy- 
ments,  however,  are  rare,  as  the  groom  cannot 
leave  his  labours  for  a  day  and  then  return  to  it 
as  a  mechanic  may.  Horses  must  be  tended 
day  and  night,  Sunday  and  work-day,  so  that 
it  is  only  "  by  leave"  that  they  can  eiyoy  inj 
recreation.  Nearly  all  of  them,  however,  take 
great  interest  in  horse-races,  steeple-chases 
and  trotting-matches.  Many  of  them  dabble 
in  the  Derby  and  St.  Leger  lotteries,  and  some 
**  make  a  book,"  risking  from  two  or  three  half- 
crowns  to  6/.,  and  sometimes  more  than  ther 
can  pay.  These  parties,  however,  belong  as 
much  to  the  class  of  senants  as  they  do  to 
the  labourers  engaged  in  connexion  with  the 
transit  of  the  metropolis. 

I  am  informed  that  each  of  the  ir>0  job- 
masters iTsident  in  London  muy  be  said  to 
employ  six  or  seven  men  in  their  yards  or 
stables,  some  baring  at  least  double  that 
number  in  their  service,  and  others,  again, 
only  two  or  three  ;  the  latter,  however,  is  the 
exception  rather  than  the  rule.  According  to 
this  estimate  there  must  be  from  900  to  1000 
indiriduals  engaged  in  the  job  businesa  of 
London.  Their  number  is  made  up  of  stable- 
men, washers,  ostlers,  job-coachmen,  and  glass- 


J 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TUE  LONDON  POOH. 


309 


coachmen  or  flymen,  besides  a  few  grooms  for 
Uie  job  cabriolets.  The  stableman  attends 
only  to  the  horses  in  the  stables,  and  gets 
25. 6i.  a-day,  or  17s.  0^.  a- week,  standing  wages. 
The  washer  has  from  18f.  to  1/.  a  week,  and  is 
employed  to  dean  tho  carriages  only  in  the 
best  yards,  for  those  of  a  second-rate  character 
the  stableman  washes  the  caniages  himself. 
The  ostler  attends  to  the  yard,  and  seldom  or 
never  works  in  the  stables.  Ho  answers  all 
the  rings  at  the  yard  bell,  and  takes  the  horses 
and  gigs,  &c,  round  to  the  door.  He  is,  as  it 
were,  the  foreman  or  superintendent  of  the 
establishment.  He  usually  receives  I/.  Is.  a- 
week  standing  wages  at  the  best  yards,  while 
at  ^ose  of  a  lower  character  only  10s.  is  given. 
The  job-coachman  is  distinct  from  the  glass- 
ooaehman  or  flyman.  "  He  often  goes  away 
firom  the  yard  on  a  job,"  to  use  the  words  of 
my  informant,  **  for  three  or  six  months  at  a 
stretch."  He  is  paid  by  the  job-master,  and 
gets  30s.  a- week  standing  wages.  He  has  to 
drive  and  attend  to  his  horses  in  the  stable. 
The  glass-coachman  or  flyman  goes  out  merely 
by  the  day  or  by  the  hour.  He  gets  9s.  o-weeic 
from  the  job-master,  and  whatever  the  cus- 
tomers think  proper  to  give  him.  Some 
persons  give  6d,  an  hour  to  the  glass-coachman, 
and  others  5s.  a-day  for  a  pair  of  horses,  and 
from  3«.  to  3s.  Oii-  a-day  for  one  horse.  A  glass 
coach,  it  may  be  as  well  to  observe,  is  a  carriage 
and  pair  hired  by  the  day,  and  a  fly  a  one- 
horae  carriage  hired  in  a  similar  manner. 
The  job-coachman  and  the  glass-coachman 
have  for  the  most  part  been  gentlemen's 
servants,  and  have  come  to  the  yard  while 
seeking  for  another  situation.  They  arc 
mostly  married  men,  having  generally  wedded 
either  the  housemaid,  nurse,  or  cook,  in  some 
family  in  which  they  have  Uved.  "  The 
lady's  maid,"  to  quote  from  my  infoi-mant, 
"*  is  a  touch  above  them.  The  cooks  are  in 
general  the  coachman's  favourite,  in  regard 
of  getting  a  little  bit  of  lunch  out  of 
her.*' 

The  job-coachman's  is  usually  a  much  better 
berth  Uian  that  of  the  glass-coachman  or  fly- 
man. The  gentlefolks  who  engage  the  glass- 
coaches  and  flies  are,  I  am  told,  very  near,  and 
the  flies  still  nearer  than  the  glass-coaches. 
The  fly  i>eople,  as  the  customers  were  termed 
to  me,  generally  Uve  about  Gower-street  and 
Burton-crescent,  Wobum- place,  Tavistock - 
Kquare,  Upper  Baker- street,  and  other  "  shabby- 
genteel**  districts.  The  great  m^jority  of  the 
persons  using  flies,  however,  live  in  the  suburbs, 
and  ore  mostly  citizens  and  lawyers.  The 
chief  occasions  for  the  engagement  of  a  fly  are 
visits  to  the  theatre,  opera,  or  parties  at  night, 
or  else  when  the  wives  of  the  above-named 
gentry  are  going  out  a-shopping;  and  then  the 
directions,  I  am  told,  are  generally  to  draw 
two  or  three  doors  away  from  the  shops,  so 
that  the  shopmen  may  not  see  them  drive  up 
in  a  carriage  and  charge  accordingly.  A 
number  of  flies  arc  engaged  to  carry  the  re- 


ligious gentry  in  the  suburbs  to  Exeter  Hall 
during  the  May  meetings ;  and  it  h  they,  I  am 
assured,  who  are  celebrated  for  over- crowding 
the  vehicles.  "Bless  you,"  said  one  man 
whom  I  saw,  "  them  folks  never  think  there 
can  be  too  many  behind  a  boss — six  is  nothing 
for  them, —  and  it  is  them  who  is  tho  meanest 
of  all  to  the  coachman ;  for  he  never,  by  no 
chance,  receives  a  glass  at  their  door."  The 
great  treat  of  the  glass -coachman  or  flyman, 
however,  is  a  wedding ;  then  they  mostly  look 
for  5s ;  "  but,"  said  my  informant, "  brides  and 
bridegrooms  is  getting  so  stingy  that  now 
they  seldom  gets  more  than  three."  Formerly, 
I  am  assured,  they  used  to  get  a  glass  of  wine 
to  drink  the  health  of  the  happy  pair;  but 
now  the  wine  has  declined  to  gin,  *'  and  even 
this/'  said  one  man  to  me,  ''we  has  to  bow 
and  scrape  for  before  we  gits  it  out  of  'em." 
There  is  but  little  call  for  glass-coaches  com- 
pared \rith  flies  now.  Since  the  introduction 
of  the  broughams  and  clarences,  the  glass- 
coaches  have  been  almost  all  put  on  one  side, 
and  they  are  now  seldom  used  for  anything 
but  taking  a  party  with  a  quantity  of  luggage 
from  the  suburbs  to  the  railway.  They  were 
continued  at  weddings  till  a  short  time  back, 
but  now  the  people  don't  like  them.  "  They 
have  got  out  of  date,"  said  a  flyman ;  "  besides, 
a  clarence  or  brougham,  even  with  a  pair  of 
horses,  is  one-third  cheaper."  There  are  no 
glass-coaches  now  kept  in  the  yards,  if  they 
are  wanted  they  are  hired  at  the  coachmoker's. 
Take  one  job-master  with  another,  I  am  in- 
formed that  they  keep  on  an  average  six  flies 
each,  so  that  the  total  number  of  hack  clarences 
and  broughams  in  the  metropolis  may  be  said 
to  be  near  upon  100().  Postboys  are  almost 
entirely  discontinued.  The  majority  of  them, 
I  am  told,  have  become  cabmen.  The  number 
of  job-horses  kept  for  chance-work  in  the 
metropolis  may  be  estimated  at  about  1000,  in 
addition  to  the  cab  and  omnibus  horses,  many 
of  which  frequently  go  out  in  flies.  One  lady 
omnibus  proprietor  at  Islington  keeps,  I  am 
told,  a  large  number  of  flies,  and  so  do  many 
of  the  large  cab-proprietors. 

According  to  ihe  Government  returns,  the 
total  number  of  carriages  throughout  Great 
Britain,  in  1848,  was  140,000  and  odd,  which 
is  in  the  proportion  of  1  carriage  to  every 
33  males  of  the  entire  population  above  twenty 
years  of  age.  Of  these  carriages  upwards  of 
97,000  were  charged  with  duty,  and  yielded 
a  revenue  of  more  than  434,000/.  while  52,000 
were  exempt  from  taxation.  Those  charged 
with  duty  consisted  of  67,000  four-wheeled 
carriages,  (of  which  26,000  were  private  con- 
veyances, and  41,000  let  to  hire,)  and  30,000 
two-wheeled  carriages,  of  which  24,500  were 
for  private  use,  and  5,500  for  the  use  of  tho 
public: — 

The  41,000  four-wheeled  carriages  let  to 
hire  were  subdivided  in  round  numbers  as 
follows : — 


3i3Q 


LONDON  LAlUnit  AND  THB  LONDON  POOR. 


Four-wlioalod  carriages,  let  to  bire  with- 
out horBes 500 

Pony-pbootonR,  &c.  drawn  by  a  pair     .  2,000 
Bixmghams,  flics,  &c.  drawn  by  oae 

horse 30,000 

Ilearses 1,700 

Pott-chaises 0,5dO 

Cariiorb'  conTcyaaocs          .        .        .  1,'^jO 


41,000 

Of  the  02,000  carriogos  exempt  from  taxa- 
tion there  was  the  fullowiug  distribution : — 
Private  poay-pbaetoua       .        .        .      7,000 
Ditto  pony-chaises    ....      4,500 

Chaise  carts dU,Q00 

Conveyances  for  imupers  and  crimi- 
nals       1,500 


5-^,000 

The  owners  of  four-whcc^ed  piivate  cor- 
rinjjoH  were,  it  appean  from  the  some  returns, 
xJO,7;jO:  of  whom, 

10,310  persons  kept  1  carriaqc. 

3,fiH5  „  2        „ 

405  „  3       „ 

HO  „  4        „ 

.',8  „  5       „ 

10  „  0        „ 
«             »           7        „ 

11  „  8    and  upwards. 

Now  the  total  number  of  persons  returned 
as  of  independent  means,  at  the  time  of 
taking  the  last  census,  was  SOO.OOi)  and  odd : 
of  these  very  nearly  490,000  were  twenty  years 
of  age  and  upwards.  Hence  it  would  appear 
that  only  1  person  in  every  23  of  those  who 
are  indt-pencfent  keep  their  carriage. 

Such  are  the  statistics  of  carriages,  both 
public  and  private,  of  Great  Brittiin.  AVhat 
proportion  of  the  vehicles  above  enumerated 
belong  to  the  metropolis  I  have  no  means  of 
ascertaining  with  any  accuracy. 

The  number  of  horses  throughout  the  coun- 
try is  equally  curious.  In  1847  there  were 
no  loss  than  800,(XX)  horses  in  Great  Britain, 
which  is  in  the  proportion  of  ftv«  horses  to 
each  carriage,  and  oif  one  horse  to  every  six 
males  of  the  entire  population  of  twenty  years 
of  age  and  upwards.  Of  these  800,000  horses, 
upwards  of  320,000  were  charged  with  duty, 
while  nearly  500,000  were  exempt  from  it. 
Among  the  d20,CK)0  horses  charged  with  duty 
were  comprised — 

Private  riding  and  caniage-horses  .  141,000 
Draught-boises  used  in  trade    •        .  147,000 

Ptmies 22,000 

Butchers'  horses  ....  4,750 
Job  hoives  .....  1,750 
Bace-horaes 1,500 

320,000 

The  horses  not  charged  with  duty  were  in 
round  numbers  as  under: — 


Horses  used  in  husbandry  •        .  880,500 

„     belonging  to  small  farmers     .  01,000 
„     belonging  to  poor  cleigymen  .      1,250 

„     belonging  to  poor  traders       .  10,500 

„     belonging  to  volunteers  .  13,000 

„      used  in  untaxed  carriages      .  15,000 
„     used  by  waggoners  for  their 

own  riding  .  2.0QO 

„      itsed  by  bailifis,  shepherdf*,  &c.    1,000 
„     used  by  masters,  ditto    .         .     3,700 
„      used  by  market-gaiileners       .     2,000 
„     in  conveying  pa;ii>ers  and  cri- 
minals        .        .         .        .        250 

„      kept  for  sole  ....  7,000 

„     kept  for  breeding    .        .         .  4,500  ; 

Colts  not  used 16,000  , 

l*ost-horses 8,500  , 

8tage-coach  horses     ....  9,000  j 

Loudon  hackney- coach  horses     .        .  3,600 


496,000 
The  owners  of  the  140,000  private  ridinj 
and  carriage-horses  were  100,000  in  number, 
and  of  these. 


78,335  persons  kept  . 

.           .     1 

17,358 

»i               • 

.        .    2 

4,080 

»               • 

.        .    3 

1,024 

»»               • 

.    4 

022 

t»               • 

.        .    6 

380 

n                 • 

.    6 

828 

tf                 • 

.      7k>8 

8L 

»•                 •           « 

.        .    » 

107 

M                         • 

10  to  12 

54 

1*                         •               • 

13  to  IS 

0 

n                  •           • 

.  17 

8 

M                     •            • 

.  18 

0 

If                   •           • 

.  10 

07 

»»                   •           • 

.         .20 

And  upwards. 

From  this  it  will  appear,  that  two  penoos  | 
in  every  seven  of  those  who  are  of  rndepeii-  ; 
dent  means  keep  a  riding  or  carriage-hoiie. 
The  increase  and  decrease  in  the  nomberof 
carriages  and  horses,  witliin  the  last  ten  jetiiv 
is  a  remarkable  sign  of  the  tames.    Since  1840,  - 
the  number  of  all  kinds  of  horses  throoghoBt 
Great   Britain  has  decreased  48,000.     But 
while  some  have  declined,  others  have  in- 
creased  in  number.     Of  private  riding  aad 
carriage-horses  (where    only    one   is  kept) 
there  has  been   a  decrease  of  12,000,  ana  of 
ponies,  700.   Stage-coach  horses  lurre  deeUned  . 
4000;  itost-horses,  2500;  horses  used  in  hvs-   | 
bandry,  07,000 ;  breeding  mares,  1800 ;  colts, 
7000;  and  hones  kept  for  s^le,  500.    The  , 
London  haekney-coach  horses,  on  ihit  other  - 
hand,  have  increased  in  the  same  spaee  of 
time   no  less  than  2000,  and   so  have  6te 
draught-horses  osed  in  tsnde,  to  the  estail 
of  17,000;  while  those  kept  by  small  faniMn 
are  13,000  more,  and  the    raee-hones  400 
more,  than  they  were  in  1840. 

Of  carriages,  those  having  two  wheels.  Mi 
drawn  by  one  hone  (gigs,  Ac,),  have  de- 
creased 15,000,    and  the  post-chaises  700; 


LOKDOS  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDOS  POOR, 


361 


whereas  the  four- wheel  carriages,  drawn  by  one 
ho»e,  end  let  to  hire  (broughams,  clarences, 
&c),  haTe  increased  6000,  the  'X>oDy-phaetonB 
8000,  pony-chaises  2000,  and  the  chaise- carts 
19,000. 

The  total  revwrae  derived  from  the  transit 
of  this  conntry,  by  means  of  carriages  and 
horses,   amounted    in    1848  to    upwards    of 
1,190,000/.     This  sum  is  made  up  of  the  fol- 
lowing items: — 
Duty  on  caniages     .        .        .  £134,334 
„       horses         .        .         .     305,041 
„       horses  let  to  hire  .     155,72 1 

„       stage-carriages     .        .       00,218 
„      hai'kney-coaches  .       28,020 

licenses  to  let  horses  to  hire  .  fi,008 
„  stage-coaches  .  .  0,000 
„      hackney  uirriages        .  435 


£1,127,249 
From  the  foregoing  accounts,  Uien,  it  would 
ippear,  that  the    number  of  carriages  and 
horses  for  the  use  of  the  public  throughout 
Great  Britain,  two  years  ago,  was  as  follows: 

Job  carriages 500 

Broughams,  clarenoes,  flies,  &c. 

drawn  by  one  hcrse  .  .  30,000 
Fony.phaetons  and  pair  .  .  2,000 
Tost-chaises        ....      6,500 


Total  carriages  lot  to  hire    .  38,000 

Job  horses 1,760 

Post  horses         ....  8,500 

Stage-coach  hordes     .        .        .  0,000 

London  hackuey-cooch  horses     .  3,000 


Total  horses  for  public  coninges    23,450 

The  CAnR\TSG  Tiude. 
The  next  part  of  the  subject  that  presents 
itself  is  the  conveyance  of  goods  from  one 
part  of  the  metrox>olis  to  another.  This,  as 
I  hare  before  said,  is  chiefly  effected  by  vans, 
waggons,  carts,  drays,  &c.  It  has  already 
been  shown  thiit  the  number  of  carriers'  wag- 
gons, throughout  Great  Britain,  in  1848,  was 
1,S50,  while  the  carriers'  carts  were  no  less 
than  17,000  odd,  or  -very  neariy  8000  in  all. 
This  was  800  more  than  they  were  in  1840. 

Of  the  number  of  horses  engaged  in  the 
"  carrying  trade,"  or  rather  that  particular 
branch  of  it  which  concerns  the  removal  of 
goods,  there  are  no  returns,  unless  it  be  tliat 
there  were  2000  horses  under  18  hands  hig<h 
ridden  by  the  waggoners  of  this  kingdom. 

The  number  of  carriers,  carters,  and  wag- 
goners throughout  Great  Britain,  at  the  time 
di  taking  the  last  census,  was  84,206,  of  whom 
^411  were  located  in  England,  780S  in  Beot 
Ind,  040  in  Wides,  -and  148  in  -the  BrHish 
lales.  Of  the  84,996  carriers,  earters,  and 
waggoners,  throughout  Great  Britain,  in  11841, 
dOjVTfi  were  males  of  20  years  of  age  And  «p. 
irwds,  while,  in  }8tl,  the  number  was  ob^ 
18,659,  or  upwards  of  10,000  less ;  so  that 


between  these  two  periods  the  tmde  muHt 
have  increased  at  the  rate  of  1000  per  annuni 
at  least.  I  am  informed,  however,  that  the 
next  returns  will  show  quite  as  Icui-go  a  de- 
crease in  the  trade,  owing  to  the  conveyance 
of  goods  baring  been  mainly  transferred  from 
the  road  to  the  rail  since  the  lost-mentioned 
period.  The  number  of  carriers,  carters,  and 
waggoners  engaged  in  the  metropohs  in  1841 
wftii  3h90,  of  whom  3067  were  males  of  twenty 
years  of  age  ond  upwards.  In  1831  there 
were  but  871  indiriduals  of  the  same  age 
pursuing  the  same  occupation;  and  I  am 
as8ur»:d,  that  owing  to  the  increased  facilities 
for  the  conveyance  of  goods  from  the  country 
to  London,  the  trade  has  increased  at  even 
a  greater  rate  since  the  last  enumeration  of 
the  people.  The  London  caniers,  carters, 
and  waggoners,  may  safely  be  said  to  be  now 
nearer  8000  than  4000  in  number. 

The  London  Cakjien 

Ake  of  two  kinds,  public  and  private.  Tl»c 
private  carmen  approximate  so  closely  to 
the  character  of  servants,  that  I  purpose 
dealing  at  present  more  particuloily  with 
the  public  conveyers  of  goods  from  one 
part  of  the  metropolis  to  another.  The  me- 
tropolitan public  master -carmen  are  207  in 
number,  of  whom  flfteen  are  licensed  to  ply 
on  the  stands  in  the  city.  The  carmen  here 
enumerated  must  be  considered  more  in  the 
light  of  the  owners  of  vans  and  other  vehicles 
for  the  rcraoA-ing  of  goods  than  working  men. 
It  is  ti*ue  that  some  drive  their  own  vehicles ; 
but  many  are  large  proprietors,  and  belong  to 
the  class  of  employers  rather  than  operatives. 
I  shdl  begin  my  account  of  the  London 
carmen  with  those  appertaining  to  the  unli- 
censed class,  or  those  not  resident  in  the  city. 
The  modern  spring  van  is,  as  it  were,  the 
landau,  or  travelling  carriage  of  the  working 
classes.  These  carriages  came  into  general 
use  between  twenty  and  thirty  years  ago,  but 
were  then  chiefly  employed  by  the  great  cai*- 
riers  for  the  more  rapid  delivery  of  the  lighter 
bales  of  goods,  especially  of  drapery  and  glass 
goods  and  of  parcels.  They  came  into  more 
general  use  for  the  removal  of  furniture  in 
1830,  or  thereabouts;  ond  a  year  or  two  after 
were  fitted  up  for  the  conveyance  of  pleasure- 
parties.  The  van  is  usually  painted  yellow, 
but  some  are  a  light  brown  or  a  dork  blue 
picked  out  with  red.  They  are  fourteen  feet 
in  length  on  the  average,  and  four  and  a  half 
feet  in  breadth,  and  usually  made  so  as,  by  the 
acyufltment  of  the  shafts,  to  be  suitable  for  the 
employment  of  one,  two,  three,  or  four  horses, 
— tfie  tliird  hone,  when  three  are  used,  being 
yoked  in  advance  of  the  pair  in  the  shafts. 
The  -seats  are  generally  removable,  and  are 
ranged  along  the  sides  of  the  rehicle,  across 
the  top,  and  at  the  two  comers  at  the  end,  as 
the  extremity  of  the  \*an  from  the  horses  is 
oaUed,  the  entranee  being  at  the  end,  usually 


SQU 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


by  means  of  iron  steps,  and  through  a  kind  of 
gate  which  is  secured  by  a  strong  lateh.  The 
driver  sits  on  a  box  in  front,  and  on  some  vans 
seems  perched  fearfully  high.  A  wooden  frame- 
work surmounts  the  body  of  the  carriage,  and 
over  it  is  spread  an  awmng,  sometimes  of 
strong  chintz  patterned,  sometimes  of  plain 
whity-brown  calico — the  side  portions  being 
made  to  draw  like  curtains,  so  as  to  admit  the 
air  and  exclude  the  sun  and  rain  at  pleasure. 
If  there  be  a  man  in  attendance  besides  the 
driver,  he  usually  sits  at  the  end  of  the  vehicle 
close  to  the  gate,  or  rides  on  the  step  or  on  a 
projection  fixed  behind.  A  new  van  costs  from 
50/.  to  80/.  The  average  price  of  a  good  van- 
horse  is  from  IG/.to  18/.  The  harness,  new  and 
good,  costA  from  5/.  to  5/.  10«.  for  two  horses. 
The  furniture- van  of  the  latter  end  of  the  week 
is  the  pleasure-van  of  the  Sunday,  Monday, 
and  Tuesday — those  being  the  days  devoted 
to  excursions,  unless  in  the  case  of  a  club  or 
society  making  their  *'  annual  excursion,"  and 
then  any  day  of  the  week  is  selected  except 
Sunday ;  but  Sunday  on  the  whole  is  the  prin- 
cipal day.  The  removal  of  the  seats  and  of  the 
apparatus  for  the  awning  converts  the  pleasure 
into  the  furniture-van.  The  uses  to  which 
the  same  vehicle  is  put  are  thus  many  a  time 
sadly  in  contrast.  On  the  Saturday  the  van 
may  have  been  used  to  convey  to  the  brokers 
or  Uie  auctioneers  the  furniture  seized  in  some 
wretched  man's  dwelling,  leaving  behind  bare 
walls  and  a  wailing  family ;  and  on  the  Sunday 
it  rings  with  the  merriment  of  pleasure-seekers, 
who  loudly  proclaim  that  they  have  left  their 
cares  beliind  them. 

The  OAvners  usually,  perhajss,  I  might  say 
always,  unite  some  other  calhng  along  with 
the  business  of  van-proprietorship ;  they  are 
for  the  most  part  greengrooei*s,  hay  and  corn- 
dealers,  brokers,  beershop-kcepers,  chandlers, 
rag  •  and  -  bottle  shopkeepers,  or  dairymen. 
Five-sixths  of  them,  however,  are  greengrocers, 
or  connected  with  that  trade.  It  is  not  un- 
usual for  these  persons  to  announce  that, 
besides  their  immediate  calling  of  a  green- 
grocer, they  keep  a  ftumiture-van,  go  pleasure- 
excursions,  beat  carpeta  (if  in  the  suburbs), 
and  attend  evening  parties.  Many  of  them 
have  been  gentlemen's  servants.  They  are 
nearly  all  married  men  or  widowers  with  fami- 
lies, and  are  as  a  body  not  improsperous. 
Their  tastes  are  inexpensive,  though  some 
drink  pretty  freely;  and  their  early  rising 
necessitates  oarly  going  to  bed,  so  there  is 
little  evening  expenditure.  I  am  told  their 
chief  ei^oyments  are  a  visit  to  Astley's,  and  to 
tlie  neighbouring  horse  races.  Their  ei^oy- 
ment  of  the  turf,  however,  is  generally  made 
conducive  to  their  profits,  as  they  convey  vans 
full  to  Hampton,  £gham,  and  Epsom  races. 
A  few  van-men,  however,  go  rather  fiurther  in 
turf-business,  and  bet  a  UtUe ;  but  these,  I  am 
assured,  are  the  exceptions.  The  excursions 
are  more  frequently  to  Hampton  Court  than 
to  any  other  place.  The  other  favourite  resorts 


are  High  Beach,  Epping  Forest,  and  Kyc 
House,  Hertfordshire.  Windsor  is  but  occa- 
sionally visited;  and  the  shorter  distances, 
such  as  Richmond,  are  hardly  ever  visited  in 
pleasure- vans.  Indeed  the  superior  cheapness 
of  the  railway  or  the  steamboat  has  confined 
the  pleasure-excursions  I  am  speaking  of  to 
the  longer  distances,  and  to  places  not  so  easily 
accessible  by  other  means. 

The  van  will  hold  fix>m  twenty  to  thirty 
grown  persons.  *•  Twenty,  you  see,  sir,"  I  was 
told, "  is  a  very  comfortable  number,  not  reck- 
oning a  few  little  'uns  over;  but  thirty,  oh, 
thirty's  quite  the  other  way."  The  usual  chaige 
per  head  for  "a  comfortable  conveyance  to 
Hampton  Court  and  back,"  including  all  charges 
connected  with  the  conveyance,  is  2s.  (children 
going  for  nothing,  unless  they  are  too  big 
for  l^ees,  and  then  sometimes  half  price). 
Instead  of  2s.  perhaps  the  weekly-payment 
speculator  receives  2s.  6d.  or  2s.  3<f. ;  and  if  he 
can  engage  a  low-priced  van  he  may  clear  9d, 
or  Is.  per  head,  or  about  1/.  in  all.  On  this 
subject  and  on  that  of  under- selling,  ns  it  was 
described  to  me,  I  give  the  statement  of  a  very 
intelligent  man,  a  prosperous  van -proprietor, 
who  had  the  excellent  characteristic  of  being 
proud  of  the  kindly  treatment,  good  feeding, 
and  continued  care  of  his  horses,  which  are 
among  the  best  employed  in  vans. 

The  behaviour  of  these  excursionists  is, 
from  the  concurrent  testimony  of  the  many 
van-proprietors  and  drivers  whom  I  saw,  most 
exemplary,  and  perhaps  I  shall  best  show  this 
by  at  once  giving  the  following  statement  from 
a  very  trustworUiy  man : — 

**I  have  been  in  the  van-trade  for  twenty 
years,  and  have  gone  excursions  for  sixteen 
years.  Hampton  Court  has  the  call  for  excur- 
sions in  vans,  because  of  free-trade  in  the 
palace  :  there's  nothing  to  pay  for  admission. 
A  party  makes  up  an  excursion,  and  one  of 
them  bargains  with  me,  say  for  21,  It  shouldn't 
be  a  farthing  less  with  such  cattle  as  mine, 
and  everything  in  agreement  with  it.  Since 
I've  known  the  trade,  vans  have  increased 
greatly.  I  should  say  there's  five  now  where 
^ere  was  one  sixteen  years  ago,  and  more. 
There's  a  recommendable  and  a  respectable 
behaviour  amongst  those  that  goes  excursions. 
But  now  on  an  excursion  there'9  hardly  aoy 
drunkenness,  or  if  there  is,  it's  through  the 
accident  of  a  bad  stomach,  or  something  that 
way.  The  excursionists  generally  carry  a 
fiddler  with  them,  sometimes  a  trumpeter,  or 
else  some  of  them  is  master  of  an  instrument 
as  goes  down.  They  generally  sings,  too, 
such  songs  as,  *  There's  a  Good  Time  coming,' 
and,  *The  Brave  Old  Oak.'  Sometimes  a 
nigger-thing,  but  not  so  often.  They  cany 
always,  I  tlunk,  their  own  eatables  and  drink- 
ables ;  and  they  take  them  on  the  grass  veiy 
often.  Last  Whit-Mondi^  I  counted  fifty  vans 
at  Hampton,  and  didn't  see  anybody  drunk 
there.  I  reckoned  them  earlyish,  and  perhapa 
ten  came  after,  at  least ;  and  every  van  womd 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


303 


bsfe  twenty  sod  mote."  Sixty  tios  would,  at 
Uos  moderste  compiitotion,  caarej  1200  per- 
lOBS.  ''They  walk  tbroai^  the  Palaee  at  Hamp- 
ton, and  sometiflaes  dflmee  oo  the  grass  after 
th^  hot  not  for  long.  It  soon  tirra,  dancing 
on  the  graaa.  A  adbool  often  goea,  or  a  dnb, 
or  a  society,  or  anj  party.  I  genarally  do 
Hampton  Court  in  three  boon  with  two 
boraes.  I  reckon  it's  fourteen  miles,  or  near 
that,  from  my  place.  If  I  go  to  High  Beach 
there's  the  swings  for  the  yoong  ones,  and  the 
other  meny-makings.  At  Bye  House  it's 
ooontiy  eii^yment — mere  loolong  about  the 
real  oountzy.  The  Derby  day's  a  great  Tan- 
digr.  Pm  sure  I  couldn't  guess  to  one  hundred 
—not,  peihapa,  to  twice  that — how  many  plea- 
mre-Tans  go  to  the  Derby.  It's  extra  charge 
—41/.  lOt.  for  the  ran  to  Epsom  and  back. 
ItTa  a  long  distance ;  but  the  Derby  has  a  won- 
deifiil  draw.  Tve  taken  all  sorts  of  excursions, 
but  ifa  working-people  that's  our  great  sup- 
pod.  They  often  smoke  as  they  come  back, 
though  it's  against  my  rules.  They  often 
takes  a  barrel  of  beer  with  them." 

It  is  not  easy  to  ascertain  the  number  of  vans 
used  for  pleasure-excursions,  but  the  follow- 
ing is  the  best  information  to  be  obtained  on 
the  subject.  There  is  not  more  than  one-sixth 
of  the  greengrocers  who  have  their  own  vans : 
some  keep  two  vans  and  carts,  besides  two  or 
three  trucks ;  others,  three  Tans  and  carts  and 
trucks.  These  Tans,  carts,  and  tracks  are 
principally  used  in  the  pri\-ate  transactions  of 
their  business.  Sometimes  they  are  employed 
in  the  remoTal  of  furniture.  The  nimiber  of 
Tans  employed  in  the  metropolis  is  as  fol- 
lows:— 

Those  kept  by  greengrocers,  about    4.'M) 
By  others  for  excursions  .  1000 

Total    1400 

The  season  for  the  excursion  trips  com- 
mences on  Whit-Monday,  and  continues  till 
the  latter  end  of  September. 

Table  showing  the  average  number  of  plea- 
sure-vans hired  each  week  throughout  the 
season,  and  the  decrease  since  railway  ex- 
cursions. 

Before  the  Since  the 
Railway.  Railway, 
Excur-  Excur- 

sion trips,      sion  tripe. 

Hampton  Court,   Sunday  .50  10 

„  Monday  .  80  30 

„  Tuesday  .  20  10 

Bye  House,  weekly       .  .  35  12 

High  Beach     „  .  .  40  20 


225 


82 


From  this  it  appears  that  before  the  railway 
trips  there  were  225  pleasure-excursions  by 
Tans  every  week  during  five  months  of  the  year 
(or  4500  such  excursions  in  the  course  of  the 
twelTe  months),  and  only  1640  since  that  time. 


This  is  exdusire  of  those  to  Epsom-races,  at 
whidi  there  were  nearly  900  more. 

When  emplqjed  in  the  removal  <^  fumitore 
the  aTerage  weig^  carried  by  these  Tans  is 
about  two  tons,  and  they  usually  obtain  about 
two  loads  on  an  aTerage  per  week.  The  party 
engaged  to  take  charge  c^  the  Tan  is  generally 
a  man  employed  by  the  owner,  in  the  edacity 
of  a  serTsnt.  The  aTerage  weekly  salary  of 
these  servants  is  about  18<.  Some  van-pro- 
prietors will  employ  one  man,  and  some  as 
many  as  nine  or  ten.  These  men  look  after 
the  horses  and  stables  of  their  employers.  A 
Tan  proprietor  takes  out  a  post-horse  Ucensc» 
which  is  7s.  6^.  a-year ;  and  for  excursions  he 
is  also  obliged  to  take  out  a  stage-carriage 
license  for  each  Tan  that  goes  out  with  plea- 
sure-parties. Such  Ucense  costs  3/.  3s.  per 
year ;  and  besides  this  they  have  to  pay  to  thu 
excise  \^d  per  mile  for  each  excursion  tliey 
take.  The  van-horses  number  about  three  t/i 
each  van,  so  that  for  the  whole  1450  vans  as 
many  as  4^350  horses  are  kept. 

Calculating  the  pleasure-excursions  by  van 
in  the  course  of  the  year  at  from  1500  to  2(XKj 
— and  that  twenty  persons  is  the  complement 
carried  on  each  oocaaion — ^we  have  a  pleasure- 
excursion  party  of  between  30,000  and  40,000 
persons  annually :  and  supposing  that  eiicli 
excursionist  spends  3s.  64<.,  the  siun  spent 
every  year  by  the  working -classes  inpleawure- 
excursions  by  spring-vans  alone  will  amount 
to  v^y  neariy  7000/. 

The  above  account  relates  only  to  the  con- 
veyance of  persons  by  means  of  the  London 
vans.  Concerning  the  removal  of  goods  by  the 
same  means,  I  obtained  the  following  infonnu- 
tion  from  the  most  trustworthy  and  experienced 
members  of  the  trade. 

**  The  charge  for  the  use  of  spring-vans  fw 
the  conveyance  of  furniture  and  other  damage- 
able commodities  is  Is.  0</.  an  hour,  when  one 
man  is  employed  assisting  in  packing,  unpack- 
ing, conveying  the  furniture  into  its  place  of 
destination,  and  sometimes  helping  tr>  fix  it 
If  two  men  are  employed  in  this  labour,  2s.  on 
hour  is  the  charge.  If  the  furniture  is  c(m- 
veyed  a  considerable  distance  the  carman's 
employer  may  at  his  option  pay  0</.  a  mile  in- 
stead of  Is.  (Sd,  an  hour,  but  tlie  engagement 
by  the  hour  ensues  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten." 

The  conveyance  of  people  on  pleasure  ex- 
cursions and  the  removal  of  furniture  con- 
stitute the  principal  business  of  tlie  west-end 
and  suburb  carmen.  The  city  carmen,  how- 
ever, constitute  a  distinct  class.  They  are  the 
licensed  carmen,  and  none  others  are  allowed 
by  the  city  authorities  to  take  up  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  city  of  London,  though  any  one 
can  put  down  therein ;  that  is  to  say,  the  un- 
licensed carman  may  convey  a  houseful  of  fur- 
niture from  the  Strand  to  Fleet-street,  but  he 
may  not  legally  carry  an  empty  box  from  Fleet- 
street  to  the  Strand.  The  city  carmen,  as  1  have 
said,  must  be  licensed,  and  the  law  sanctions 
the  foUowing  rates  of  payment  for  carriage  • 


:{04 


LOifDON  LABOUR  AND  THB  LONDON  POOB, 


«  Bj  order  of  Quarter  Sessions,  held  aft 
(liiiMhall,  MidBnmmer,  40tfa  George  IIL,  all 
goods,  wares,  and  nnrcbandiae  whatsoev^, 
fnighing  14  cwt.  or  under,. shall  be  deemed 
half  a  load;  and  finom  14  0Wt.  to  »0  owl  shaU 
be  deemed  a  load ;  from  any  part  of  the  cHy 
of  Tendon  the  rates  for  carrying  thereof  shall 
be  as  follow.  For  any  place  within  and  to  the 
extension  of  half  a  railo,  for  half  a  load  and 
u:i:ler,  "is.  ?</.;  above  half  a  load  and  not 
exoecdin?  a  load,  4«.  'id. ;  from  half  a  mile  to 
a  mile,  for  half  a  load  or  under,  d«.  4d. ;  for 
above  Iiidf  a  load  and  not  exceeding  a  load, 
Ox.  ii«/. ;  a  mile,  to  one  mile  and  a  half,  for  half 
a  load  or  under.  At,  'id. ;  for  above  half  a  load 
and  not  cxcooding  a  load,  Tm.  llrf. ;  and  so  on, 
according  to  distance." 

The  other  distances  and  wei^its  are  in 
relative  proportion.  These  regulations,  how- 
ever,  are  altogether  disregarded ;  as  are  those 
which  limit  the  cartage  for  hire  within  the 
city  to  the  carmen  licensed  by  the  city,  who 
must  l»e  freemen  of  the  Carmen's  Company, 
the  only  company  in  London  whose  members 
are  all  of  the  trade  incorporated.  Instead  of 
the  prices  I  liavc  cited,  the  matter  is  now  one 
of  bargain.  Average  charges  are  \s.  M.  an 
hour  Ihr  vans,  and  1*.  for  carts,  or  45.  and 
4*.  OJ.  per  ton  from  the  "NVest  India  Docks  to 
any  part  of  the  city ;  and  in  like  proportion 
from  the  other  docks  and  localities.  The 
inlVinpcra  of  the  city  carmen's  privileges  are 
sonictiniiM  called  pirates ;  but  within  these 
throe  or  four  years  no  strenuous  attempts 
have  been  mailo  to  check  them.  One  carman 
told  me  that  he  had  complained  to  the  City 
Chamberlain,  who  told  him  to  punish  the 
offenders;  but  as  it  was  left  to  indi\idual 
efforts  nothing  was  done,  and  the  privileges, 
except  as  regards  standings,  are  almost  or 
idtogether  a  dead  letter.  Fourteen  years  ago 
it  cosit  100/.  to  become  free  of  the  Carmen's 
Company.  Ton  years  ago  it  cost  32/.  odd; 
and  within  these  fl>*o  years  the  cost  has  been 
reduced  to  11/.  The  carmen  who  resort  to 
the  stands  pay  5«.  yearly  for  that  pri>'ilege. 
The  others  are  not  required  to  do  so;  but 
every  yeor  they  have  to  register  the  names  of 
their  ser\'ant<«,  with  a  bond  of  security,  who 
are  employed  on  goods  ••  und^r  bond ;  •*  and 
it  is  customary  on  these  occasions  to  give  the 
toll-keeper  5ji.,  which  is  equal  to  a  renewal  of 
the  license.  Until  ten  years  ago  there  were 
only  400  of  tli^se  conveyances  licensed  in  the 
city.  The  figures  called  "  carroons"  ran  ftx)m  1 
to  400 ;  and  were  sold  by  their  possessors,  on  a 
disposal  of  their  property  and  privilege,  as  if 
freehold  property,  binng  worth  about  100/. 
a  carroon.  No  compensation  was  acconied 
when  the  restriction  as  to  numbers  was  abo- 
lished. The  principal  standings  are  in  Cole- 
man-street.  Bread  street,  Bishopsgate-street, 
Dowgate-hill,  Thames-street,  and  St.  Msry 
Axe.  The  charges  do  not  diffV>r  fh>m  those 
I  have  given;  but  some  of  the  employers 
of  these  carmen  drive  very  hard  bargains. 


A  car  of  tho  best  boild  costs  from  601.  to  70f. 
The  best  horses  cost  40/. ;  the  arerage  price 
beinfp  dO/.  at  the  least.  The  wages  of  the 
cannon's  servants  vary  trtsm  16<.  to  31j.  a. 
week,  under  the  best  masters ;  and  from  ISa 
to  I4«.  under  the  inferior.  These  men  sre 
for  the  most  part  from  the  countiy. 

Tna  PoRTEBS,  &o. 

I  KOw  approach  the  only  remaining  part  of 
this  subject,  via.  the  conveyance  of  goods  and 
communications  by  means  of  the  porters,  mes- 
sengcrs,  and  errand-boys  of  tho  metR>poli& 
The  number  of  individuals  belonging  to  this 
class  throughout  Great  Britain  in  1841 
amounted  to  27,552,  of  whom  24,092  wen 
located  in  England;  3,200  in  Scotland;  118 
in  Wales ;  and  51  in  tho  British  isles.  Ol 
the  27,500  porters,  messengers,  and  errand- 
boys  in  Great  Britain,  very  nearly  one-fifth,  or 
4,U0.'i,  wore  lads  under  20  years  of  age.  The 
number  of  individuals  engaged  in  the  same 
occupation  in  the  metropolis  was,  in  1841,  no 
less  than  13,103,  or  very  nearly  half  the  num- 
ber of  porters,  &c.  throughout  Great  Britain. 
Of  this  number  2,720,  or  more  than  a  fifth  sf 
the  class,  may  be  considered  to  represent  the 
errand-boys,  these  being  lads  under  20  yean 
of  age. 

At  present,  however,  I  purpose  dealing 
solely  with  tho  public  porters  of  the  ma* 
tropoUs.  Those  belonging  to  private  in- 
dividuals appear  to  partake  (as  I  said  of  the 
carmen's  assistants)  more  of  the  characti*r 
of  servants  paid  out  of  the  profits  of  the  trade 
than  labourers  whose  wages  form  an  intend 
portion  of  the  prime  cost  of  a  commodity. 

Tho  metropolitan  porters  are,  liko  the  car- 
men, of  two  classes;  the  ticketed,  and  un- 
tieketed.    I  shall  begin  with  the  former. 

The  privileged  porters  of  the  city  of  Lon- 
don were  at  one  period,  and  untU  within  these 
twenty  years,  a  numerous,  important,  and  to- 
lerably prosperous  class.  Prescriptive  light, 
and  Uie  laws  and  by-laws  of  tho  coxporation 
of  the  city  of  Ijondon,  have  given  to  them  the 
sole  privilege  of  porterage  of  every  descrip- 
tion, pronded  it  bo  carried  on  in  the  precincti 
of  tho  city.  The  only  exception  to  this  ex- 
elusive  right  is,  that  any  freeman  may  employ 
his  own  servants  in  the  porterage  of  his  own 
goods,  and  even  that  has  been  disputed. 
The  first  mention  of  the  privileged  potters  ii 
in  the  early  part  of  the  16th  century. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  classify  the  espe- 
cial functions  of  the  different  classes  of  por- 
ters ;  for  they  seem  to  have  become  espensl 
functions  through  custom  and  prescriptive 
right,  and  they  are  not  defined  precisely  in 
any  legitimate  or  municipal  enactment.  Even 
at  the  present  time,  what  constitutes  the  busi- 
ness of  a  fellowship-porter,  what  of  a  tieket 
porter,  and  on  what  an  unprivileged  porter 
(known  as  a  foreigner,  becanse  a  non-frenaan) 
may  be  employed,  are  matters  of  dispute 


LONJiON  LABOUR  ANB  THE  LONDON  POO^ 


8©5 


A  reference  to  city  enactments,  asnd  tbe  aid 
of  a  higlilv  intelligent  meml>er  of  tbe  frater- 
nitr  of  ticket-porters,  enables  me  to  gr?e  the 
following  account,  wbicb  is  the  more  interest- 
ing, as  it  relates  to  a  class  of  labourers  vhose 
numbers,  with  tbe  exception  of  the  fellowship- 
porters,  bave  been  limited  since  1838,  and 
who  must  necessarily  die  out  irom  want  of 
renewal  In  tbe  earliest  common  council 
enactments  (June  27, 1600)  on  tbe  subject  of 
porterage,  the  distinctions  given,  or  rather 
mtimatcd  incidentally,  are — "  Tackle-house 
porter,  porter-packcr  of  tbe  gooddes  of  Eng- 
usb  merchants^  streete-porter,  or  porter  to  tbe 
packer  for  tbe  said  citie  for  strangers'  goods." 
As  regards  tbe  term  ticket  porter,  not  men- 
tioned in  this  enumeration,  I  have  to  obser\'e 
that  all  porters  are  necessarily  ticket-porteis, 
which  means  that  tbey  can  produce  a  ticket 
or  a  document,  showing  that  they  are  duly 
qnalififid,  and  bave  been  **  admitted  and  al- 
lowed to  use  the  feate  of  a  porter,"  by  being 
fireemen  of  the  city  and  members  of  a  porter's 
company  or  fellowship.  In  some  of  tbe  older 
dty  documents  tackle  and  ticket-porters  are 
mentioned  as  if  constituting  one  class;  and 
tbey  did  constitute  one  class  when  their  la- 
bour was  identical,  as  to  a  great  extent  it  was. 
In  1712  they  ore  mentioned  or  indicated  as 
one  body,  (J though  the  first  clause  of  the 
common  council  enactment  sets  out  that  seve- 
ral controversies  and  quarrels  bave  lately 
arisen  between  the  tackle -bouse  porters  and 
the  ticket-porters  touching  the  labour  or  work 
to  them  respectively  belonging,  notwithstand- 
ing the  several  acts  of  this  court  heretofore 
made.  As  these  acts  were  vague  and  con- 
tradictory, tbe  controversies  were  a  natural 
consequence. 

The  tackle-porters  were  employed  in  the 
weighing  of  goods  for  any  purpose  of  shipping, 
duty,  or  sale,  which  was  formeHy  carried  on 
in  public  in  the  city.  But  there  was  a  city 
oAcer  known  as  the  master-weigher,  styled 
••  Mr.  Weigher,"  in  tbe  old  acts,  and  the  pro- 
iktB  of  tbe  weighing  thus  carried  on  publicly 
fai  the  city  went  to  the  hospitals.  In  1007  it 
was  enacted  (I  give  the  old  orthography,  with 
its  many  contractions),  "  that  no  p'son  or 
paeons  usinge  tbe  feate  of  a  porter,  or  being 
A  fbrreynor,  inbolder,  wharfinger,  or  keye. 
keeper,  where  any  mercbaunts'  gooddes  are 
to  bee  landed  or  laidd,  or  sucb-^e,  shall  at 
any  time  after  the  making  and  pubUsbing  of 
this  acte,  bave,  iise,  keepe,  or  use  within  tbe 
said  citie  or  I'b'ties  thereof,  any  manner 
triangle,  with  beams,  scales,  and  weigbtcs,  or 
any  other  balance,  in  any  sorte,  to  weigh  any 
the  goods,  wares,  or  merchandize,  of  any  mer- 
chant or  merchants,  p'son  or  p'sons  whatso- 
ever,  within  tbe  said  citie  or  llb'ties  thereof, 
whereby  the  profiyte  cominge  and  growinge  to 
the  hosintals  of  the  said  cytie,  by  weigbinge  at 
the  yron  beams  or  at  tbe  great  beame  at  the 
weigh  .bouse,  or  the  profits  of  the  Mr. 
Weigher    and   porters    of  tbe  some   weigh - 


bouae,  may  in  sirnrise  )m  impeached,  hin- 
dered, or  dininisbed^"  The  privilege  of 
*'■  weigbinge*  fell  gradually  into  desuetude; 
but  there  is  no  record  of  tlte  precise  periods. 
However,  a  wstige  of  it  still  remains ;  as  I 
shall  show  in  my  acoonnt  of  the  marketf«,  as 
it  properly  comes  under  that  head.  There 
were  24  tackle -porters  appointed ;  each  of  tlie 
1'^  great  cit^  oampaniaa  appointing  two. 
These  lii  companies  are  —  the  Mercers', 
Grocers',  Drapers',  Fishmongers',  Gold- 
smitlis',  Skinners',  Ironrnongere ',  Vintners', 
and  Cloth  workers'.  The  24  ajipointed  porters 
were  known,  it  appears,  as  "  midster-portcrs  ;" 
but  as  it  was  impossible  that  tbey  could  do 
all  th(3  work  required,  they  colled  to  them  the 
aid  of  "  fellowes,"  fi-eemon  of  the  city,  and 
members  of  their  society,  who  in  timo  seem 
to  bave  been  known  simply  as  ticket-porters. 
If  a  sufficiency  of  these  fellows,  or  ticket- 
porters,  could  not  be  made  available  on  any 
emergency,  the  maislers  eould  employ  any 
*•  foreign  porter  not  free  «f  this  cyiiio,  U5»ng 
the  feate  of  a  porter-packer  of  tlie  goods  of 
English  merchants^  or  the  feate  ofastreetc- 
porter,  at  the  tyme  of  the  making  of  this  acte 
(1007),  and  wliicb  at  this  present  is  com- 
raemorante  in  the  same  citye  or  snbur'oes 
thereof,  changed  with  familye,  or,  being  a 
single  man,  bringing  a  good  certificate  in  the 
wryliiig,  under  the  handes  of  the  churchwar- 
dens of  the  parish  where  be  is  resident^  or 
other  substantial!  neighbours,  to  the  number 
of  fewer,  of  his  good  conversocon  and  de- 
meanor." This  emplo}*ment,  however,  was 
not  to  be  to  the  prejudice  of  tbe  privileged 
porters ;  and  that  the  employment  oflbreigners 
was  resorted  to  jealonsly,  and  only  through 
actual  necessity,  is  suftioipntly  shown  by  the 
whole  tenor  of  the  enactments  on  the  subject. 
The  very  act  which  I  bave  just  cited,  as  per- 
mitting tbe  employment  of  foreigners,  con- 
tains a  complaint  in  its  preamble  that  tbe 
toleration  of  these  men  caused  many  *'  of 
badd  and  lewde  condition  daylie  to  resorte 
from  tbe  most  parte  of  this  reolmo  to  the  said 
cytie,  subufbs  and  places  a^oining,  procuring 
themselves  small  babytacons,  namely,  one 
chamber-roome  fi.»r  a  poor  foreignero  and  his 
familye  in  a  small  cottage,  with  some  other 
as  poore  as  himself,  to  the  great  increase  and 
pcstiinge  of  this  cj-ttie  i^ith  poor  people; 
many  of  tbeni  proringe  shifters,  lyringe  by 
cozeninge,  stealinge  and  imbeazellinge  men's 
goods,  as  opportunity  may  serve  them."  A 
somewhat  curious  precedent  as  regards  the 
character  of  the  dwelUngs,  being  in  **  one 
chamber-roome,"  &c.,  for  the  abodes  of  the 
workmen,  for  the  slop- tailors  and  others  in 
our  day,  as  I  baare  shown  in  my  previous 
letters. 

The  ticket-porters  in  1810  are  described  as 

3000  persons  and  upwards,  which  sufiQciently 

shows  their  importance;  and  in  1712  a  Com- 

I  mem  Council  enactment  provides  that  they 

I  shall  bave  and  enjoy  the  work  or  labour  of 


AM 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


unshipping,  landing,  earrying  and  housing  of 
pitch,  tar,  soap,  ashes,  oUpboards,  wainscot, 
fir-poles,  masts,  deals,  oars,  chests,  tables, 
flax  and  hemp,  brought  hither  from  Dantzic, 
Melvyn,  or  any  other  part  or  place  of  the 
countries  commonly  called  the  east  countries. 
Also  of  the  imports  from  Ireland,  "  from  any 
of  the  plantations  belonging  to  Great  Britain, 
and  of  all  manner  of  coast-goods,  (except 
lead)."  The  tackle-house  porters  were,  by 
the  same  enactment,  to  *'  have  and  enjoy  the 
work  and  labour  of  the  shipping  and  all  goods 
imported  and-  belonging  to  Uie  South  Sea 
Company,  or  to  the  Company  of  Merchants 
trading  to  the  East  Indies,  and  of  all  other 
goods  and  merchandizes  coming  from  other 
ports  not  before  mentioned.  The  functions 
of  the  tackle-house  and  ticket- porters  are  by 
this  regulation  in  1712  made  identical  as  to 
labour,  with  merely  the  distinction  as  to  the 
place  from  which  the  goods  were  received: 
and  as  the  number  of  tackle-house  porters 
was  properly  24,  with  them  must  be  included, 
I  presume,  all  such  ticket-porters,  but  not  to 
the  full  number ;  nor  is  it  Ukely  that  they  will 
be  renewed  in  case  of  death.  The  taokle- 
house  porters  that  are  still  in  existence,  I  was 
told,  are  gentlemen.  One  is  a  wharifinger, 
and  claims  and  enjoys  the  monopoly  of  labour 
on  his  own  wharf.  "  The  tackle-house  porters, 
or  most  of  them,  were  labourers  within  these 
twenty  years."  The  tackle-house  and  ticket- 
porters  still  epjoy,  by  law,  the  right  to  man 
the  work,  wherever  porterage  is  required ;  or, 
in  other  words,  to  execute  the  labour  them 
selves,  or  to  engage  men  to  do  it,  no  matter 
whether  the  work  relate  to  shipping,  to  the 
markets,  or  to  mere  street-porterage,  such  as 
the  conveyance  of  parcels  for  hire  by  men's 
labour.  The  number  of  the  ticket-porters 
was,  20  years  ago,  about  600.  At  that  time 
to  become  free  of  the  company,  which  has  no 
hall  but  assembles  at  Guildhadl,  cost  upwards 
of  40/.,  but  soon  afterwards  the  expense  was  re- 
duced to  6/.  3«.  ^d.  By  a  resolution  of  the  Com- 
mon Council,  no  new  ticket-porters  have  been 
appointed  since  1838.  Previously  to  becoming 
a  ticket-porter  a  man  must  have  taken  up  his 
freedom,  no  matter  in  what  character,  and 
must  produce  certificates  of  good  character 
and  security  of  two  fVeemen,  householders  of 
good  credit,  each  in  100/.,  so  that  the  owner  of 
any  articles  entrusted  to  the  ticket  -  porter 
may  be  indemnified  in  case  of  loss.  The 
ticket  -  porters  are  not  the  mere  labourers 
people  generally  imagine  they  are,  but  are, 
or  were,  for  their  number  does  now  not 
exceed  100,  decayed  tradesmen,  who  resorted 
to  tliis  means  of  livelihood  when  others  hod 
failed.  They  are  also  the  sons  of  ticket- 
porters.  Any  fVeeman  of  the  city,  by  becoming 
a  member  of  the  Tackle  House  and  Ticket- 
Porters'  Company,  was  entitled  to  act  as  a 
ticket-porter.  They  are  still  recognised  at  the 
markets  and  the  wharfs,  but  their  pri\'ileges 
ore  constantly,  and  more  and  more  infringed. 


From  a  highly  intelligent  member  of  their 
body  I  had  the  following  statement : — 

"  It  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not,  that  ticket- 
porters  ore  not  wanted  now;  but  15  or  16 
years  ago  a  committee  of  the  Common  Council, 
the  Market  Conmaittee  I  believe  it  was,  resolved 
that  the  ticket-porters  ought  to  be  upheld,  and 
that  90/.  shomd  be  awutled  to  us;  but  we 
never  got  it,  it  was  stopped  by  some  after- 
resolution.  Pot  it  this  way,  sir.  To  get 
bread  for  myself  and  my  children  I  became 
a  ticket-porter,  having  incurred  great  expense 
in  taking  up  my  fVeedom  and  all  that.  Well, 
for  this  expense  I  enjoyed  certain  privileges, 
and  epjoy  them  still  to  some  extent;  but  that's 
only  because  I'm  well  known,  and  have  had 
great  experience  in  porterage,  and  quickness, 
as  it  is  as  much  art  as  strength.  But,  sup- 
posing that  railways  ha\'e  changed  the  whole 
business  of  the  times,  are  the  privileges  I  have 
secured  with  my  own  money,  and  under  the 
sanction  of  all  diie  old  laws  of  the  city,  to  be 
taken  from  me?  If  the  privileges,  though 
they  may  not  be  many,  of  the  rich  city  com- 
panies are  not  to  be  touched,  why  are  mine? 
Every  day  they  are  infringed.  A  railway- 
waggon,  for  instance,  carries  a  load  of  meat  to 
Newgate  Market  Tickot-porters  have  the 
undoubted  right  to  unload  the  meat  and  cany 
it  to  its  place  of  sale ;  but  the  railway  sonants 
do  that,  though  only  freemen  employ  their 
own  servants  in  porterage,  and  that  only  with 
their  own  goods,  or  goods  they  are  concerned 
in.  I  fancy  that  railway  companies  ore  not 
freemen,  and  don't  carry  their  own  property 
to  market  for  sale.  If  we  complain  to  the 
authorities,  we  are  recommended  to  take  the 
low  of  the  offenders,  and  we  can  only  lake  it 
of  the  person  committing  the  actual  offence. 
And  so  we  may  sue  a  beggar,  whom  his  em- 
ployers may  send  down  their  line  an  hour 
after  to  Hull  or  Halifax,  as  the  saying  is.  If 
we  are  of  no  further  use,  don't  sacrifice,  but 
compensate  us,  and  let  us  moke  the  best  of  it, 
though  we  are  none  of  us  so  young  as  we  were; 
some  are  vei^'  old,  and  none  are  under  40, 
because  no  new  members  have  been  mode  for 
some  years.  If  a  man's  house  be  a  hindrance 
to  public  business,  he  must  be  paid  a  proper 
price  for  it  before  it  can  be  removed,  and  so 
ought  we.  The  Palace  Court  people  were 
compensated,  and  ought  not  we,  who  work 
hard  for  an  honest  living,  and  have  bought 
the  right  to  work  in  our  portering,  aocording 
to  the  laws  of  the  city,  that  secure  the  gold- 
smiths in  their  right  of  assaying,  and  all  the 
rich  companies  in  possession  of  tlieir  lands 
and  possessions  ?  and  so  it  ought  to  be  with 
our  labour." 

The  porter-packers  have  been  unknown  in 
the  business  of  the  city  for  some  years ;  their 
avocation  "  in  the  packinge  and  shippinge  of 
strangers'  gooddes,"  having  barely  survived 
tlie  expiring  of  the  East  India  Compaoj*! 
charter  in  ISW. 

The  street  porters,  or  m«n  who  ocmpv.  of 


STRi:r.r  i^orter  with  knot. 

[f-'rom  a  Fkotoyravh.' 


L0»nO19  JbABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


367 


rather  did  occupy  (for  thoy  are  not  now 
always  to  be  found  there,)  the  principal  bu- 
siness parts  of  the  city,  are  of  course  ticket- 
porters,  and  by  the  law  have  exclusive  right 
of  all  porterage  by  hirfe  firom  **  aliens  or 
iSoreigners"  in  the  streets,  ^  freaman  nag: 
employ  his  own  servant),  even  to  t)le  carrying 
of  a  parcel  of  the  burden  of  which  any  one 
may  wish  to  relieve  himself.  They  usually, 
hot  not  always,  wear  white  aprons,  and  display 
their  tickets  as  badges.  They  do  not  confine 
themselves  to  the  streets,  but^  sesort  to  the 
wharfis  in  the  fruit  or  any'bii^  season,  and  to 
the  meat  and  fish-markets,  whenevet  Uiey 
tfamk  there  is  the  chance  of  a  job^  and  the 
preference,  as  is  not  unfirequeiJly  tbe  case, 
Bkely  to  fall  to  them,  for  they  are  known 
to  be  trusty  and  experienced  men.  This 
shifting  of  l&bour  from  one  place  to  another 
renders  it  impossible  to  give  the  number  of 
ticket-porters  working  in  any  particular  lo- 
cality. 

The  fbllowshfp-porters  seem  to  have  spnmg 
into  existence  in  consequence  of  the  misunder- 
standings of  the  tackle  and  ticket-porters,  and 
in  this  way,  fellowships,  or  gangs  of  porters, 
were  confined,  or  confined  themselves,  to  the 
porterage  of  coal,  com,  malt  and  indeed,  all 
grain,  salt,  fruit,  and  wet  fish  (conceded  to 
them  aller  many  disputes  by  the  ticket^porters 
of  Billingsgate),  and  their  privileges  ore  not 
infringed  to  any  such  extent  as  tibose  of  the 
tirkct-iwrters. 

Tbe  payments  of  ticket-porters  were  settled 
in  1799. 

To  or  from  any  of  the  quays,  wharfs,  stairs, 
lines,  or  alleys  at  the  waterside,  between  the 
Tower  and  London  Bridge  to  any  part  of 
Lower  Thames- street,  Beer-lane,  Water -lane, 
Harp-lane,  St.  Dunstan's-hill,  St.  Maiy-hill, 
Love-lane,  Botolph-lane,  Fudding-lane,  and 
Fish-street-hill : 


For  any  load  or  parcel  by  knot  or  hand  — 


Not  exceeding   \  cwt.     . 

.  Oi.  u. 

vt                  *•          »l           • 

.  0     6 

^  »    . 

.  0     9 

2    „    . 

.  1     0 

For  the  like  weights,  and  not  exceeding 
Poplar,  Bow -church.  Bishop  Bonnet's  Farm, 
Kingsland  -  turnpike,  Highbury -place,  (Old) 
Pancras-church,  Portmau-aquare,  Grosvenor- 
square,  Hyde-park-comer,  Buokiiigham-gate, 
Westminster  Infirmary,  Tothill-fidds  Bride- 
well, Strutton-ground,  Horsefecry,  Vauxhall, 
Walworth-tumpike,  and  places  of  the  like 
distance — 


Not  ezcctding  iewt 

.  %:M. 

1      »       . 

.  3    3 

4    •       . 

.  8    9 

n             *       n         • 

.  0    0 

I  cite  these  regulationft  to  show  the  distances 
to  which  porters  were  sent  half  a  oentuxy  ago, 
and  the  charges.  These  charges,  however, 
vrere  not  always  paid,  as  the  persona  employ- 
ing parties  often  made  bargains  with  them, 
and  some  twenty  years  ago  the  legalised 
charges  were  reduoed  \d,  in  every  di/.  The 
street-porters  complain  that  any  one  may  now, 
or  at  all  events  does  now,  p]y  for  hire  in  the 
city,  and  get  higher  prices  than  them. 

All  ticket-porters  pay  8<;  yearly  towards  the 
funds  of  their  society,  which  is  called  quarter- 
age. Out  of  this  »  frw  small  i>ensions  are 
granted  to  old  women,  the  widows  of  ticket- 
porters. 

The  difference  of  the  functions  of  the  ticket 
and  fellowship-porters  fieeiBS  to  be  this — that 
the  ticket-porters  cany  dzy  goods,  or  those 
classed  by  weight  or  bulk,  the  fellowship, 
porters  cany  measured  goods. 


dC8 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  ^OOH. 


LONDON  VAGRANTS. 


Thx  eyils  oonseqQent  upon  the  nncertainty  of 
labour  I  have  already  been  at  considerable 
pains  to  point  out  There  is  still  one  other 
mischief  attendant  upon  it  that  remains  to 
bo  exposed,  and  which,  if  possible,  is  greater 
than  any  other  yet  adduced.  Many  classes  of 
labour  are  necessarily  nncertam  or  fitfbl  in 
their  character.  Some  woik  can  be  pursued 
only  at  certain  seasons ;  some  depends  upon 
the  winds,  as,  for  instance,  dock  labour ;  some 
on  fashion;  and  nearly  all  on  the  general 
prosperity  of  the  country.  "Now,  the  labourer 
who  is  deprived  of  his  usual  employment  by 
any  of  the  above  causes,  must,  unless  he  has 
laid  by  a  portion  of  his  earnings  while  engaged, 
become  a  burden  to  his  parish,  or  the  state, 
or  else  he  must  seek  work,  either  of  another 
kind  or  in  another  place.  The  mere  fact  of  a 
man's  seeking  work  in  different  parts  of  the 
country,  may  be  taken  as  evidence  that  he  is 
indisposed  to  live  on  the  charity  or  labour  of 
others ;  and  this  feeling  should  be  encouraged 
in  every  rational  manner.  Hence  the  greatest 
facility  should  be  afforded  to  all  labourers  who 
m«y  be  unable  to  obtain  work  in  one  locality, 
to  pass  to  another  part  of  the  country  where 
there  may  be  a  demand  for  their  labour.  In 
floe,  it  is  expedient  that  every  means  should 
be  given  for  extendins  the  labour-market  for 
the  working  classes ;  that  is  to  say,  for  allowing 
them  as  wide  a  field  for  the  exercise  of  their 
cidling  as  possible.  To  do  this  involves  the 
establishment  of  what  are  called  the  "  casual 
wards"  of  the  different  unions  throughout  the 
country.  These  are,  strictly  speaking,  the  free 
hostelnes  of  the  unemployed  workpeople, 
where  thoy  may  be  lodged  and  fed,  on  their 
way  to  find  work  in  some  more  active  district 
But  the  cstabliKhment  of  these  gratuitous 
hotels  has  called  into  existence  a  large  class  of 
wayfarers,  for  whom  they  were  never  contem- 
plated. They  have  been  the  means  of  afford- 
ing groat  encouragement  to  those  vagabond  or 
erratic  spirits  who  find  continuity  of  applica. 
tion  to  any  task  specially  irksome  to  them,  and 
who  are  physically  unable  or  mentally  unwilling 
to  remain  for  any  length  of  time  in  the  same 
place,  or  at  the  same  work — creatures  who  are 
vagrants  in  disposition  and  principle;  the 
wanilering  tribe  of  this  country ;  the  nomads 
of  the  present  day. 

'*  The  right  which  every  person  apparently 
destitute  possesses,  to  demand  food  and  shelter, 
affords,"  says  Mr.  Pigott,  in  the  Report  on 
Vagrancy,  "  ^reat  facilities  and  encouragement 
to  idle  and  dissolute  persons  to  avoid  labour, 
and  pass  their  lives  in  idleness  and  piUage. 


There  can  be  no  doubt  that  of  the  wayftran 
who,  in  summer  especially,  demand  admission 
into  workhouses,  the  number  of  those  whom 
the  law  contemplates  under  the  titles  of  *■  idle 
and  disorderly/  and  *  rogues  and  vagabonds,' 
greatly  exceeds  that  of  those  who  are  honestlj 
and  Umd  Me  travelling  in  search  of  employ- 
ment, ana  that  it  is  the  former  class  whose 
numbers  have  recently  so  increased  as  to 
require  a  xemedy." 

It  becomes  almost  a  necessary  result  of  any 
system  which  seeks  to  give  shelter  and  food  to 
the  industrious  operative  in  his-  way  to  look 
for  work,  that  it  should  be  the  means  of 
harbouring  and  fostering  the  idle  and  the 
vagabond. 

To  refose  an  asylum  to  Uie  vagrant  is  to 
shut  out  the  traveller;  so  hard  is  it  to  tell  the 
one  from  the  other. 

The  prime  cause  of  vagabondism  is  essen- 
tially the  non-inculcation  of  a  habit  of  industry ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  faculty  of  continuous  appli- 
cation at  a  particular  form  of  work,  has  not 
been  engendered  in  the  individual's  nund,  and 
he  has  naturally  an  aversion  to  any  regular 
occupation,  and  becomes  erratic,  wandering 
from,  this  thing  to  that,  without  any  settled  or 
determined  object.  Hence  we  find,  that  the 
vagrant  disposition  begins  to  exhibit  itself  pre- 
dsoly  at  that  age  when  the  first  attempts  are 
made  to  inculcate  the  habit  of  continuous  la- 
bour among  yonths.  This  will  be  seen  by  the 
table  in  the  opposite  page  (token  firom  the 
Returns  of  the  Houseless  Poor),  which  shows 
the  greatest  number  of  inmates  to  be  between 
the  ages  of  fifteen  and  twenty-five. 

The  cause  of  the  greater  amount  of  vagrancy 
being  foimd  among  individuals  between  the 
ages  of  fifteen  and  twenty-five  (and  it  is  not 
by  the  table  alone  that  this  fact  is  borne  ont), 
appears  to  be  the  irksomeness  of  any  kind 
of  sustained  labour  when  first  performed. 
This  is  especially  the  case  with  yonth ;  and 
honce  a  certain  kind  of  compulsion  is  neces- 
sary, in  order  that  the  habit  of  doing  the  par- 
ticular work  may  be  engendered.  Unfoita- 
natel^,  however,  at  this  age  the  self-will  of  the 
individual  begins  also  to  be  developed,  and 
any  compulsion  or  restraint  becomes  doub^ 
irksome.  Hence,  without  judicious  treatment, 
the  restraint  may  be  enUrelj  thrown  off  \q 
the  youth,  and  the  labour  be  discarded  by  him, 
before  any  steadiness  of  application  has  been 
produced  by  constancy  of  practice.  The  caoie 
of  vagrancy  then  resolves  itseU^  to  a  grsit 
extent,  into  the  harshness  of  either  parents 
or  employers;   and  this  it  will  be  found  ii 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


bUtt 


[generally  Uic  accoimt  given  by  the  vagraiits 
themselves.  They  have  been  treated  with 
severity,  and  being  generally  remarkable  for 
their  self-will,  have  run  away  from  their 
home  or  master  to  live  while  yet  mere  lads  in 
some  of  the  low  lodging-houses.  Here  they 
tind  companions  of  the  same  age  and  character 
fis  themselves,  with  whom  they  ultimately  set 
out  on  a  vagabond  excursion  through  the 
country,  begging  or  plundering  on  their  way. 


Another  class  of  vagrants  consists  of  those 
who,  having  been  thrown  out  of  employment, 
have  travelled  through  the  country,  seeking 
work  without  avail,  and  who,  consequently, 
have  lived  on  charity  so  long,  that  the  habits 
of  wandering  and  mendicancy  have  eradicated 
their  former  habits  of  industry,  and  the 
industrious  workman  has  become  changed  into 
the  habitual  beggar. 


THE 


AGES   OF  APPLICANTS   FOR    SHELTER    AT    THE    CENTRAL    ASYLUM, 
PLAYHOUSE.YARD,  WHITECROSS-STREET,  IN  THE  YEAR  1849. 


Childrfn  unt 

Age.      ^o.  of  Ap- 
Months.    pUcants. 
ler  ]      ..      17 

1  ..        4 

2  ..      42 
8     ..      21 
4     ..      14 
6     ..     14 

6  ..     26 

7  ..     30 

8  ..       7 

9  ..      14 

10  ..        7 

11  ..       5 

201 

No.  of 
AppUcanta. 
28 

Ag«. 
Tears. 

17        .... 

No.  of 
AppUcanU. 
380 

49       .... 

No.  of 
AppUcaoU. 
84 

Children  of 

18       

336 

50       

108 

19       

385 

61       

28 

20       

296 

62       .... 

46 

21       .... 

835 

63       .... 

44 

22       .... 

886 

64      .... 

21 

23       

295 

66       

49 

24       

899 

66       .... 

35 

25       

122 

57       .... 

27 

26       

238 

68       .... 

35 

27       .... 

219 

69       .... 

27 

28       .... 

238 

60       .... 

35 

29       .... 

84 

61       .... 

7 

30       

294 

62       .... 

14 

wis. 

31       

56 

63       .... 

7 

32       

91 

64       .... 

14 

1       .... 

33       

105 

65       .... 

12 

3      .... 

22 

84       

98 

66       .... 

6 

8      

28 

35       

186 

67       

10 

4      

. ..       80 

36       

98 

68       .... 

7 

5      .... 

.  ..       36 

87       

63 

69       .... 

4 

6       .... 

39 

88       

66 

70 

7 

7      .... 

56 

39       .... 

42 

71       .... 

4 

8      .... 

38 

40       .... 

117 

72       .... 

6 

9      .... 

92 

41       .... 

63 

73       .... 

7 

10      .... 

. . .      108 

42       

91 

74      ... 

6 

11      .... 

. ..      104 

43       .... 

49 

75       .... 

7 

12      .... 

. . .      107 

44       

42 

76       

6 

18      ... 

. ..      177 

46       .... 

91 

77       

2 

14      ... 

...      102 

46       

28 

78 

4 

16      ... 

. . .      268 

47       

85 

79 

0 

16      ... 

. -  -     250 

48       

fifi  • 

80       .... 

2 

**"  Having  investigated  the  general  causes  of 
depredation,  of  vagrancy,  and  mendicancy," 
^ay  the  Constabulary  Commissioners,  in  the 
Oofemment  Reports  of  1839  (p.  181),  as 
^iereloped  by  examinations  of  the  previous 
iires  of  criminals  or  vagrants  in  the  gaols,  we 
find  that  scarcely  in  any  cases  is  it  ascribable 
to  the  prefwure  of  unavoidable  want  or  desti- 
Uition,  and  that  in  the  great  mass  of  cases  it 
Arises  from  the  temptation  of  obtaining  pro- 
perty with  a  less  degree  of  labour  than  by 
vvgtilar  industry."  Again,  in  p.  68  of  the 
sii&e  Report,  we  are  told  that  *^  the  inquiries 
tt«de  by  the  most  experienced  officers  into  the 
ctoses  of  vagrancy  manifest,  that  in  all  but 


three  or  four  per  cent  the  prevalent  cause  wns 
the  impatience  of  steady  labour."  My  investi- 
gations into  this  most  important  subject  lead 
me,  1  may  add,  to  the  same  conclusions.  In 
order  to  understand  the  question  of  vagrancy 
thoroughly,  however,  we  must  not  stop  here ; 
we  must  find  out  what,  in  its  turn,  is  the  cause 
of  this  impatience  of  steady  labour;  or,  in 
other  words,  we  must  ascertain  whence  comes 
the  desire  to  obtain  property  with  a  less  degree 
of  labour  than  by  r^^ar  industry.  Now,  all 
"  steady  labour" — that  is  to  say,  the  continu- 
ance of  any  labour  for  any  length  of  time — 
is  naturally  irksome  to  us.  We  are  all  innately 
erratic — ^prone  to  wander  both  in  thought  and 


.70 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


action ;  and  it  i«  only  by  a  Tig^oroos  eilbrt, 
which  Ls  more  or  less  pftinful  to  us  at  first, 
that  we  can  keop  ouivohes  to  the  steady  pro- 
socution  of  the  some  object,  to  the  rei>eiited 
perform  once  of  the  same  acts,  or  even  to  con- 
tinuous attention  to  the  same  subject.  Jjabour 
and  effort  ore  more  or  less  irksome  to  ns  all. 
There  are,  however,  two  means  by  which  tliis 
irksomt-ncss  may  bo  not  only  removed,  but 
trail sfomicd  into  a  positive  pleasure.  One  is, 
by  the  excitement  of  some  impulse  or  purpose 
in  the  mind  of  the  workman ;  and  the  other, 
by  the  inculcation  of  a  habit  of  working. 
Purpose  and  habit  ore  the  only  two  modes  by 
which  labour  can  be  rendered  easy  to  us;  and 
it  is  precisely  because  the  vagrant  is  deficient 
in  both  that  he  has  on  aversion  to  work  for 
his  living?,  and  wanders  throuph  the  country 
without  an  object,  or,  indeed,  a  destination.  A 
love  of  iiiduKtr}'  is  not  a  gilt,  but  a  habit;  it 
is  an  accomplishment  rutlker  than  an  endow- 
ment ;  and  our  purposes  and  principles  do  not 
arise  spontaneously  from  Uic  promptings  of 
our  owu  instincts  and  alfectiouH,  but  are  the 
mature  result  of  education,  example,  and 
deliberation.  A  vagrant,  therefore.  Is  an 
individual  applying  himself  continuously  to  no 
one  thiug,  nor  pursuing;  any  one  aim  for  any 
length  of  time,  but  wandering  from  tliis  subject 
to  that,  as  well  as  from  one  place  to  another, 
because  in  him  no  industrial  Imbits  have  been 
formed,  uor  any  principle  orpuri»o80  impressed 
upon  his  nature. 

Pursiiin*:  the  subject  still  furtlior,  we  shall 
find  that  tlie  cause  of  the  vagrant's  wandering 
through  the  country — and  indeed  through  life 
— purjioseless,  objectless,  and  unprincipled^  in 
the  literal  and  strict  meaning  of  the  term,  lies 
mainly  in  the  defective  state  of  our  educational 
institutions ;  for  the  vagrants,  as  a  class,  it 
should  be  remembered,  are  not  "educated." 
AVe  teach  a  lad  reading,  writing,  and  arith- 
metic, and  bcUeve  that  in  so  doing  we  are  de- 
veloping the  moral  flmctiiuis  of  liis  nature; 
whereas  it  is  often  this  ability  to  rend  merelj/ — 
that  is  to  say,  to  read  without  the  least  moral 
perception — which  becomes  the  instrument  of 
the  youth's  moral  depra^-ity.  The  "  Jack  Shep- 
pard"  of  Mr.  Harrison  Ainsworth  is  borrowed 
from  the  circulating  library,  and  read  aloud  in 
the  low  lodging-houses  in  the  evening  by  those 
who  have  a  little  education,  to  their  compani- 
ions  who  have  none ;  and  becanse  the  thief  is 
there  furbished  up  into  the  heroL-.bec8use  the 
author  has  tricked  him  out  with  a  sort  of  brute 
insensibility  to  danger,  made  "noble  blood 
fiow  in  his  veins,"  and  tinselled  him  over  with 
all  kinds  of  showy  sentimentality — the  poor 
l>oys  who  listen,  unable  to  see  through  the 
trumpery  deception,  are  led  to  look  up  to  the 
paltry  thief  as  an  ot^ject  of  admiration,  and  to 
make  his  conduct  the  heau  %d4al  of  thdr  lives. 
Of  idl  books,  pertiaps  none  has  ever  bad  so 
baneM  an  effect  upon  the  young  xmnd,  taste, 
and  principles  as  this.  None  has  ever  done 
more  to  degrade  literature  to  the  level  of  the 


lowest  licentiousness,  or  to  stamp  the  author 
and  the  teacher  as  guilty  of  pandering  to  tlio  I 
most  depraved  propensities.  Had  Mr.  Ains- 
worth been  with  me,  and  seen  how  he  had  vi- 
tiated  the  thoughts  and  pursuits  of  hundreds 
of  mere  boys— had  he  heard  the  names  of  the 
creatures  of  his  morbid  fiincy  given  to  youths 
at  an  age  when  they  needed  the  best  and  trne^t 
counsellors — ^had  he  seen  these  poor  little 
wretches,  as  I  have  seen  them,  grin  with  de 
light  at  receiring  the  degrading  titles  of  "Llue 
skin,"  "Dick  Turpin,*  and  "Jack  Sheppard," 
be  would,  I  am  sure,  ever  rue  tbe  day  which 
led  him  to  paint  the  most  degraded  and  abon- 
doned  of  our  race  as  the  most  noble  of  human 
beings.  What  wonder,  then,  that — taught 
either  in  no  school  at  all,  or  else  in  that  mere- 
tricioas  one  which  makes  crime  a  glor}',  and 
drosses  up  vice  as  virtue — these  poor  lads 
should  be  unprincipled  in  ever}'  act  they  do- 
that  they  should  be  either  literally  actuated  by 
no  principles  at  all,  or  else  fired  with  the  basest 
motives  and  purposes,  gathered  from  books 
which  distort  highway  robl>ory  into  an  act  of 
noble  enterprise,  and  dignify  murder  as  juati- 
tiable  homicide  ? 

Nor  are  the  habits  of  the  young  vagrant  less 
cultivated  than  his  motives.     The  formation  of 
tliat  particular  habit  which  we  term  industr}*, 
and  by  which  the  youth  is  fitted  to  obtain  bis 
living  as  a  man,  is  perhaps  the  most  diflScult 
part  of  all  education.    It  commences  at  on  age 
when  tlio  will  of  the  indiriduol  is  beginning  to 
develope  itself,  and  when   the  docile  boy  is 
changed  into  tlie  impatient  young  man.    Too 
great  lenity,  or  too  strict  severity  of  govern- 
ment, tliercfore,  becomes  at  this  pericnl  of  life 
dangerous.    If  the  rule  bo  too  lax,  the  restless 
youth,  disgusted  with  the  monotony  of  par- 
suing  the  same  task,  or  performing  the  same 
acts,  day  by  day,  neglects  his  work — ^till  habits 
of  indolence,  rather  than  industry,  are  formed, 
and  he  is  ultimately  thrust  upon  the  world, 
iiithout  either  the  means  or  the  disposition  of 
labouring  for  his  living.   If,  on  the  other  hand,    < 
the  authority  of  the  parent  or  master  be  too    ' 
rigidly  exercised,  and  the  lad's  power  of  endor- 
ance  be  taxed  too  severely,  then  the  self-will    , 
of  the  youth  is  called  into  action ;  and  growing 
restless  and  rebellious  under  the  tyranny  of  his 
teachers,  he  throws  off  their  restraint,  and 
leaves  them— -with  a  hatred,  instead  of  a  love 
of  labour  engendered  within  him.    That  these    ; 
are  two  of  the  primary  causes  of  vagraney,  all    | 
my  inquiries  have  tended  to  show.  Tbeproxi-    I 
mate  cause  certainly  lies  in  tbe  impatience  «!   ■ 
steady  labour;  but  tLe  cause  of  this  impatience    i 
is  referable  to  iht  noQ-formaticn  of  any  habit    . 
of  industiy  in  the  vacprant,  and  the  absence  of 
this  habit  of  industry  is  usuallj  diie  to  the  ne- 
glect or  ih%  tyranny  of  tbe  lad's  paaent  or  mai- 
ter.    This  is  no  Uieoiy,  be  it  remeEibefed. 
Whether  it  be  tbe  master  of  the  workboue. 
where  the  vagrants  congrogate  every  night — 
whether  it  he  the  young  vagrant  himself,  or 
the  more  experienced  trami>--that  speaks  upon 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOlt. 


871 


the  subject,  all  agree  in  ascribing  the  Taga- 
bondism  of  youth  to  the  same  cause.  There 
is,  howerra-,  another  phase  of  Yagninoy  still  to 
be  esplained ;  viz.  the  transition  of  the  work- 
ing man  into  the  regular  tramp  and  beggar. 
TUs  is  the  result  of  a  habit  of  dependence, 
pro4vcod  in  the  operotiYe  by  repeated  visits  to 
the  easnal  wards  of  the  unions.  A  labouring 
num,  or  mechanic,  deprived  of  employment  in 
a  partioular  town,  sets  out  on  a  journey  to  seek 
work  ki  some  other  part  of  the  country.  The 
mere  fact  of  his  so  journeying  to  seek  work 
shows  that  he  has  a  natural  aversion  to  become^ 
a  burden  to  the  parish.  He  is  no  sooner,  how-' 
ever,  become  an  inmate  of  the  casual  wards, 
and  breakfasts  and  sups  off  the  bounty  of  the 
workhouse,  than  he  learns  a  most  dangerous 
lesson — he  learns  how  to  live  by  the  labour  of 
others.  His  sense  of  independence  may  be 
shocked  at  first,  but  repeated  visits  to  the  same 
places  soon  deaden  his  feelings  on  this  score ; 
and  he  gradually,  from  continual  disuse,  loses 
his  habit  of  labouring,  and  ultimately,  by  long 
custom,  acquires  a  habit  of  "  tramping"  through 
the  eountiy,  and  putting  up  at  the  casual  wards 
of  the  unions  by  the  way.  Thus,  what  was 
originally  designed  br  a  means  of  enabling  the 
labouring  man  to  obtain  work,  becomes  the  in- 
strument of  depriving  him  of  emplojTnent,  by 
rendering  it  no  longer  a  necessity  for  him  to 
se^  it ;  and  the  independent  workman  is 
tnoisformed  after  a  time  into  the  habitual 
tramper,  and  finally  into  the  professional  beg- 
gfor  and  petty  thief.  Such  characters,  how- 
ever, form  but  a  small  proportion  of  the  great 
body  of  vagabonds  continually  traversing  the 
coftntxy. 

The  vagrants  are  essentially  the  non- work- 
ing, as  distinguished  from  the  hard-working, 
men  of  England.  They  are  the  very  opposite 
to  the  industrious  classes,  with  whom  they  ore 
too  often  confounded.  Of  the  really  destitute 
working-men,  among  the  vagrants  seeking  re- 
lief ot  the  casual  wards,  the  proportion  is  very 
small;  the  respectable  mechanics  being  de- 
terred by  disgust  from  herding  with  the  liltli, 
infamy,  disease,  and  vermin  congregated  in 
the  tramp-wards  of  the  unions,  and  preferring 
the  endurance  of  the  greatest  privations  before 
subjecting  themselves  to  it.  "  I  have  had  this 
view  coi^rmed  by  several  unfortunate  per- 
sons," says  Mr.  Boose,  in  the  Poor-law  Report 
on  Vagrancy :  "  they  were  apparently  me- 
chanics out  of  employment,  who  spoke  of  the 
horrors  passed  in  a  tramp-ward,  and  of  their 
utter  repugnance  at  visiting  such  places  again." 
••  The  poor  mechanic,**  says  the  porter  at  the 
Holbom  workhouse,  "  will  sit  in  the  casiud 
wards  like  a  lost  man — scared.  It's  shocking 
to  think  a  decent  mechanic's  houseless,"  he 
ad&;  **  when  he's  beat  out,  he's  like  a  bird  out 
of  a  cage :  he  doesnt  know  where  to  go,  or 
how  to  get  a  bit"  But  the  highest  tribute  ever 
paid  to  the  sterling  honesty  and  worth  of  the 
working  men  of  this  country,  is  to  be  found 
in  the  testimony  of  the  master  of  the  Wands- 


worth and  Clapham  Union.  *«  The  destitute  me- 
chanics," he  says,  **  are  entirely  a  different  class 
firom  ihe  regular  vagrant ;  they  have  different 
habits,  and,  indeed,  different  features.  They 
are  strictly  honest.  During  the  whole  of  my 
experience,  I  never  knew  a  distressed  artisan 
who  applied  for  a  night's  shdter  commit  an 
act  of  theft ;  and  I  have  seen  them,"  he  adds, 
'*  in  the  last  stage  of  destitution.  Occasionally 
they  have  sold  the  shirt  and  waistcoat  off 
their  backs,  before  they  applied  fbr  admittance 
into  the  workhouse ;  while  some  of  them  have 
been  so  weak  firom  long  starvation,  that  they 
could  scarcely  reach  the  gate,  and,  indeed,  had 
to  be  kept  for  several  days  in  the  infirmary, 
before  their  strength  was  recruited  sufficiently 
to  continue  their  journey."  For  myself  I  can 
safely  say,  that  my  own  experience  fully  bears 
out  this  honourable  declaration  of  the  virtues 
of  our  working  men.  Their  extreme  patience 
under  the  keenest  privations  is  a  thing  that  the 
wisest  philosophers  might  envy ;  their  sympa- 
thy  and  charity  for  their  poorer  brethren  far 
exceeds,  in  its  humble  way,  the  benevolence 
and  bounty  of  the  rich ;  while  their  intelli- 
gence,  considering  the  little  time  they  have 
for  study  and  reflection,  is  almost  marvellous. 
In  a  word,  their  virtues  are  the  spontaneous 
exxn'essions  of  their  simply  natures;  and  their 
rices  are  the  comparatively  pardonable  ex- 
cesses, consequent  upon  the  intensity  of  their 
toil.  I  say  thus  much  in  this  place,  because  I 
am  anxious  that  the  public  should  no  longer 
confbund  the  honest,  independent  working 
men,  with  the  vagrant  beggars  and  pilferers  of 
the  coimtry ;  and  that  they  should  see  that  tho 
one  class  is  as  respectable  and  worthy,  as  the 
other  is  degraded  and  vicious. 

Charactebistics  op  the  vajeuous 
Classes  of  Vagrakts. 

I  NOW  come  to  the  characteristics  of  vagrant 
life,  OS  seen  in  the  casual  wards  of  the  metro- 
politan unions.  The  subject  is  one  of  the 
most  important  with  which  I  have  yet  had 
to  deal,  and  the  facts  I  have  collected  aro 
sufficiently  startling  to  give  the  public  an 
idea  of  the  great  social  bearings  of  the  ques- 
tion; for  the  young  vagrant  is  the  budding 
criminal. 

Previously  to  entering  upon  my  inquiry  into 
this  subject,  I  consulted  with  a  gentleman 
who  had  long  paid  considerable  attention  to 
the  question,  and  who  was,  moreover,  in  a  po- 
sition peculiarly  fitted  for  gaining  the  greatest 
experiepce,  and  arriving  at  the  correctest  no- 
tions upon  the  matter.  I  consulted,  I  say, 
with  the  gentleman  refiorred  to,  as  to  the  Poor- 
law  officers,  firom  whom  I  should  be  likely  to 
obtain  the  best  information;  and  I  was  re- 
ferred bf  him  to  Mr.  Knapp,  the  master  of  the 
Wandsworth  and  Olapbam  Union,  as  one  of 
the  most  intelligent  and  best-informed  upon 
the  subject  of  vagrancy.  I  found  ^at  gentle. 
man  aU  that  he  had  been  lepresented  to  mo 


3r> 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


as  being,  and  obtoineil  from  }iim  the  following 
statement,  which,  as  an  analysis  of  the  va- 
grant chanictcr,  and  a  description  of  the  habits 
and  propensities  of  the  young  vagabond,  has, 
perhaps,  never  been  surpassed. 

He  had  filled  the  office  of  master  of  the 
Wandsworth  and  Clapham  Union  for  three 
years,  and  immediately  before  that  he  waH  the 
relieving  officer  for  the  same  union  for  up- 
wards of  two  years.  He  was  guardian  of 
Clapham  parish  for  four  years  previously  to 
his  being  elected  relieving  officer.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  first  board  of  guardians  that 
was  formed  under  the  new  Poor-law  Act,  and 
he  has  long  given  much  attention  to  the 
habits  of  the  vagrants  that  have  come  under 
his  notice  or  care.  He  told  me  that  he  con- 
sidered a  casual  ward  necessary  in  ever}' 
union,  because  there  is  always  a  migratory 
population,  consisting  of  labourers  seeking 
employment  in  other  localities,  and  destitute 
women  travelling  to  their  husbands  or  friends. 
He  thinks  a  casual  ward  is  necessary  for  the 
shelter  and  relief  of  such  parties,  since  the 
law  will  not  permit  them  to  beg.  These, 
however,  are  by  far  the  smaller  proportion 
of  those  who  demand  admittance  into  the 
casual  ward.  Formerly,  they  were  not  five 
per  cent  of  the  total  number  of  casuals.  The 
remainder  consisted  of  youths,  prostitutes, 
Irish  families,  and  a  few  professional  beggars. 
The  youths  formed  more  than  one-half  of  the 
entire  number,  and  tlieir  ages  were  fVom 
twelve  to  twenty.  The  largest  number  were 
seventeen  years  old — indeed,  he  adds,  just 
that  age  when  youth  becomes  disengaged  from 
parental  control.  These  lads  had  generally 
nm  away,  either  from  their  parents  or  masters, 
and  many  had  been  reared  to  a  life  of  va- 
grancy. They  were  mostly  shrewd  and  acute 
youths;  some  had  been  verj'  well  educated. 
Ij^norance,  to  use  the  gentleman's  own  words, 
is  certainly  not  the  prevailing  characteristic  of 
the  class ;  indeed,  with  a  few  exceptions,  he 
would  say  it  is  the  reverse.  These  lads  are 
mostly  distinguished  by  their  aversion  to  con- 
tinuous labour  of  any  kind.  He  never  knew 
them  to  work — they  are,  indeed,  essentially 
the  idle  and  the  vagabond.  Their  great  in- 
clination is  to  be  on  the  move,  and  wandering 
from  place  to  place  ;  and  they  appear,  he  says, 
to  receive  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  fkt)m  the 
assembly  and  conversation  of  the  casual  ward. 
They  are  physically  stout,  healthy  lads,  and 
certainly  not  emaciated  or  sickly.  They  belong 
especially  to  the  able-bodied  class,  being,  as 
he  says,  full  of  health  and  mischief.  When  in 
London,  they  live  in  the  day-time  by  holding 
horses,  and  carrying  parcels  from  the  steam- 
piers  and  railway  termini.  Some  loiter  about 
the  markets  in  the  hope  of  a  job,  and  others 
may  be  seen  in  the  streets  picking  up  bones 
and  rags,  or  along  the  water -side  searching 
for  pieces  of  old  metal,  or  anything  that  may 
be  sold  at  the  marine-store  shops.  They 
have  nearly  all  been  in  prison  more  than  once, 


and  several  a  greater  niunber  of  times  than 
they  are  years  old.  They  are  the  most  dis- 
honest of  all  thieves,  having  not  the  least 
respect  for  the  property  of  even  the  members 
of  their  own  dass.  He  tells  me  he  has  fre- 
quently known  them  to  rob  oDe  another. 
They  are  very  stubborn  and  self-willed.  Tfa^ 
have  often  broken  every  window  in  the  oeknm- 
room,  rather  than  do  the  required  wcm^.  They 
are  a  most  difficult  class  to  govemY  and  ue 
especially  restive  under  the  least  restraint; 
they  can  ill  brook  oontrol,  and  they  find  gieit 
delight  in  thwarting  the  anthorities  of  the 
workhouse.  They  are  partioolarly  fond  of 
amusements  of  all  kinds.  My  infonnant  has 
often  heard  them  discuss  the  merits  of  the 
different  actors  at  the  minor  theatres  and 
saloons.  Sometimes  they  will  elect  a  diair- 
man,  and  get  up  a  regular  debate,  and  make 
speeches  from  one  end  of  the  ward  to  the 
other.  Many  of  them  will  make  veiy  olerer 
comic  orations;  others  delight  in  singing 
comic  songs,  espedally  those  upon  the  work- 
house and  g<^ls.  He  never  knew  them  love 
reading.  They  mostly  pass  under  fletitioos 
names.  Some  will  give  the  name  of  ''John 
Russell,"  or  "Robert  Peel,"  or  ''Biohard 
Cobden."  They  often  come  down  to  the 
casual  wards  in  large  bodies  of  twenty  or 
thirty,  with  sticks  Mdden  down  the  legs  of 
their  trousers,  and  with  these  th^  rob  and 
beat  those  who  do  not  belong  to  their  own 
gang.  The  gang  will  often  consistof  a  hundred 
lads,  all  under  twenty,  one-fourth  of  whom 
regulariy  come  together  in  a  body;  and  in  the 
casual  ward  they  generally  arrange  where  to 
meet  again  on  the  following  night.  In  the 
winter  of  1846,  tho  guardians  of  Wandsworth 
and  Clapham,  sympathising  with  their  ragged 
and  wretched  appearance,  and  desiroas  of 
affording  them  the  means  of  obtaining  an 
honest  livelihood,  gave  my  informant  inttiuo- 
tions  to  offer  an  asylum  to  any  who  mi^t 
<;hoose  to  remain  in  the  workhouse.  Under 
this  arrangement,  about  fifty  were  admitted. 
The  m^ority  were  under  seventeen  years  ef 
age.  Some  of  them  remained  a  few  days- 
others  a  few  weeks— none  stopi>ed  longer  than 
three  months ;  and  the  generality  w  them 
decamped  over  the  wall,  taking  with  them  the 
dothes  of  the  imion.  The  ooidhiement,  re- 
straint, and  order  of  the  workhouse  were  espe- 
dally irksome  to  them.  This  is  the  character 
of  the  true  vagrant,  for  whom  my  informant 
considers  no  provision  whatsoever  should  be 
made  at  the  unions,  believing  as  he  does  that 
most  of  them  have  settlements  in  or  around 
London.  The  casual  words,  he  tells  me,  he 
knows  to  have  been  a  great  encouragement  to 
the  increase  of  these  characters.  Several  of 
the  lads  that  have  come  under  his  care  had 
sought  shelter  and  concealment  in  the  casual 
wards,  after  having  absconded  from  their 
parents.  In  one  instance,  the  frither  and  mo- 
ther of  a  lad  had  unavailing^  sought  their 
son  in  every  direction :  hft  diacorered  that  the 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


y,.\ 


yoitih  had  ran  away,  and  he  sent  him  home  in 
the  custody  of  one  of  the  inmates ;  but  when 
the  hoy  got  to  within  two  or  three  doors  of  his 
iaUier's  residence,  he  tuined  roimd  and  scam- 
pered off.  The  mother  after^'ords  came  to 
the  union  in  a  state  of  frantic  grief,  and  said 
that  he  had  disappeared  two  yeai*s  before. 
Hy  informant  believes  that  the  boy  has  never 
been  heard  of  by  his  pftients  since.  Others 
he  has  restored  to  their  parents,  and  some  of 
the  young  vagrants  who  have  died  in  the 
union  have,  on  their  death-beds,  disclosed  the 
names  and  particulars  of  their  families,  who 
have  been  always  of  a  highly  respectable  cha- 
xacter.  To  these  he  has  sent,  and  on  their 
visits  to  their  children  scenes  of  indescribable 
grief  and  anguish  have  taken  place.  He  tells 
me  he  is  convinced  that  it  is  Uie  low  lodging- 
houses  and  the  casual  wards  of  the  unions 
that  offer  a  ready  means  for  youths  absconding 
fkvjm  their  home^,  immediately  on  the  least 
disagreement  or  restraint.  In  most  of  the 
eases  that  he  has  investigated,  he  has  found 
that  the  boys  have  left  home  after  some  rebuke 
or  quarrel  with  their  parents.  On  restoring 
one  boy  to  his  father,  the  latter  said  that, 
though  the  lad  was  not  ten  years  old,  he  had 
been  in  almost  every  workhouse  in  London  ; 
and  the  father  bitterly  complained  of  the 
casual  wards  for  offering  shelter  to  a  youth  of 
such  tender  years.  But  my  informant  is  con- 
vinced that,  even  if  the  casual  words  through- 
out the  country  were  entirely  closed — the  low 
lodging-houses  being  allowed  to  remain  in 
their  present  condition — the  evil  would  not  be 
remedied,  if  at  all  abated.  A  boy  after  run- 
ning away  from  home,  generally  seeks  shelter 
in  one  of  the  cheap  lodging-houses,  and  there 
he  makes  acquaintance  with  the  most  depraved 
of  both  sexes.  The  boys  at  the  house  become 
his  regular  companions,  and  he  is  soon  a  con- 
fiimed  vagrant  and  thief  like  the  rest.  The 
youths  of  the  vagrant  class  are  particularly 
distinguished  for  their  libidinous  propensities. 
They  frequently  come  to  the  gate  with  a  young 
prostitute,  and  with  her  they  go  off  in  the  morn- 
ing. With  this  girl,  they  will  tramp  through 
the  whole  of  the  country.  They  are  not  re- 
markable for  a  love  of  drink, — indeed,  my 
informant  never  saw  a  regular  vagrant  in  a 
state  of  intoxication,  nor  has  he  known  them 
to  exhibit  any  craving  for  liquor.  He  has 
had  many  drunkards  under  his  charge,  but 
the  vagrant  is  totally  distinct,  having  propen- 
sities not  less  vicious,  but  of  a  very  different 
kind.  He  considers  the  young  tramps  to  be 
generally  a  class  of  lads  possessing  the  keenest 
intellect,  and  of  a  highly  enterprising  cha- 
racter. They  seem  to  have  no  sense  of  dan 
ger,  and  to  be  especially  delighted  with  such 
acts  as  involve  any  peril.  They  are  likewise 
characterised  by  their  exceeding  love  of  mis- 
chief. The  property  destroyed  in  the  union 
of  which  my  informant  is  the  master  has  been 
of  considerable  value,  consisting  of  windows 
broken,  sash-frames    demolished,  beds    and 


bedding  torn  to  pieces,  and  i-ags  burnt.  Tliey 
will  frequently  come  down  in  large  gangs,  o;i 
purpose  to  destroy  the  property  in  the  unir>ii. 
They  generally  ai-e  of  a  most  restless  and 
volatile  disposition.  They  have  great  quick- 
ness of  perception,  but  little  power  of  con- 
tinuous attention  or  perseverance.  They  have 
a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  are  not 
devoid  of  deep  feeling.  He  has  often  known 
them  to  be  dissolved  to  tears  on  his  remon- 
strating with  them  on  the  course  they  were 
folloAving — and  then  they  promise  amend- 
ment; but  in  a  few  days,  and  sometimes  hours, 
they  would  forget  all,  and  return  to  their  old 
habits.  In  the  summer  they  make  regular 
tours  through  the  country,  \isiting  all  places 
that  they  have  not  seen,  so  that  there  is 
scarcely  one  that  is  not  acquainted  with  every 
part  within  100  miles  of  London,  and  many 
with  all  England.  They  are  perfectly  organ- 
ised, so  that  any  regulation  affecting  their 
comforts  or  interests  becomes  known  among 
the  whole  body  in  a  remarkably  short  space  of 
time.  As  an  instance,  be  informs  me  that  on 
putting  out  a  notice  that  no  able-bodied  man 
or  youth  would  be  received  in  the  casual  ward 
after  a  certain  day,  there  was  not  a  single 
application  made  by  any  such  party,  the  regu- 
lar vagrants  having  doubtless  informed  each 
other  that  it  was  useless  seeking  admission  ai 
this  union.  In  the  winter  the  young  vagrants 
come  to  London,  and  find  shelter  in  the  asy- 
lums for  the  houseless  poor.  At  this  season 
of  the  year,  the  number  of  vagrants  in  tlio 
casual  wards  would  generally  bo  diminisheil 
one-half.  The  juvenile  vagrants  constitute 
one  «)f  the  main  sources  from  which  tlie  cri- 
minals of  the  coimtrj'  are  continually  recruited 
and  augmented.  Being  repeatedly  committed 
to  prison  for  disorderly  conduct  and  misde- 
meanour, the  gaol  soon  loses  all  terrors  for 
them  ;  and,  indeed,  they  will  frequently  destroy 
their  own  clothes,  or  the  property  of  the 
union,  in  order  to  be  sent  there.  Hence  they 
soon  become  practised  and  dexterous  thieves, 
and  my  informant  has  detected  several  bur- 
glaries  by  the  property  found  upon  tlieni. 
The  niunber  of  this  class  is  stated,  in  the 
Poor-law  Report  on  Vagrancy,  to  have  been, 
in  1848,  no  less  than  1G,086,  and  they  form 
one  of  the  most  restless,  discontented,  vicious, 
and  dangerous  elements  of  society.  At  the 
period  of  any  social  commotion,  they  are  sure 
to  be  drawn  towards  the  scene  of  excitement 
in  a  vast  concourse.  During  the  Chartist 
agitation,  in  the  June  quarter  of  the  yeai 
1848,  the  number  of  male  casuals  admitted 
into  the  Wandsworth  and  Clapham  Union 
rose  from  2501  to  3068,  wliile  tlie  females 
(their  companions)  increased  from  070  tn 
1388. 

Of  the  other  classes  of  persons  admitted  into 
the  casual  wards,  the  Irish  generally  form  n 
large  proportion.  At  the  time  when  juvenile 
vagrancy  prevailed  to  an  aliu-ming  extent,  the 
Irish  hardly  dared  to  show  tliemselves  in  tin. 


:r,k 


LONDON  LAliOCR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


rfisiml  wftrdii,  tar  the  la^ls  would  beat  them  and 
plumler  them  of  Trhatevor  they  might  have — 
fithor  the  produoe  of  th«'ir  bcggingf  or  the 
ra'4;,'C(l  kit  thcj  carried  with  them.  Oilen  my 
i-itbimant  has  had  to  qnell  violent  dieturbancefi 
in  the  night  among  these  characters.  ThA  Irish 
tramp  generally  makes  his  appearance  with  a 
h\T\i,ii  family,  and  frequently  with  tlm-e  or  four 
Kt»nerjiti(ma  together — grandfather,  giiindmo. 
ihor,  father,  and  mother,  and  cliildren — all 
cominp  at  the  same  time.  In  the  year  ending 
June,  i848,  the  Irish  vaprranta  increased  to  so 
jH'ent  nn  extent  that,  of  the  entire  number  of 
rasunls  rdicved,  more  than  one-^liird  in  the 
first  tliree  quarters,  and  more  than  two-thirds 
in  the  last  quarter,  were  from  the  sister  island. 
<  )f  the  Irish  vagrants,  the  worst  class — ^Ihat  if» 
til  ft  poorest  and  most  abjeot — came  over  to 
tljis  i'«»untry  by  way  of  Newport,  in  Wales.  The 
i>:pi«nso  of  the  passage  to  that  port  was  only 
'is.  i)d. :  whereas  the  cost  of  the  voyage  to  \a- 
M  rpool  and  I-.ondon  was  considerably  more, 
fiiiil  consequently  the  class  broupfht  over  by 
t]:at  way  were  loss  destitute.  The  Irish  va- 
(.'rants  were  far  more  orderly  than  the  English. 
Out  of  the  vast  number  receivetl  into  the  casual 
vard  c»f  this  union  during  the  distress  in  Ire- 
l:in<l,  it  is  remarkable  that  not  one  ever  com- 
mittal on  act  of  insubordination.  They  were 
K-  nendly  very  grutefnl  for  tlie  relief  ntforded, 
and  appeared  to  subsist  entirely  by  begging. 
Some  of  them  were  not  particularly  fon«l  of 
uork,  but  they  were  invariably  honest,  says  my 
informant — at  least  so  far  as  bis  knowloilgi* 
wont.  'J'hey  were  exceedingly  filthy  in  their 
iianils,  and  many  diseased. 

Tliose  constitute  the  two  larcje  and  principal 
clftssu'S  of  vagrants.  The  rrnminder  penc- 
lally  consist  of  persons  temporarily  destitute, 
whi'reiis  the  others  are  habitually  so.  The 
t«>niporarily  destitute  are  chii'fly  railway  and 
nj^riiriiltural  labourers,  and  a  tVw  mechanics 
trnvclling  in  search  nf  employment.  'l'hps<' 
are  ea'^ily  distinguishable  from  the  regular  va- 
^'i*ant ;  indeed,  a  glance  is  sutticiL'Ulto  the  prac- 
tised eye.  They  are  the  better  class  of  casuals, 
n!i«l  those  for  whom  the  wards  are  expressly 
designed,  but  they  only  form  a  very  small 
proportion  of  the  vagrants  ap]>lying  for  sh<dter. 
In  the  height  of  vagrancy,  they  formed  not  one 
P'»r  cent  ot*  the  entire  number  admitted.  In- 
deed, such  was  the  state  of  the  cnsual  v  ards. 
thr.t  the  destitute  mechanics  and  laboun*rs 
prc!*«»rred  walking  through  the  night  to  avail- 
ing tlH.'msolvcs  oi'tho  accommodation.  Lately, 
thi»,  ariisans  and  labourers  have  increased 
greatly  in  proportion,  owing  to  the  system 
a  loptcd  for  the  exclusion  of  tlie  haliitual  va- 
f^rant,  and  the  consequent  drclino  of  their 
number.  The  working  man  travelling  in  search 
of  enipbnment  is  now  generally  admitted  into 
\^  Ijat  are  called  the  recei%'ing  wards  of  the  work- 
hou-!e,  instead  of  the  tramp-room,  ami  li<»  is 
usually  exceedingly  grateful  for  the  accommo- 
dnlion.  My  informant  tells  me  that  persons  of 
this  elass  seldom  return  to  the  workhouse  after 


one  night's  shelter,  and  this  19  a  conclmdve 
proof  that  the  re#?ular  workings-man  seldom 
passes  into  an  haliitnal  beggar.  Thej  ar«  an 
entirely  distinct  class,  baring  diflWrent  habifci, 
and,  indeed, difRn«nt  featnreB, and  Tom  assured 
that  they  are  strictly  honest.  During  the  whde 
experience  of  my  informant,  he  never  knew 
one  who  applied  for  a  night's  shelter  commit 
one  act  of  dishonesty,  and  he  ha.<j  seen  them  in 
the  last  stage  of  destitution.  Occasionally  they 
have  sold  the  shirt  and  waistcoat  off  their  back 
before  they  applied  for  admittance  into  the 
workhouse,  while  some  of  them  hare  been  so 
weak  from  long  starvation,  that  they  eonld 
scarcely  reach  the  gate.  Such  persons  are 
always  allowed  to  remain  sereral  dajrs  to  re- 
cruit their  strength.  It  is  for  such  as  these 
that  my  informant  considers  the  casual  wanis 
indispensable  to  every  well-conducte<l  union— 
whereas  it  is  his  opinion  that  the  habitual  va- 
grant. iLS  contradistinguished  from  the  casinl 
vagrant  or  wayfaring  poor,  should  be  placed 
under  the  management  of  the  police,  at  the 
charge  of  the  union. 

Let  me,  howe>*er,  first  run  over,  as  briefly  as 
possible,  the  several  classes  of  vagrantA  falling 
under  the  notice  of  th<i  parish  authoriticii.  The 
dilVerent  kinds  of  vagrants  or  trami>s  to  be 
found  in  the  casual  wards  of  the  nnioos 
throughout  the  country,  moy  be  described  as 
follows: — "The  more  important  class,  from 
its  increasing  numbers,"  says  Mr.  Bonse,  in  the 
Poor-law  Report  upon  Vagrancy,  "  is  that  of 
the  regular  ycmng  English  vagabond,  generally 
the  native  of  a  large  town.  He  is  either  anm- 
away  apprentice,  or  he  has  l»een  driven  from 
home  by  the  cnielty  of  his  parents,  or  sllowwl 
by  tliem  to  go  wild  in  the  streets :  in  some 
cases  he  is  an  orphan,  and  has  lost  his  flither 
and  mother  in  eariy  life.  Ha\ing  no  ties  to 
bind  him,  he  travels  abotit  the  countiy.  being 
sure  of  a  meal,  and  a  roof  to  slielter  him  at 
night.  The  youths  of  this  class  are  primipolly 
of  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  years  of  age. 
They  often  travel  in  parties  of  two  or  three— 
frequently  in  large  bodies,  with  young  women, 
as  abandonetl  as  themselves,  in  company." 

Approaching  these  in  character  are  the  yontig 
countrj-men  who  have  absconded — ^perhaps  for 
come  petty  poaching  oflFenec — and  to  whom  the 
facility  for  loading  an  idle  vagabond  life  has 
prr>ved  too  great  a  temptation. 

'J'he  next  class  of  vngrants  is  the  stordy 
English  mendicant.  He,  though  not  a  con- 
stant occupant  of  the  tramp-ward  in  the  wnrk- 
liouse,  frequently  makes  his  appearance  th*^re 
to  partake  of  the  shelter,  when  he  has  spent  hii 
last  shilling  in  dissipation. 

Besides  these,  there  are  a  few  calling  them- 
selves agricultural  labourers,  who  ore  really 
such,  and  who  are  to  be  readily  distingui-fhcil. 
There  are  also  a  few  mechnnics— chir*fly  tailors, 
shoemakers,  and  masons,  who  are  occiisionally 
•lestitute.  The  amount  of  those  really  desti- 
tute, however,  is  very  small  in  proportion  to  the 
numbers  relieved. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOR. 


375 


Of  the  -age  And  sex  of  tnmps,  the  general 
propoxxion  seems  to  be  Door-fifiha  male  and 
one-fifth  female. 

Of  the  female  English  tramps,  little  can  be 
said,  but  that  they  are  in  great  part  pox^stitutes 
of  the  lowest  class.  The  proportion  of  really 
destttnte  women  in  the  tramp-wards  (generally 
widows  with  yomig  childjsen)  is  greater  than 
that  of  men — ^probably  from  the  ability  to  brave 
the  cold  night  wind  being  less  in  the  female, 
and  the  love  of  the  children  getting  the  shelter, 
aboTe  dread  of  vile  association.  Girls  of  thir- 
teen or  fourteen  years  old,  who  run  away  from 
mastere  or  factory  emplo^-ment,  often  find 
abater  in  the  tramp-waid. 

The  Irish,  who,  till  very  recently,  formed  the 
mfltfority  of  the  applicants  for  casual  relief,  re- 
main to  be  described.  These  con  scarcely  be 
classified  in  any  other  way  than  as  those  who 
oome  to  Englfuid  to  labour,  and  those  who 
«ome  to  beg.  The  former  class,  however,  yield 
readily  to  their  disposition  to  idleness — ^the 
difficulties  of  providmg  supper,  breakfast,  and 
lodging  for  themselves  being  removed  by  tlie 
worichouse.  This  class  are  physically  superior 
to  the  mass  of  Irish  vagrants.  It  appears  that 
for  very  many  years  considerable  numbers  of 
these  have  annually  come  to  England  in  the 
spring  to  work  at  hay-hon-est,  remaining  for 
4xnni-harvest  and  hop-picking,  and  then  have 
carried  home  their  eaiiiings  in  the  autumn, 
seldom  resorting  to  begging.  Since  the  failure 
of  the  potato  crop  greater  numbers  have  come 
to  EIngland,  and  the  tramp- word  has  been  tlieu- ; 
principal  refuge,  and  an  inducement  to  many  , 
to  remain  in  the  country.  A  great  many  har- 
vest men  land  at  Newport  and  the  Welsh  ports ; 
but  by  far  the  greoter  proportion  of  the  Irish 
in  Wales  are,  or  were,  women  with  small  chil- 
dren, old  men  apparently  feeble,  pregnant  wo- 
men, and  boys  about  ten  yeara  old.  They  arc 
broQig^t  over  by  cool -vessels  as  a  return  cargo 
(living  bollost)  at  very  low  fores,  {2s,  Orf.  is  tlie 
highest  sum),  hudtlled  together  like  pigs,  and 
communicating  disease  and  vermin  on  their 
passage. 

Harriet  Huxtable,  the  manng<  r  of  the  tramp- 
house  at  Newport,  says  : — "  There  is  hardly  an 
Irish  family  that  came  over  and  applied  to 
me,  but  we  have  found  a  member  or  two  of  it 
ill,  some  in  a  shocking  filLliy  state.  They 
dont  live  long,  diseased  as  they  are.  They 
are  very  remarkable;  they  will  eat  salt  by 
basins'  full,  and  drink  a  great  quantity  of 
water  after.  I  have  frequently  known  those 
who  could  not  have  been  hungry,  eat  cabbage- 
leaves  and  other  refuse  from  the  ash-heap.  1 
really  believe  they  would  eat  almost  anytliing." 

^*  Aremarkable  factis,that  all  the  Irish  whom 
I  met  on  my  route  between  Wales  and  Lon- 
don," says  Mr.  Boase,  "  said  they  came  from  I 
Cork  county.  Mr.  John,  the  reUeving  officer 
at  Cardifif,  on  his  examination,  says,  Hhat  not 
1  out  of  every  100  of  the  Irish  come  from  any 
other  county  than  Cork.' " 

In  the  township  of  Warrington,  tlie  number 


of  tramps  rdieved  between  the  2iHh  of  March, 
1847,  and  the  25th  of  March,  1848,  was  .-— 

Irish    .....  12,0S8 

English       ....  4,701 

Scotch          .         .        .         .  42T 

Natives  of  other  places        .  156 

Making  a  total  of         .    17,922 

Of  the  original  occupations  or  trades  of  the 
vagrants  applying  for  relief  at  the  different 
unions  throughout  the  country,  there  are  no 
re  turns.  As,  however,  a  considerable  portion  of 
these  were  attracted  to  London  on  the  opening 
of  the  Metropolitan  Asylums  for  the  Houseless 
Poor,  we  may,  by  consulting  the  Society's 
yearly  Reports,  where  an  account  of  the 
callings  of  those  receiving  shelter  in  such 
establishments  is  always  given,  be  enabled 
to  arrive  at  some  rough  estimate  as  to  the 
state  of  destitution  and  vagrancy  existing 
among  the  several  classes  of  labourera  and 
artisans  for  several  years. 

The  following  table,  being  an  average  drawn 
from  the  returns  for  seventeen  years  of  the 
occupation  of  the  persons  admitted  into  the 
Asylums  for  the  Houseless  Poor,  which  I  have 
been  at  considerable  trouble  in  forming,  ex- 
hibits the  only  available  information  upon  this 
subject,  synopticoUy  arranged : — 

Factory  emijloyment   .        .        .  1  in  every  3 

Hawkers 4 

Labom'crs  (agricultural)     ...  12 

Seamen 12 

Charwomen  and  washen^omen  ,        .  13 

Labourers  (general)  .         .        .        .  17 

Waddingmakei-s          ....  X\b 

Smiths  and  ironfoimders    ...  36 

Weavers 38 

Brickmakers 3J) 

Roperaakers 41 

Braziers 55 

Papermakers  and  slniuers  ...  58 

Skintlressei*s 58 

Baskctmakei*s 02 

Bricklayers,  plasterers,  aud  slaters.     .  62 

Gardeners 67 

Filecuttcrs 70 

Sawyers 73 

Turners 74 

Wireworkers 75 

Cutlers 77 

Hamessmokers  and  saddlers      .        .  80 

Stonemasons 88 

Dyers 94 

Cliimneysweeps 07 

Errand  boys 91) 

Porters 99 

Painters,  plumbers,  and  glaziers         .  119 

Cabinetmakers  and  uphoLsterers          .  128 

Shoemakers 130 

Compositors  and  printers   .         .        .  142 

Brushmakers 145 

Carpentci*8,  joiners,  and  wheelwrights  150 

Bakers 167 


No.  LXXVI. 


.370 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Drabsfounders    .        •         •        1  io  every  177 

Tailors 177 

Combmakers 178 

Coopers 178 

Surveyors 198 

FcUmongers 203 

(ilosscutters 2'^0 

Bedsteadmakcrs 235 

Averu{^e  for  all  London      •        •        •  21 U 

Butchers 248 

Bookbinders 255 

Mendicants 250 

Engineers 205 

Miners 207 

Lacemakers 273 

Poolterers 273 

Furriers 274 

Straw-bonnetmakers  ....  277 

Trimming  and  buttonmakers      .        .  277 

Ostlers  and  grooms    •        •        •        •  280 

Drovers 297 

Hairdressers 329 

Pipemakers 340 

Clerks  and  shopmen  ....  340 

Hatters 350 

Tinmen 354 

Tallowchandlers         ....  304 

Servants 877 

Corkcuiters 380 

Jewellers  and  watchmakers        .        •  411 

Umbrella-makers        .        *        .        .  41A 

Sailmakers 455 

Carvers  and  gilders    ....  500 

Gunsmiths 554 

Trunkniokers 509 

Choirmakers 580 

Fishmongers 648 

Tanners 048 

Musicians 730 

Leathcrdrcsscrs  and  curriers      .        .  802 

Coachmokcrs 989 

Engravers 1,133 

Shipwrights 1,358 

Artists 1,374 

Drapers 2,047 

Milliners  and  dressmakers         .        •  10,390 

Of  the  disease  and  fever  which  mark  the 
course  of  the  vagrants  wheresoever  they  go,  I 
have  before  spoken.  The  "  tramp.fever,"  as 
the  most  dangerous  infection  of  the  casual 
wards  is  significantly  termed,  is  of  a  typhoid 
character,  and  seems  to  be  communicated 
particularly  to  those  who  wash  the  clothes  of 
the  parties  suffering  from  it.  This  was  like- 
wise one  of  the  characteristics  of  cholera. 
That  the  habitual  vagrants  should  be  the 
means  of  spreading  a  pestilence  over  the 
country  in  their  wanderings  will  not  be 
wondered  at,  when  we  find  it  stated  in  the 
Poor-law  Report  on  Vagrancy,  that  **  in  very 
few  workhouses  do  means  exist  of  drying 
the  clothes  of  these  paupers  when  they  come 
in  wet,  and  it  often  happens  that  a  consider- 
able number  arc,  of  necessity,  placed  together 
wet,  filthy,  infested  ^ith  vermin,  and  diseased. 


in  a  small,  unventilated  spaoe."  ^  The  miyo- 
rity  of  tramps,  again,"  we  are  told,  ^  have  a 
great  aversion  to  being  washed  and  cleaned. 
A  regular  tramper  cannot  bear  it ;  but  a  dis- 
tressed man  would  be  thankful  for  it" 

The  cost  incurred  for  the  cure  of  the  vi- 
grant  sick  in  1848,  was  considerab^  more  than 
the  expense  of  the  food  dispensed  to  them. 
Out  of  13,400  vagrants  relieved  at  the  Wands- 
worth  and  Clapham  Union  in  1848,  there 
were  332  diseased,  or  ill  with  the  fever. 

The  number  of  vagrants  relieved  dirough- 
out  England  and  Wales  in  the  same  year  was 
1,047,975;  and  supposing  that  the  sickness 
among  these  prevailed  to  the  same  extent  ts 
it  did  among  the  casuals  at  Wandswcrth 
(according  to  the  Vagrancy  Report,  it  appears 
to  have  been  much  more  severe  in  many 
places),  there  would  have  been  as  many  as 
40,812  sick  in  the  several  unions  througboai 
the  country  in  1848.  The  cost  of  relieviiig 
tho  332  sick  at  Wandsworth  was  3001.;  at 
tho  same  rate,  the  expense  of  the  40,612  sick 
thi-oughout  the  country  unions  would  amoont 
to  30,878/.  According  to  the  above  propor- 
tion, the  number  of  sick  relieved  in  the  metro- 
politan unions  would  have  been  7078,  vnA.  the 
cost  for  their  relief  would  amount  to  09311. 

Of  the  tide  of  crime  which,  like  that  of  pes- 
tilence, accompanies  the  stream  of  vagrants, 
there  are  equally  strong  and  conclusive  proo&. 
**  The  most  prominent  body  of  delinquents  in 
the  rural  (Ustricts,**  says  the  Report  of  the 
Constabulary  CommissionerB,  *'  are  vagrants 
and  these  vagrants  appear  to  consiet  of  two 
classes :  firsts  the  habitual  depred^on,  house- 
breakers, horse-stealers,  and  common  thieves; 
secondly,  of  vagrants,  properly  so  oalled,  who 
seek  alms  as  mendicants.  Betidea  thoee 
olasaes  who  travel  from  fair  to  ftir,  and  from 
town  to  town,  in  quest  of  dishonest  gains,  there 
are  numerous  classes  who  make  incorsioos 
from  the  provincial  towns  upon  the  a^jftocnt 
rural  districts." 

*'  The  classes  of  depredators  who  peram- 
bulate the  country  (says  the  same  B^ort) 
are  the  vagrants,  properly  so  called.  Upwards 
of  18,000  commitments  per  annum  of  persons 
for  the  offence  of  vagrancy,  mark  the  extent 
of  the  body  from  which  they  are  taken. 

*<  It  will  be  seen  that  vagrancy,  or  the  halat 
of  wandering  abroad,  under  c^ur  either  of 
distress,  or  of  some  ostensible,  though  illegal 
occupation,  having  claims  on  the  sympathies 
of  tlie  uninformed,  constitutes  one  great  source 
of  delinquency,  and  especially  of  juvenile  de- 
linquency. The  returns  show  that  the  vagrant 
classes  pervade  every  part  of  ther  country, 
rendering  property  insecure,  propagating  per- 
nicious habits,  and  afllicting  the  minds  of  th«» 
sensitive  with  false  pictures  of  suffering,  and 
levying  upon  them  an  offensive  impost  for  the 
relief  of  that  destitution  for  which  a  heavy 
tax  is  legaUy  levied  in  the  shape  of  poor's 
rates. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Narrill,  a  aergeant  of  the 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOjR. 


377 


Bristol  police,  was  asked — *What  proportion 
of  the  Tagrants  do  you  think  are  thieves,  that 
make  it  a  point  to  take  anything  for  which 
they  find  n  convenient  opportunity  ? '  *  We 
have  found  it  so  invariably.'  » Have  you  ever 
seen  the  children  who  go  about  as  vagrants 
turn  afterwards  fh>m  vagrancy  to  common 
thieving, — thieving  wholly  or  chiefly?'  *We 
hinre  found  it  several  times.*  *  Therefore  the 
suppression  of  vagrancy  or  mendicity  would 
be  to  that  extent  the  suppression  of  juvenile 
delinquency  ?  *    *  Yes,  of  course.* 

Mr.  J.  Perry,  another  witness,  states :  —  "I 
bdieve  vagrancy  to  be  the  first  step  to- 
wards the  committal  of  felony,  and  I  am 
supported  in  that  belief  by  the  number  of 
juvenile  vagrants  who  are  brought  before  the 
magistrates  as  thieves." 

An  officer,  appointed  specially  to  take  mea- 
sures against  vagrancy  in  Manchester,  was 
asked, — **  Does  your  experience  enable  you  to 
Btato  that  the  large  proportion  of  vagrants  are 
thieves  too,  whenever  they  come  in  the  way 
of  thieving  ? "  "  Yes,  and  I  should  call  the 
larger  proportion  there  thieves."  "  Then,  from 
what  you  have  observed  of  them,  would  you 
say  that  the  suppression  of  vagrancy  would  go 
a  great  way  to  the  suppression  of  a  great 
quantity  of  depredation?"  "I  am  sure  of 
it" 

The  same  valuable  Report  furnishes  us  with 
a  table  of  the  numbers  and  character  of  the 
known  depredators  and  suspected  persons  fre- 
quenting five  of  the  principal  towns;  fh)m 
which  it  appears  that  in  these  towns  alone  there 
are  28,706  persons  of  known  bad  character. 
According  to  the  average  proportion  of  these 
to  the  population,  there  will  be  in  the  other 
large  towns  nearly  82,000  persons  of  a  similar 
chttiactor,  and  upwards  of  09,000  of  such 
persons  dispersed  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
country.  Adding  these  together,  we  shall 
have  as  many  as  130,000  persons  of  known 
bad  character  living  in  England  and  Wales, 
without  the  walls  of  the  prisons.  To  form  an 
accurate  notion  of  the  total  number  of  the 
criminal  population,  we  must  add  to  the  above 
amount  the  number  of  persons  resident  within 
the  walls  of  the  prisons.  These,  according  to 
the  last  census,  are  19,888,  which,  added  to  the 
130,000  above  enumerated,  gives  within  a 
Ihtetion  of  150,000  individuals  for  the  entire 
criminal  population  of  the  country. 

In  order  to  arrive  at  an  estimate  of  the 
number  of  known  depredators,  or  suspected 
persons,  continually  tramping  through  the 
country,  we  must  deduct  from  the  number  of 
persons  of  bad  character  without  the  walls  of 
the  prisons,  such  as  are  not  of  migratory 
habits ;  and  it  will  be  seen  on  reference  to  the 
table  above  given,  that  a  large  proportion  of 
the  classes  there  specified  have  usually  some 
fixed  residence  (those  with  an  asterisk  set 
before  them  may  be  said  to  be  non-migratory). 
As  many  as  10,000  individuals  out  of  the  20,000 
and  odd  above  given  certainly  do  not  belong 


to  the  tramping  tribe ;  and  we  may  safely  say 
that  there  must  be  as  many  as  85,000  more  in 
the  country,  who,  though  of  known  bad  cha- 
racter, are  not  tramps  like  the  rest.  Hence, 
in  order  to  ascertain  the  number  of  depre- 
dators and  suspected  persons  belonging  to  the 
tramping  or  vagrant  class,  we  must  deduct 
10,000  +  35,000  from  85,000,  which  gives  us 
40,000  for  the  number  of  known  bad  characters 
continually  traversing  the  country. 

This  sum,  though  arrived  at  in  a  very 
different  manner  from  the  estimate  given  in 
my  last  letter,  agrees  very  nearly  with  the 
amount  there  stated.  We  may  therefore,  I 
think,  without  fear  of  erring  greaUy  upon  the 
matter,  assert  that  our  criminal  population, 
within  and  without  the  walls  of  the  prisons, 
consists  of  150,000  individuals,  of  whom  nearly 
one-third  belong  to  the  vagrant  class;  while, 
of  •those  without  the  prison  walls,  upwards  of 
one  half  are  persons  who  are  continually 
tramping  through  the  country. 

The  number  of  commitments  for  vagrancy 
throughout  the  country  is  stated,  in  the 
Constabulary  Report,  at  upwards  of  18,000 
per  annum.  This  amount,  large  as  it  is,  will 
not  surprise  when  we  learn  from  Mr.  Pigott's 
Report  on  Vagrancy  to  the  Poor-law  Com- 
missioners, that  "it  is  becoming  a  system  with 
the  vagrants  to  pass  away  the  cold  months  by 
fortnighUy  halts  in  different  gaols.  As  soon 
as  their  fourteen  days  have  expired  they  make 
their  way  to  some  other  union-house,  and 
commit  the  same  depredation  there,  in  order 
to  be  sent  to  gaol  again." 

**  There  are  some  characters,"  say  the  officers 
of  the  Derby  Union,  in  the  same  Report,  **  who 
come  on  purpose  to  be  committed,  avowedly. 
These  have  generally  iteh,  venereal  disease, 
and  lice,  all  together.  Then  there  are  some 
who  tear  their  clothes  for  the  purpose  of  being 
committed." 

I  shall  now  give  as  lUll  an  account  as  lies 
in  my  power  of  the  character  and  consequences 
of  vagrancy.  That  it  spreads  a  moral  pesti- 
lence through  the  country,  as  terrible  and  as 
devastating  as  the  physical  pest  which  accom- 
panies it  wherever  it  is  found,  all  the  evidence 
goes  to  prove.  Nevertheless,  the  facts  which 
1  have  still  to  adduce  in  connexion  with  that 
class  of  vagrancy  which  does  not  necessarily 
come  under  the  notice  of  the  parish  autho- 
rities, are  of  so  overpowering  a  character,  that 
I  hope  and  trust  they  may  be  the  means  of 
rousing  every  earnest  man  in  the  kingdom  to 
a  sense  of  the  enormous  evils  that  are  daily 
going  on  around  him. 

The  number  of  vagrants  taken  into  custody 
by  the  police,  according  to  the  Metropolitan 
Criminal  Returns  for  1848,  was  6598 ;  they 
belonged  to  the  trades  cited  in  the  subjoined 
table,  where  I  have  calculated  the  proper- 
tionato  number  of  vagrants  furnished  by 
each  of  the  occupations,  according  to  the 
total  number  of  individuals  belonging  to  the 
class. 


3ra                           LONDON 
Toolmakers       linoverj  33*9 

LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOE. 

.    MO-5 

Hatters  and  trimmers. 

350-4 

01as8makers»  &e. 

Labourers  .        .              45*9 

Muufliaiis  . 

,        , 

292-0 

Butchere    . 

.    608-0 

"Weavers     .        .        .      756 

Tnmem,  Ac 

, 

308*8 

Laundresses 

.    623-8 

CuUen       .        .        .      821 

Shoemakers 

, 

310*5 

.     700S 

FreDch  poHsbers         .    109*7 

Surveyors  . 

,        , 

320*5 

Grocers 

.     712-2 

CJlovera.  Ac        .        .    llJi-8 

Average  for  all  London 

334*7 

General    and    marine              | 

Corkcutters         .        .114*3 

Gardeners  . 

341*8 

.    721*2 

BrasBfoundcrt    .        .    11))1 

Tobacconists 

344*0 

Jewellers    . 

.    922-7 

Smiths       .        .        .     1-iOl 

Painters     . 

859*5 

Artificial  flowermakers  1025-0  | 

Bricklayers         .        .    li;^*4 

Bakers        . 

364*4 

Bmshmakers      . 

.  1077-5 

P  ftpermaken,  stainem, 

Tailors 

373*2 

IrooRioDgeis       • 

.  1177-0 

Ac 1881 

Milliners    . 

4.'V1*7 

Watchmakers     . 

.  1430H) 

Fishmongers      .        .    207-3 

Clerks 

453-7 

Engineei-s  . 

.  1433-2 

Curriers      .        .        .    2110 

Printers      . 

461*6 

Dyers. 

.  1030^ 

Masons       .        .        .    2:U*4 

Sweeps 

510*5 

Servants 

.  2444-9 

Tinkers  and  tinmen    .    230*3 

Opticians    . 

530*0 

Draoers 
BoM^linders 

.  2450*5 

Saw>'ers      .         .         .    248*1 

Saddlers     . 

542*7 

.  2740-5 

Carvers  and  gilders     .    250*3 

542*8 

The  causes  and  encouragements  of  vagrancy 
are  two-fold, —  direct  and  indirect.  The  roving 
flisposition  to  which,  as  1  have  shown,  vagrancy 
is  direciljf  ascribabl(%  proceeds  (as  I  have  said) 
partly  from  a  certain  phyiiical  conformation  or 
temperament,  but  mainly  from  a  non -inculca- 
tion of  industritd  hubitK  and  moral  purposes 
in  youth.  The  causes  from  which  the  vat^a- 
bondism  of  tlio  young  indirectlj/  proc4!uds 
arc: — 

1.  The  neglect  or  tyranny  of  parcntK  or 
masters.  (ThLs  appears  to  be  a  UMMt  prolific 
source.) 

2.  Bad  companions. 

3.  Bad  bocks,  which  acl  like  the  bod  com  • 
ponions  in  depraving  the  taste,  and  teaching 
the  youth  to  consider  that  approvable  which 
to  all  rightly  constituted  minds  is  morally 
loathsome. 

4.  Bad  amusements  —  as  penny-theatres, 
wliere  the  scenes  and  eharacters  described  in 
the  bad  books  are  represented  in  a  still  more 
attractive  form.  Mr.  Ainsworth's  "  Bookwood,'* 
with  Dick  Tunnn  *^  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  in," 
is  now  in  the  course  of  being  performed  nightly 
at  one  of  the  East-end  saloons. 

5.  Bad  institutions — as,  for  instance,  the 
different  refuges  scattered  throughout  the 
coimtry,  and  which,  enabling  persons  to  live 
without  labour,  are  the  means  of  attracting 
large  numbers  of  ihe  most  idle  and  dissolute 
classes  to  the  several  cities  where  the  charities 
are  dispensed.  Captain  Carroll,  C.B.,  B.N., 
chief  of  police^  speaking  of  the  Refuges  for  the 
Destitute  in  Bath,  and  of  a  kindred  institution 
which  distributes  bread  and  soup,  says, — *'  I 
consider  those  institutions  an  attraction  to 
this  city  for  vagrants."  At  Liverpool,  Mr. 
Henry  Simpson  said  of  a  Night  Asylnm,  sup- 
ported by  voluntary  oontributions,  and  estab- 
lished tor  several  years  in  this  town  —  **  This 
charity  was  need  by  quite  a  difl'erent  class  of 
persons  finom  those  for  whom  it  was  designed. 
A  vast  number  of  abandooed  eharacters,  Imown 
thieves  and  {krostitutes^  liMmd  nightly  shelter 
there.**    *'  The  chief  inducement  to  vagranej 


in  the  town,"  says  another  Report,  spesJaDg  of 
a  certain  part  of  the  North  Riding  of  York, 
"  is  the  relief  given  by  mistaken  hut  benevolent 
indiriduals,  more  particularly  by  the  poorer 
class.  Instances  have  occurred  where  the 
names  of  sucli  bene\'olcnt  persons  have  be«n 
found  in  the  possession  of  vagrants,  obtained, 
no  doubt,  from  their  fellow  •ti-sveUers.'* 

6.  Vagrancy  is  largely  duo  to,  and,  indeed, 
chietly  maintained  by  the  low  bhlging-houses. 


Sir 


OF  Yaohjists. 

The  first  vagrant  was  one  who  had  the  tho- 
rough look  of  a  **  proiessionaL*'  Ue  was  lit& 
rally  a  mass  of  rags  and  filth.  He  was,  indeeil, 
exactly  wliat  in  the  Act  of  Henry  \lU.  is 
denominated  a  "vaHant  beggar."  He  stood 
near  upon  six  feet  high,  was  not  more  than 
twenty  five,  and  liad  altogether  the  frame  and 
constitution  of  a  stalwart  labouring  wan.  His 
clothes,  which  were  of  fustian  and  corduroy, 
tied  close  to  his  body  with  pieces  of  string, 
were  black  and  shiny  with  filUi,  which  looked 
more  like  pitch  than  grease.  He  had  no  shixl, 
as  was  plain  from  the  fact  that,  where  his 
clothes  were  torn,  his  hare  skiu  was  seen.  The 
ragged  sleeves  of  his  fustian  jacket  were  tied 
like  the  other  parts  of  his  dnsss,  dose  to  his 
v^rists,  with  stung.  This  was  clearly  to  keep 
the  bleak  air  from  his  body.  His  ca^  was  an 
old,  brimless  "  wide-awake,"  and  when  on  hia 
head  gave  the  man  a  moat  unnrepossessiBg 
appc^arance.    His  story  was  as  followB:^- 

**  I  am  a  cwpet- weaver  by  trade.  I  served 
my  time  to  it.  My  father  was  a  clerk  in  a 
shoe-thread  manufactory  at  ■  He  got 

35s.  a^week,  amd  his  house,  coals,  and  can&s 
found  him.  He  lived  veiycomfbrtAbly;  indeed, 
I  was  very  hi^py.  Befbn  I  left  hoine,I  knew 
none  of  the  cares  of  the  world  that  I  have 
known  sinee  I  left  hirau  My  father  and  mother 
are  living  stilL  He  is  still  as  w^  off  m  when 
I  waa  at  home.  I  know  this,  because  I  have 
heard  from  him  twice,  and  seen  him  onoe. 
He  won't  da  snytkiag  to  ssaist  me.    I  have 


LOXJJON  LA  BOOB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


379 


tmsgrcssed  so  many  times,  that  he  won't  take 
ma  in  hand  any  more.  I  will  tall  you  the 
tmth,  you  may  depend  upon  it ;  yes,  indeed, 
I  would,  even  if  it  were  to  izjjore  myself.  He 
haa  tried  me  many  times,  but  now  he  has  given 
me  up.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  told  me 
to  go  from  home  and  seek  a  living  for  myself. 
He  said  he  had  given  me  a  home  ever 
sinoe  I  was  a  child,  but  now  I  had  oome  to 
manhood  I  was  able  to  provide  for  myself. 
He  gave  me  a  good  education,  and  I  might 
have  been  a  better  scholar  at  the  present  time, 
had  I  not  neglected  my  studies.  He  pnt  me 
to  a  day-school  in  the  town  when  I  was  eight 
yeazB  old,  and  I  continued  there  till  I  was 
between  twelve  and  thirteen.  I  leomt  reading, 
writing,  and  ciphering.  I  was  taught  the 
catechism,  the  history  of  England,  geography, 
and  drawing.  My  father  was  a  very  hai^sh 
man  when  he  was  put  out  of  his  way.  He  was 
a  very  violent  temper  when  he  was  vexed,  but 
kind  to  us  all  when  he  was  pleased.  I  have 
five  brotliers  and  six  sisters.  Ho  never  beat 
me  more  than  twice,  to  my  remembrance. 
The  first  time  he  thrashed  me  witli  a  cane, 
and  the  lost  with  a  horsewhip.  I  had  stopped 
out  late  at  night.  I  was  then  just  ri&ing  six- 
teen, and  had  left  schooL  I  am  sure  those 
thrashings  did  me  no  good,  but  made  me 
rather  worse  than  before.  I  was  a  self-willed 
lad,  and  determined,  if  I  couldn't  get  my  will 
in  one  way,  I  would  have  it  another.  After 
the  last  thrashing  he  told  me  he  would  give 
me  some  trade,  and  after  Uuit  he  would  set  me 
off  and  get  rid  of  me.  Then  I  woe  bound 
apprentice  as  a  carpet-weaver  for  three  years. 
Hy  master  was  a  very  kind  one.  I  nmned 
away  once.  The  cause  of  my  going  off  was  a 
quarrel  with  one  of  the  workmen  that  was  put 
over  me.  He  was  very  harsh,  and  I  scarce 
coudd  do  anything  to  please  him ;  so  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  leave.  The  first  place  I  went 
when  I  bolted  was  to  Crewkeme,  in  Somerset- 
shire.  There  I  asked  for  employment  at 
carpet-weaving.  I  got  some,  and  remained 
there  three  days,  when  my  father  found  out 
where  I  was,  and  sent  my  brother  and  a 
special  constable  after  me.  They  took  me 
from   the  shop  where   I   was   at  work,  and 

brought  me  back  to ,  and  would  have 

sent  me  to  prison  had  I  not  promised  to  behave 
myvelf,  and  serve  my  time  out  as  I  ought.  I 
went  to  work  again ;  and  when  the  expiration 
of  my  apprenticeship  occurred,  my  father  said 
to  me,  *  Sam,  3rou  have  a  trade  at  your  fingers' 
enda:  you  are  able  to  proride  for  you»elf.' 
So  then  I  left  home.  I  was  twenty -one  years 
of  age.  He  gave  me  money,  3A  lOn.,  to  take 
me  into  Wales,  where  I  told  him  I  should  go. 
I  WM  up  for  going  about  throu^  the  country. 
I  made  my  father  believe  I  was  going  into 
Wales  to  get  work ;  but  all  I  wanted  was,  to 
go  and  see  the  place.  After  I  had  runne4 
away  once  from  my  appremticeship,  I  found  it 
very  hard  to  stop  at  home.  I  coi^dnt  bring 
myself  to  work  somehow.    While  I  sat  at  the 


work,  I  thought  I  should  Hke  to  be  away  in 
the  country :  work  seemed  a  burden  to  me.  I 
fbund  it  very  difficult  to  stick  to  anything  fc^ 
a  long  time ;  so  I  made  up  my  mindj  when  my 
time  was  out,  that  I'd  be  off  roving,  and  see  a 
little  of  life.  I  went  by  the  packet  from 
Bristol  to  Newport  After  being  there  three 
weeks,  I  had  sjient  all  the  money  that  I  had 
brought  from  home.  I  spent  it  in  drinking— 
most  of  it,  and  idling  about.  After  that  I  was 
obliged  to  sell  my  clot|kes,  kc.  The  first  thing 
I  sold  waa  my  watch;  I.  got  2/.  55.  for  that 
Then  I  was  obliged  to  part  with  my  suit  of 
clothes.  For  these  I  got  H.  5s.  With  this  I 
started  fipom  Newp(»t  to  go  farther  up  over  the 
hills.  I  liked  this  kind  of  life  much  better 
than  working,  while  the  money  lasted.  I  was 
in  the  public-house  three  parts  of  my  time  oot 
of  four.  I  was  a  great  slave  to  drink.  I  began 
to  like  drink  when  I  was  between  thirteen  and 
fourteen.  At  that  time  my  uncle  was  keeping 
a  public-house,  and  I  used  to  go  there,  back, 
wards  and  forward,  more  or  less  every  week. 
Whenever  I  went  to  see  my  uncle  he  gave  me 
some  beer.  I  very  soon  got  to  like  it  so  much, 
that,  while  an  apprentice,  I  would  spend  all  I 
oould  get  in  liquor.  This  was  the  cause  of 
my  quarrels  with  my  father,  and  when  I  went 
away  to  Newport  I  did  so  to  be  my  own  master, 
and  drink  as  much  as  I  pleased,  without  any- 
body saying  anything  to  me  about  it  I  got 
up  to  Nant-y-^6,  and  there  I  sought  for  work 
at  the  iron-foundry,  but  I  eould  not  get  it  I 
stopped  at  this  place  three  weeks,  still  drink- 
ing. The  last  day  of  the  three  weeks  I  sold 
the  boota  off  my  feet  to  get  food,  for  all  my 
money  and  clothes  were  now  gone.  I  was 
sorry  then  that  I  had  ever  left  my  father's 
house;  but  alas!  I  found  it  too  late.  I  didn't 
write  home  to  tell  them  how  I  was  off;  my 
stubborn  temper  would  not  allow  me.  I  then 
started  off  barefoot  begging  my  way  from 
Nant-y.gld  to  Monmouth.  I  told  the  people 
that  I  was  a  carpet- weaver  by  trade,  who  could 
not  get  any  employment  and  that  I  was  obliged 
to  travel  the  couxxtry  against  my  own  wish.  I 
didn't  say  a  word  about  the  drink — that  would 
never  hacve  done.  I  only  took  HyU  on  the 
road,  19  miles  long;  and  I'm  sure  I  must  have 
asked  assistance  from  more  than  a  hundred 
people.  They  said,  some  of  them,  that  they 
bad '  nout'  for  me;  and  others  did  give  me  a 
bit  of  ^  bara  caws,'  or  *  bora  minny '  ( thiU  is,  bread 
and  cheese,  or  bread  and  butter).  Money  is 
very  scarce  among  the  Wehh,  and  what  they 
have  they  are  very  fond  of.  They  don't  mind 
giving  food ;  if  you  wanted  a  bagful  you  might 
have  it  there  of  the  working  people.  I  inquired 
for  a  night's  lodging  at  the  union  in  Monmouth. 
That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  asked  for  shelter 
in  a  workhouse  in  my  life.  I  was  admittwl 
into  the  tramp-room.  Oh,  I  felt  then  that  I 
would  much  rather  be  in  prison  than  in  such 
a  place,  though  I  never  knew  ^at  the  inside 
of  a  prison  was— 4io,  not  then.  I  thought  of 
the  kindnesa  oi  my  ikther  and  mother.     I 


H 


JJ80 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


would  have  been  better,  but  I  knew  that,  as  I 
had  been  carrying  on,  I  never  conld  expect 
shelter  under  my  father's  roof  any  more;  I 
knew  he  would  not  have  taken  me  in  had  I 
gone  back,  or  I  would  have  returned.  Oh,  I 
was  off  from  home,  and  I  didn't  much  trouble 
my  head  about  it  after  a  few  minutes ;  I  plucked 
up  my  spirits  and  soon  forgot  where  I  was.  I 
made  no  male  friends  in  the  union;  I  was 
savage  that  I  had  so  hard  a  bed  to  lie  upon ;  it 
was  nothing  more  than  the  bare  boards,  and  a 
rug  to  cover  me.  I  knew  very  well  it  wasn't 
my  bed,  but  still  I  thought  I  ought  to  have  a 
better.  I  merely  felt  annoyed  at  its  being  so 
bad  a  place,  and  didn't  think  much  about  the 
rights  of  it  In  the  morning  I  was  turned  out, 
and  after  I  had  left  I  picked  up  with  a  young 
woman,  who  had  slept  in  the  union  over-night. 
I  said  I  was  going  on  the  road  across  country 
to  Birmingham,  and  I  axed  her  to  go  with  me. 
I  had  never  seen  her  before.  She  consented, 
and  we  went  along  together,  begging  our  way. 
We  passed  as  man  and  wife,  and  1  was  a  carpet- 
weaver  out  of  employment  Wo  slept  in 
unions  and  lodging-houses  by  the  way.  In  the 
lodging-houses  we  lived  together  as  man  and 
wife,  and  in  the  unions  we  were  separated.  I 
never  stole  anything  during  all  this  time. 
After  I  got  to  Birmingham  I  made  my  way  to 
Wolverhampton.  My  reason  for  going  to 
Wolverhampton  was,  that  there  was  a  good 
many  weavers  there,  and  I  thought  I  should 
make  a  good  bit  of  money  by  begging  of  them. 
Ob,  yes,  I  have  found  that  I  could  always  get 
more  money  out  of  my  own  trade  than  any 
other  people.  I  did  so  well  at  Wolverhampton, 
begging,  that  I  stopped  there  three  weeks.  I 
never  troubled  my  head  whether  I  was  doing 
right  or  wrong  by  asking  my  brother-weavers 
for  a  portion  of  their  hard  earnings  to  keep 
me  in  idleness.  Many  a  time  I  have  given 
part  of  my  wages  to  others  myself.  I  can't 
say  that  I  would  have  given  it  to  them  if  I  had 
known  they  wouldn't  work  like  me.  I  wouldn't 
have  worked  sometimes  if  I  could  have  got  it 
I  can't  tell  why,  but  somehow  it  was  painful  to 
me  to  stick  long  at  anything.  To  tell  tlie 
truth,  I  loved  a  roving,  idle  life.  I  would 
much  rather  have  been  on  the  road  than  at  my 
home.  I  drank  away  all  I  got,  and  feared  and 
cared  for  nothing.  When  I  got  dnmk  over- 
night, it  would  have  be«i  impossible  for  me 
to  have  gone  to  work  in  the  morning,  even  if 
I  could  have  got  it  The  drink  seemed  to 
take  all  the  work  out  of  me.  This  oftentimes 
led  me  to  think  of  what  my  father  used  to  tell 
me,  that  *the  bird  that  can  sing  and  won't 
sing  ought  to  be  made  to  sing.'  During  my 
stay  in  Wolverhampton  I  lived  at  a  tramper's 
house,  and  there  I  fell  in  with  two  men  well 
acquainted  with  the  town,  and  they  asked  me 
to  join  them  in  breaking  open  a  shop.  No, 
sir,  no,  I  didn*t  give  a  thought  whether  I  was 
doing  right  or  wrong  at  it  I  didn't  think  my 
father  would  ever  know  anything  at  all  about 
it,  so  I  didif^  care.    I  liked  my  mother  best, 


much  the  best  She  had  always  been  a  kind, 
good  soul  to  me,  often  kept  me  f^m  my  father^s 
blows,  and  helped  me  to  things  unknown  to 
my  father.  But  when  I  was  away  on  the  road 
I  gave  no  heed  to  her.  I  didn't  think  of  either 
father  or  mother  till  after  I  was  taken  into 
custody  for  that  same  job.  Well,  I  agreed  to 
go  with  the  other  two ;  they  were  old  hands  at 
the  business  —  regular  housebreakers.  We 
went  away  between  twelve  and  one  at  night 
It  was  pitch  dark.  My  two  pals  broke  into 
the  back  part  of  the  house,  and  I  stopped 
outside  to  keep  watch.  After  wafching  for 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  a  policeman  came 
up  to  me  and  asked  what  I  was  stopping  there 
for.  I  told  him  I  was  waiting  for  a  man  that 
was  in  a  public-house  at  the  comer.  This  led 
him  to  suspect  me,  it  being  so  late  at  night 
He  went  to  the  public-house  to  see  whether 
it  was  open,  and  found  it  shut,  and  then  came 
back  to  me.  As  he  was  returning  he  saw  my 
two  comrades  coming  through  the  back  win- 
dow (that  was  the  way  they  had  got  in).  He 
took  us  all  three  in  custody ;  some  of  the 
passers-by  assisted  him  in  seizing  ns.  The 
other  two  had  six  months'  imprisonment  each, 
and  I,  being  a  stranger,  had  only  fourteen 
days.  When  I  was  sent  to  prison,  I  thought 
of  my  mother.  I  would  have  written  to  her, 
but  couldnt  get  leave.  Being  the  first  time  I 
ever  was  nailed,  I  was  very  downhearted  at  it 
I  didn't  say  I'd  give  it  up.  While  I  was  locked 
up,  I  thought  I'd  go  to  work  again,  and  be  a 
sober  man,  when  I  got  out.  These  thoughts 
used  to  come  over  me  when  I  was  *  on  the 
stepper,'  that  is,  on  the  wheel.  But  I  concealed 
all  them  thoughts  in  my  breast  I  said  nothing 
to  no  one.  My  mother  was  the  only  one  that 
I  ever  thought  upon.  "When  I  got  out  of 
prison,  all  these  thoughts  went  awayf^m  me, 
and  I  went  again  at  my  old  tricks.  From 
Wolverhampton  I  went  to  Manchester,  and 
from  Manchester  I  came  to  London,  begging 
and  stealing  wherever  I  had  a  chance.  This 
is  not  my  first  year  in  London.  I  tell  you  the 
truth,  because  I  am  known  here;  and  if  I  tell 
you  a  lie,  you'll  say  *  You  spoke  an  untruth  in 
one  tiling,  and  youll  do  so  in  another.'  The 
first  time  I  was  in  London,  I  was  put  in  prison 
fourteen  days  for  begging,  and  after  I  had  a 
month  at  Westminster  Bridewell,  for  begging 
and  abusing  the  policeman.  Sometimes  Pd 
think  I'd  raUier  go  anywhere,  and  do  anything, 
than  continue  as  I  was ;  but  then  I  had  no 
clothes,  no  friends,  no  house,  no  home,  no 
means  of  doing  better.  I  had  made  myself 
what  I  was.  I  had  made  my  father  and 
mother  turn  their  backs  upon  me,  and  what 
could  I  do,  but  go  on?  I  was  as  bad  off  then  as 
I  am  now,  and  I  couldn't  have  got  work  then 
if  I  would.  I  should  have  wp&ni  all  I  got  in 
drink  then,  I  know.  I  wrote  home  twice.  I 
told  my  mother  I  was  hard  up ;  had  neither  a 
shoe  to  my  foot,  a  coat  to  my  back,  nor  a  roof 
over  my  head.  I  had  no  answer  to  my  first 
letter,  because  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  my 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


881 


brother,  and  lie  tore  it  up,  feaiing  that  my 
mother  might  se«i  it.    To  the  second  letter 
that  I  sent  home  my  mother  sent  me  an 
answer  herself.    She   sent  me  a  sovereign. 
She  told  me  that  my  father  was  the  same  as 
when  I  first  left  home,  and  it  was  no  use  my 
coming  back.    She  sent  me  the  money,  bidding 
me  gat  some  clothes  and  seek  for  work.    I 
didn't  do  as  she  bade.    I  spent  the  money — 
most  part  in  drink.    I  didn't  give  any  heed 
whether  it  was  wrong  or  right    Soon  got, 
soon  gone ;  and  I  know  they  could  have  sent 
me  much  more  than  that  if  they  had  pleased. 
It  was  last  June  twelvemonth  when  I  fii*st 
came  to  London,  and  I  stopped  till  the  10  th 
of  last  March.    I  lost  the  young  woman  when 
I  was  put  in  prison  in  Manchester.     She 
never  came  to  see  me  in  quod.    She  cared 
nothing  for  me.    She  only  kept  company  with 
me  to  have  some  one  on  the  road  along  with  her ; 
and  I  didn't  care  for  her,  not  I.     One  half  of 
my  time  last  winter  I  stopped  at  the  '  Straw- 
yfl^s,'    that    is,    in   the    asylums    for    the 
houseless    poor    here    and    at    Glasshouse. 
When   I  could  get  money  I  had  a  lodging. 
After  March  I  started  off  through  Somerset- 
shire.   I  went  to  my  father's  house  then.    I 
didn't  go  in.    I  saw  my  father  at  the  door,  and 
he  wouldn't  let  me  in.    I  was  a  little  better 
dressed  than  I  am  now.     lie  said  ho  hod 
enough  children  at  home  without  me,  and 
gave  me  10<.  to  go.    He  could  not  have  been 
kind  to  me,  or  else  he  would  not  have  turned 
me  from  his  roof    My  mother  came  out  to 
the  garden  in  front  of  the  house,  afler  my 
father  had  gone  to  his  work,  and  spoke  to  me. 
She  wished  me  to  reform  my  character.    I 
coiUd  not  make  any  rash  promises  then.    I 
had  but  very  little  to  say  to  her.     I  felt  myself 
at  that  same  time,  for  the  very  first  time  in 
my  life,  that  I  was  doing  wrong.    I  thought, 
if  I  could  hurt  my  mother  so,  it  must  be 
wrong  to  go  on  as  I  did.    I  had  never  had 
such  thoughts  before.      My  father's    harsh 
words  always  drove  such  thoughts  out  of  my 
head ;  but  when  I  saw  my  mother's  tears,  it 
was  more  than  I  could  stand.     I  was  wanting 
to  get  away  as  fast  as  I  could  from  the  house. 
After  that  I    stopped    knocking    about    the 
country,  sleeping  in  unions,  up  to  November. 
Then  I  came  to  London  again,  and  remained 
up  to  this  time.     Since  I  have  been  in  town 
I  have  sought  for  work  at  the  floor-cloth  and 
carpet  manufactory  in  the  Borough,  and  they 
wouldn't  even  look  at  me  in  my  present  state. 
I  am  heartily  tired  of  my  life  now  altogether, 
and  would  like  to  get  out  of  it  if  I  could.    I 
hope  at  least  I  have  given  up  my  love  of  drink, 
and  I  am  sure,  if  I  could  once  again  lay  my 
hand  on  some  work,  I  should  be  quite   a 
reformed  character.    Well,  I  am   altogether 
tired  of  carrying  on  like  this.    I  haven't  made 
ed.  a-day  ever  since  I  have  been  in  London 
this  time.    I  go  tramping  it  across  the  country 
just  to  pass  the  time,  and  see  a  little  of  new 
places.    When  the  summer  comes  I  want  to 


be  off.  I  am  sure  have  seen  enough  of  this 
country  now,  and  I  should  like  to  have  a  look 
at  some  foreign  land.  Old  England  has 
nothing  new  in  it  now  for  me.  I  think  a 
beggar's  life  is  the  worst  kind  of  life  that  a 
man  can  lead.  A  beggar  is  no  more  thought 
upon  than  a  dog  in  Uie  street,  and  there  are 
too  many  at  the  trade.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to 
a  bad  life.  You  can  see  that  by  little  things 
— by  my  handwriting ;  and,  indeed,  I  should 
like  to  have  a  chance  at  something  else.  I 
have  had  the  feelings  of  a  vagabond  for  full 
ten  years.  I  know,  and  now  I  am  sure,  I'm 
getting  a  different  man.  I  begin  to  have 
thoughts  and  ideas  I  never  had  before.  Once 
I  never  feared  nor  cared  for  anything,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  altered  if  I  could;  but  now  I'm 
tired  out,  and  if  I  haven't  a  chance  of  going 
right,  why  I  must  go  wrong." 

The  next  was  a  short,  thick -set  man,  with  a 
frequent  grin  on  his  countenance,  which  was 
rather  expressive  of  humour.  He  wore  a  very 
dirty  smock-frock,  dirtier  trousers,  shirt,  and 
neckerchief,  and  broken  shoes.  He  answered 
readily,  and  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  story. 

"  I  never  was  at  school,  and  was  brought 
up  as  a  farm  labourer  at  Devizes,"  he  said, 
*•  where  my  parents  were  labourers.  I  worked 
that  way  three  or  four  years,  and  then  ran 
away.  My  master  wouldn't  give  me  money 
enough — only  3«.  Crf.  a- week, — and  my  pa- 
rents  were  very  harsh ;  so  I  ran  away,  rather 
than  be  licked  for  ever.  I'd  heard  people  say, 
*  Go  to  Bath,'  and  I  went  there ;  and  I  was 
only  about  eleven  then.  I'm  now  twenty- 
three.  I  tried  to  get  work  on  the  railway 
there,  and  I  did.  I  next  got  into  prison  for 
stealmg  three  shovels.  I  was  hard-up,  having 
lost  my  work,  and  so  I  stole  thcni.  I  was  ten 
weeks  in  prison.  I  came  out  worse  than  I 
went  in,  for  I  mixed  with  the  old  hands,  and 
they  put  me  up  to  a  few  capers.  When  I  got 
out  I  thought  I  could  Uve  as  well  that  way  as 
by  hard  work;  so  I  took  to  the  country.  I 
began  to  beg.  At  first  I  took  *  No '  for  an 
answer,  when  I  asked  for  '  Charity  to  a  poor 
boy;'  but  I  foimd  that  wouldn't  do,  so  I 
learned  to  stick  to  them.  I  was  forced,  or  I 
must  have  starved,  and  that  wouldn't  do  at  alL 
I  did  middling ;  plenty  to  eat,  and  sometimes 
a  drop  to  drink,  but  not  often.  I  was  forced 
to  be  merry,  because  it's  no  good  being  down- 
hearted. I  begged  for  two  years,— that  is, 
steal  and  beg  together :  I  couldn't  starve.  I 
did  best  in  country  >'illages  in  Somersetshire ; 
there's  always  odds  and  ends  to  be  picked  up 
there.  I  got  into  scrapes  now  and  then. 
Once,  in  Devonshire,  me  and  another  sl^pt  at 
a  farm-house,  and  in  the  morning  we  went  egg- 
hunting.  I  must  have  stowed  three  dozen  of 
eggs  about  me,  when  a  dog  barked,  and  we 
were  alarmed  and  ran  away,  and  in  getting 
over  a  gate  I  fell,  and  there  I  lay  among  Uie 
smashed  eggs.  I  can't  help  laughing  at  it 
still :  but-  J.  got  away.  I  was  too  sharp  for 
them.    I  have  been  twenty  or  thirty  times  in 


382 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  J^OOn. 


prison.  I  have  been  in  for  stealing  bread, 
and  a  side  of  bacon,  and  cheese,  and  shovels, 
and  other  things;  generally  provisions.  I 
generally  learn  something  new  in  prison.  I 
shaU  do  no  good  while  I  stop  in  England. 
It's  not  possible  a  man  like  me  can  get  woric, 
so  I'm  forced  to  go  on  this  way.  Sometimes 
I  haven't  a  bit  to  eat  all  day.  At  night  I  may 
pick  up  something.  An  uncle  of  mino  once 
told  me  he  would  Hkc  to  see  me  transported, 
or  come  to  the  gallows.  I  told  him  I  had  no 
fear  about  the  gallows ;  I  should  never  come  to 
tbat  end :  but  if  I  were  transported  I  should 
be  better  ofif  than  I  am  now.  I  can't  stan-e, 
and  I  won't ;  and  I  can't  'list,  I'm  too  short. 
I  came  to  London  the  other  day,  but  could  do 
no  good.  Xlie  London  hands  are  quite  a 
different  set  to  us.  We  seldom  do  business  to- 
petliiT.  ]My  way's  simple.  If  I  see  a  thing, 
and  I'm  hungry,  I  take  it  if  I  con,  in  London 
or  anywhere.  I  once  had  a  turn  with  two 
Londoners,  and  we  got  two  coots  and  two 
pair  of  trousers ;  but  the  police  got  them  back 
again.  I  was  only  locked  up  one  night  for  it 
The  country's  the  best  place  to  get  away  with 
anything,  because  there's  not  so  many  poHce- 
nien.  There's  lots  hvc  as  I  hve,  because 
there's  no  work.  I  can  do  a  country  police- 
man, generally.  I've  had  sprees  nt  the  coun- 
try lodging-houses  —  larking,  and  drinking, 
and  conning  on,  and  playhig  cards  and  domi- 
noes all  night  for  a  farthing  a  game ;  some- 
times fighting  about  it.  I  can  play  at  domi- 
noes, but  I  don't  know  tlie  cords.  They  try 
to  cheat  one  another.  Honour  among  thieves ! 
wliy  there's  no  such  thing ;  they  take  from 
one  another.  Sometimes  we  dunce  all  night — 
Christmas  time,  and  such  times.  Young  wo- 
men dance  with  us,  and  sometimes  old  women. 
We're  all  meiT}-;  some's  lying  on  the  floor 
drunk ;  some's  jumping  about,  smoking ; 
some's  dancing ;  and  so  we  enjoy  ourselves. 
Thai's  the  best  part  of  the  life.  Wo  are  sel- 
dom slopped  in  our  merry-makings  in  the 
country.  It's  no  good  tlie  policemen  coining 
among  us;  give  them  beer,  and  you  may 
knock  tlie  house  do>vn.  We  have  good  meat 
sometimes;  sometimes  very  rough.  Some 
are  very  pariicular  about  their  cookery,  as  nice 
OS  anybody  is.  They  must  have  tlieir  pickles, 
and  their  peppers,  and  their  fish-sauces  (fve 
liad  them  myself),  to  their  dishes.  Chops,  in 
the  country,  has  tJie  call ;  or  ham  and  eggs — 
tliat's  relished.  Some's  very  poi'ticular  about 
Uieii-  drink,  t<^o ;  won't  touch  bad  beer ;  same 
way  with  the  gin.  It's  chiefly  gin  (I'm  talking 
about  the  countrj*),  very  Uttlo  rum;  no 
brandy:  but  sometimes,  after  a  good  day's 
work,  a  drop  of  T^-ine.  We  lielp  one  another 
when  we  are  sick,  where  we're  knowed. 
Some's  very  good  that  way.  Some  lodging- 
house  keepers  get  rid  of  anybody  that's  sick, 
by  taking  them  to  the  reUeving-officer  at 
once." 

A  really  fine-looking  lad  of  eighteen  gave  me 
the  ftdlouing  statement.    He  wore  a  sort  of 


frock-coat,  veiy  thin,  battoned  ahoat  him,  old 
cloth  trousers,  and  bad  shoes.  His  shirt  was 
tolerably  good  and  dean,  and  altogether  Iks  had 
a  tidy  look  and  an  air  of  quickntsu,  botnoi  of 
cunning : — 

"  My  father,"  he  said,  "  was  a  bnakkyar  in 
Shoreditch  y^&rish,  and  my  mother  took  in 
washing.  They  did  prct^  well;  but  they're 
dead  and  buried  two  years  and  a  half  a^o.  I 
used  to  work  in  brick-fields  at  Ball*s-poQd,Hv- 
ing  with  my  parents,  and  taking  home  eveiy 
farthing  I  earned.  I  earned  I8t.  a-week,  work- 
ing from  five  in  the  morning  until  sunset.  Tbcj 
had  only  me.  I  can  read  and  write  middling ; 
when  my  parents  died,  I  had  to  look  out  for 
myselC  I  was  off  work,  attending  to  my  Cdher 
and  mother  when  they  wore  sick.  They  died 
within  about  three  weeks  of  each  other,  aad  I 
lost  my  work,  and  I  had  to  part  with  my  dothes 
before  that  I  tried  to  work  in  briek-fielda,  and 
couldn't  get  it,  and  woric  grew  slack.  When 
my  parents  died  I  was  thirteen ;  and  I  aome- 
Umes  got  to  sleep  in  the  unions ;  but  that  was 
stopped,  and  then  I  took  to  the  lodging-honaes, 
and  there  I  met  with  lads  who  were  allying 
themselves  at  push-halfpenny  and  cards ;  and 
they  wore  thieves,  and  they  tempted  me  to  join 
them,  and  I  did  for  once — but  only  once.  I 
then  went  begging  about  the  streets  and  tbier- 
ing,  as  I  knew  the  others  do.  I  used  to  pick 
pockets.  I  worked  for  myself^  because  I  thought 
that  would  be  best.  I  had  no  fence  at  all— no 
pals  at  first,  nor  anything.  I  worked  by  my- 
self for  a  time.  I  sold  the  handkerchie&Igotto 
Jews  in  the  streets,  chiefly  in  lieldJana,  for 
1«.  0(/.,  but  I  have  got  as  much  as  St.  U.  for 
your  real  fancy  ones.  One  of  these  bayers 
wanted  to  clieat  me  out  of  6^.,  so  I  would  have 
no  more  dealings  with  him.  The  others  paid 
me.  The  '  Kingsmen '  Ihey  call  the  best  hind- 
kerchiefs — those  that  have  the  pretty-looldng 
flowers  on  them.  Some  are  only  worth  Ad,  or 
5</.,  some's  not  worth  taking.  Those  I  gave 
away  to  strangers,  boys  like  myself  or  wore 
them  myself,  round  my  neck.  I  on^  threw 
one  away,  but  it  was  all  rags,  though  he  looked 
quite  like  a  gentleman  that  had  it.  Lord-major^ 
day  and  such  times  is  the  best  for  us.  Last 
Lord-mayor's  day  I  got  four  handkerdaefe, 
and  I  made  1I«.  There  was  a  6  J.  tied  op  in 
the  corner  of  one  handkerchief;  another  was 
pinned  to  the  pocket,  but  I  got  it  out,  and 
after  that  another  chap  had  him,  and  cot  his 
pocket  clean  away,  but  there  was  nothing  in  it. 
I  generally  picked  my  men — regular  swdls,  or 
good-humoured  looking  men.  I've  often  fid- 
lowed  them  a  mile.  I  once  got  a  parse  with 
3«.  C(/.  in  it  from  a  lady  when  the  Coal  Ex- 
change was  opened.  I  made  8<.  0<j.  that  day— 
the  purse  and  handkerchiefs.  Thaf  s  the  only 
lady  I  ever  robbed.  I  was  in  the  crowd  iriien 
Manning  and  his  wife  were  hanged.  I  wanted 
to  see  if  they  died  game,  as  I  heard  them  talk 
so  much  about  them  at  our  house.  I  was  there 
all  night  I  did  four  good  handkerchief  asd 
a  rotten  one  not  worth  picking  up.  I  sow  then 


LONDON  LABOUM  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


at)-i 


lioiig.  I WK8  right  under  the  drop.  I  was  a  bit 
startled  when  they  brought  him  up  imd  put  the 
rope  round  his  neck  and  the  coip  on,  and  then 
they  brought  her  out  All  said  he  was  hung 
innocently ;  it  was  she  that  should  have  been 
buiiff  by  hersolfl  They  both  dropped  together, 
and  1  felt  fkintified,  but  I  soon  felt  all  right 
again.  The  police  drove  us  away  as  soon  as  it 
was  over,  so  that  I  couldn't  do  any  more  busi- 
ness ;  besides,  I  was  knocked  down  in  the  crowd 
and  jumped  upon,  and  I  won't  go  to  see  an- 
other hung  in  a  hurry.  He  didn't  deserve  it, 
hut  she  did,  every  inch  of  her.  I  can't  say  I 
'ithooght,  while  I  was  seeing  the  execution,  that 
the  life  I  was  leading  would  ever  bring  me  to 
the  gallows.  After  I'd  worked  by  myself  a  bit,  I 
got  to  live  in  a  house  where  lads  like  me,  big 
and  little,  wore  accommodated.  We  paid  xid,  a- 
night  It  was  always  full ;  there  was  twenty 
or  twenty-one  of  us.  We  eiyoyed  ourselves 
middliDg.  I  was  happy  enough:  wo  drank 
sometixpes,  chiefly  beer,  and  sometimes  a  drop 
of  gin.  One  would  say,  *■  I've  done  so  much,' 
andfuiother,  'I've  done  so  much;'  and  stand 
a  drop.  The  best  I  ever  heard  done  was  2/.  for 
two  coats  from  a  tailor's,  near  Bow-church, 
Cheapside.  That  was  by  one  of  my  pals.  We 
used  to  share  our  money  with  those  who  did 
nothing  for  a  day,  and  they  shared  with  us 
when  we  rested.  There  never  was  any  blab- 
bing. We  wouldn't  do  one  another  out  of  a 
fitrthing.  Of  a  nigiit  some  one  would  now  and 
then  r^  h}'mns,  out  of  books  they  sold  about 
the  streets — I'm  sure  they  were  hymns ;  or  else 
we'd  read  stories  about  Jock  Sheppard  and  Dick 
Tarpin,  and  all  through  that  seL  They  were 
laiige  thick  books,  borrowed  from  the  library. 
They  told  how  they  used  to  break  open  the 
houses,  and  get  out  of  Newgate,  and  how  Dick 
got  away  to  York.  We  used  to  think  Jack  and 
them  very  fine  fellows.  I  wished  I  could  be 
like  Jack  (I  did  then),  about  the  blankets  in 
his  escape,  and  that  old  house  in  West-street 
— it  is  a  ruin  still.  We  played  cards  and  do- 
minoes sometimes  at  our  house,  and  at  push- 
ing a  halfpenny  over  tlie  table  along  five  lines. 
We  struck  the  hal^enny  from  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  according  to  what  line  it  settled  on 
was  the  gome — ^likc  as  they  play  at  the  Glass- 
house— that's  the  *  model  lodging-house'  they 
calls  it.  Cribbage  was  always  pla^'ed  at  cards. 
I  ean  only  play  cribbage.  We  hove  played  for  a 
shilling  a  gome,  but  oAcner  a  penny.  It  was  al- 
ways fair  play.  That  was  the  way  we  passed  the 
time  when  we  were  not  out  We  used  to  keep 
quiet,  or  the  police  would  have  been  down  upon 
us.  They  know  of  the  place.  They  took  one  boy 
there.  I  wondered  what  they  wanted.  They 
eatehed  him  at  the  very  door.  We  Hved  pretty 
well ;  anything  wo  liked  to  get,  when  we'd 
money :  we  cooked  it  ourselves.  The  master  of 
the  house  was  always  on  the  look-out  to  keep  out 
those  who  had  no  business  there.  No  girls 
were  admitted.  The  master  of  the  house  had 
nothing  to  do  with  what  we  got  I  don't  know 
of  any  other  such  house  in  London ;  I  don't 


think  there  are  any.  The  master  would  some- 
times  drink  with  us--a  larking  like.  He  used 
us  pretty  kindly  at  times.  I  have  been  three 
times  in  prison,  three  months  each  time ;  the 
Compter,  Brixton,  and  Maidstone.  I  went 
down  to  Maidstone  fiair,  and  was  caught  by  a 
London  policeman  down  there.  He  was  dressed 
as  a  bricklayer.  Prison  always  made  me  worse, 
and  as  I  had  nothing  given  me  when  I  came 
out,  I  had  to  look  out  again.  I  generally  got 
hold  ol  somethiAg  before  I  had  been  an  hour 
out  of  prison.  I'm  now  heartily  sick  of  this 
lifie.  I  wish  I'd  been  transpoiisd  with  some 
others  from  Maidstone,  where  I  was  tried." 

A  cotton-spinner  (who  had  subsequently 
been  a  soldier),  whose  appearance  was  utterly 
abject,  ^-as  the  next  person  questioned.  He 
was  tall,  and  had  been  florid-looking  (judging 
by  his  present  complexion).  His  coat — very 
old  and  worn,  and  once  black — ^would  not  but- 
ton, and  would  have  hardly  held  together  if 
buttoned.  He  was  out  at  elbows,  and  some 
parts  of  the  collar  were  pinned  together.  His 
waistooat  was  of  a  match  with  his  coat,  and  his 
trousers  were  rags.  He  had  some  shirt,  as  was 
evident  by  his  waistcoat,  held  together  by  one 
button.  A  very  dirty  handkerchief  was  tied 
carelessly  round  his  neck.  He  was  tall  and 
erect,  and  told  his  adventures  with  heartiness. 

"I  am  thirty-eight,"  ho  said,  ''and  have 
been  a  cotton- spinner,  working  at  Chorlton- 
upon-Medlock.  I  can  neither  read  nor  write. 
When  I  was  a  young  man,  twenty  years  ago, 
I  could  earn  2/.  10*.,  clear  money,  every  week, 
after  paying  two  piecers  and  a  scavenger. 
Each  piecer  had  Is,  Qd,  a-week — ^they  are 
girls ;  the  scavenger — a  boy  to  clean  the  wheels 
of  the  cotton-spinning  machine — had  2s.  Qd. 
I  was  master  of  tliem  wheels  in  the  factorj-. 
This  state  of  things  continued  until  about  the 
year  1837.  I  liv^  well  and  eiyoyed  myself, 
being  a  hearty  man,  noways  a  drunkard,  work- 
ing every  day  frx)m  half-past  five  in  the  room- 
ing till  half-past  seven  at  night — long  hours, 
that  time,  master.  I  didn't  core  about  money 
as  long  as  I  was  decent  and  respectable.  I 
had  a  turn  for  sporting  at  the  wakes  down 
there.  In  1837,  the  *  self- actors '  (machines 
with  steam  power)  had  come  into  common 
use.  One  girl  can  mind  three  pairs — that  used 
to  be  Uiree  men's  work — getting  15«.  for  the 
work  which  gave  three  men  11.  10».  Out  of 
one  factory  400  hands  were  flung  in  one  week, 
men  and  women  together.  We  had  a  meeting 
of  the  union,  but  nothing  could  be  done,  and 
we  were  told  to  go  and  mind  the  three  pairs, 
as  the  girls  did,  for  lbs.  a-week.  We  wouldn't 
do  that  Some  went  for  soldiers,  some  to  sea, 
some  to  Stopport  (Stockport),  to  get  work  in 
factories  where  the  *  self-actors '  wem't  agoit. 
The  masters  there  wouldn't  liave  them— at 
least  some  of  them.  Manchester  was  full  of 
them ;  but  one  gentleman  in  Ilulme  still 
won't  have  them,  for  he  sa}'8  he  won't  turn 
the  men  out  of  bread.  J  'listed  for  a  soldier 
in  the  48th.    I  liked  a  soldier's  life  very  well 


884 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


UDtil  I  got  flogged — lOO  lashes  for  selliDg  my 
kit  (for  a  spree),  uid  l&O  for  striking  a  cor- 
poral, who  colled  me  on  English  robber.  He 
was  an  Irishman.  I  was  confined  five  days  in 
the  hospital  after  each  punishment.  It  was 
terrible.  It  was  like  a  bimch  of  razors  catting 
at  your  back.  Your  flesh  was  dragged  off  by 
the  cats.  Flogging  was  then  very  common  in 
the  regiment  I  was  flogged  in  1840.  To 
tliis  day  I  feel  a  pain  in  the  chest  from  the 
triangles.  I  was  discharged  from  the  army 
about  two  years  ago,  when  the  reduction  took 
place.  I  was  only  flogged  the  times  Tve  told 
you.  I  had  no  pension  and  no  friends.  I  was 
discharged  in  Dublin.  I  turned  to,  and  looked 
for  work.  I  couldn't  get  any,  and  made  my 
way  for  Manchester.  I  stole  myself  aboard  of 
a  steamer,  and  hid  myself  till  she  got  out  to 
sea,  on  her  way  from  Dublin  to  Liyerpool. 
When  the  captain  found  me  there,  he  gave 
me  a  kick  and  some  bread,  and  told  mo  to 
work,  so  I  worked  for  my  passage  twenty-four 
hours.  Ho  put  me  ashore  at  Liverpool.  I 
slept  in  the  union  that  night — nothing  to  eat 
and  nothing  to  cover  me — no  fire;  it  was 
winter.  I  walked  to  Manchester,  but  could 
get  nothing  to  do  there,  though  I  was  twelve 
months  knocking  about.  It  wants  a  friend 
and  a  character  to  get  work.  I  slept  in  anions 
in  Manchester,  and  had  oatmeal  porridge  for 
breakfast,  work  at  grinding  logwood  in  the 
mill,  from  bix  to  twelve,  and  then  turn  out. 
That  was  the  way  I  lived  chiefly ;  but  I  got  a 
job  sometimes  in  driving  cattle,  and  ^d,  for  it, 
— or  2</.  for  canying  baskets  in  the  vegetable 
markets;  and  went  to  Shoedale  Union  at 
night.  I  would  get  a  pint  of  coffee  and  half- 
apound  of  bread,  and  half-a-poond  of  bread 
in  the  morning,  and  no  work.  I  took  to  tra- 
velling up  to  London,  half-hungered  on  the 
rood — that  was  last  winter — eating  tomipa 
out  of  this  field,  and  carrots  out  of  that,  and 
sleeping  under  hedges  and  haystacks.  I  slept 
under  one  haystack,  and  pulled  out  the  hay  to 
cover  me,  and  the  snow  lay  on  it  a  foot  deep 
in  the  morning.  I  slept  for  all  that,  but 
wasn't  I  froze  when  I  woke  ?  An  old  farmer 
came  up  with  his  cart  and  pitchfork  to  load 
hay.  He  said :  *  Poor  fellow !  have  you  been 
here  all  night  ?'  I  answered,  *  Yes.'  He  gave 
me  some  coffee  and  bread,  and  one  shilling. 
That  was  the  only  good  friend  I  met  with  on 
the  road.  I  got  fourteen  days  of  it  for  asking 
a  gentleman  for  a  penny ;  that  was  in  Stafford. 
I  got  to  London  after  that,  sleeping  in  unions 
sometimes,  and  begging  a  bite  here  and 
there.  Sometimes  I  had  to  walk  all  night 
I  was  once  forty-eight  hours  without  a  bite, 
until  I  got  hold  at  last  of  a  Swede  turnip,  and 
so  at  last  I  got  to  London.  Here  I've  tried 
up  and  down  everywhere  for  work  as  a  labour- 
ing man,  or  in  a  foundry.  I  tried  London 
Docks,  and  Blackwall,  and  every  place  ;  but 
no  job.  At  one  foundry,  the  boiler-makers 
made  a  collection  of  4s.  for  me.  I've  walked 
the  streets  for  three  nights  together.  Here,  in 


this  fine  London,  1  was  refused  a  night's 
lodging  in  Shoreditch  and  in  Gray's-inn-lane. 
A  policeman,  the  fourth  uight,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  procured  me  a  lodging,  and  gave  me 
Zd,  I  couldn't  drag  on  any  longer.  I  was 
taken  to  a  doctor's  in  the  city.  I  fell  in  the 
street  from  hunger  and  tiredness.  The  doctor 
ordered  me  brandy  and  water,  2j.  (k^.,  and  a 
quartern  loaf,  and  some  coffee,  sugar,  and 
butter.  He  said,  what  I  ailed  was  hunger. 
I  made  that  run  out  as  long  as  I  could,  but  I 
was  then  as  bad  off  as  ever.  It's  hard  to 
hunger  for  nights  togeth^.  I  wa.s  once  iu 
*  Steel  *  (Goldbath.fields)  for  begging.  I  was 
in  Tothill-fields  for  going  into  a  chandJei^s 
shop,  asking  for  a  quartern  loaf  and  half  a 
pound  of  cheese,  and  walking  out  with  it  I 
got  A  month  for  that  I  have  been  in  Brixton 
for  taking  a  loaf  out  of  a  baker's  basket,  all 
through  hanger.  Better  a  prison  than  to 
starve.  I  was  well  treated  because  I  behaved 
well  in  prison.  I  have  slept  in  coaches  when 
I  had  A  chance.  One  night  on  a  dunghill, 
covering  the  stable  straw  about  me  to  keep 
myself  waim.  This  place  is  a  reliel  I  shave 
the  poor  people  and  cut  their  hair,  on  a 
Sunday.  I  was  handy  at  that  when  I  was  a 
soldier.  I  have  shaved  in  public-houses  for 
hal^nnies.  Some  landlords  kicks  me  out 
Now,  in  the  days,  I  may  pick  up  a  penny  or 
two  that  wiqr,  and  get  here  of  a  night  I  met 
two  Manchester  men  in  Hyde  Park  on  Satur- 
day, skating.  They  asked  me  what  I  was. 
I  said,  *  A  beggiu:.'  They  gave  me  2«.  (Sd^  and 
I  spent  part  of  it  for  warm  coffee  and  other 
things.  They  knew  all  about  Manchester, 
and  knew  I  was  a  Manchester  man  l>v  my 
talk." 

The  statement  I  then  took  was  that  of  a 
female  vagrant— a  young  girl  with  eyes  and 
hair  of  remarkable  blaclmess.  Her  complex- 
ion was  of  the  deepest  brunette,  her  cheeks 
were  ftdl  of  colotur,  and  her  lips  very  thick. 
This  was  accounted  for.  She  told  me  that 
her  father  was  a  mulatto  from  Pliiladelphia. 
She  was  short,  and  dressed  in  a  torn  old  cot- 
ton gown,  the  pattern  of  which  was  hardly 
discernible  from  wear.  A  kind  of  hidf-shawl, 
patched  and  mended  in  several  places,  and  of 
very  thin  woollen  texture,  was  pinned  around 
her  neck ;  her  arms,  which,  with  her  hands, 
were  ftill  and  laige,  were  bare.  She  wore  very 
old  broken  boots  and  ragged  stockings.  Her 
demeanour  was  modest 

*'  I  am  now  eighteen,*'  she  stated.  **  My 
father  was  a  coloured  man.  He  came  over 
here  as  a  sailor,  I  have  heard,  but  I  never 
saw  him ;  for  my  mother,  who  was  a  white 
woman,  was  not  married  to  him,  but  met  him 
at  Oxford  ;  and  she  married  afterwards  a  box- 
maker,  a  white  man,  and  has  two  other  chil- 
dren. They  are  living,  I  believe,  but  I  dout 
know  where  they  are.  I  have  beard  my  mo- 
ther say  that  my  father — that's  my  own 
father — had  become  a  missionary,  and  bad 
been  sent  out  to  America  from  England  as  a 


VAGRANT  FROM  THE  REFUGE  IN  PLAYHOUSE 
YARD,  CRIPPLEGATE. 

{From  a  Fhotcgngph.'] 


\ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


385 


missioiiary,   bj    Mr.  .     I  beUeve    that 

was  fifteen  years  Ago.  I  don't  know  who  Mr. 
—  was,  but  he  was  a  gentleman,  Pve 
heard  my  mother  say.  She  told  me,  too,  that 
my  faCher  was  a  good  scholar,  and  that  he 
could  speak  seven  different  languages,  and 
was  a  very  religious  man.  He  was  sent  out 
to  Boston,  but  I  never  heard  whether  he  was 
to  stay  or  not,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  was 
to  missionary  about  He  behaved  very  well 
to  my  mother,  I  have  heard  her  say,  until  she 
took  up  with  tlie  other  man  (the  box-maker)^ 
and  then  he  left  her,  and  gave  her  up,  and 
came  to  London.  It  was  at  Oxford  that  they 
all  three  were  then ;  and  when  my  father  got 
away,  or  came  away  to  London,  my  mother 
followed  him  (she  told  me  so,  but  she  didn't 
like  to  talk  about  it),  as  she  was  then  in  the 
family  way.  She  didn't  find  him;  but  my 
father  heard  of  her,  and   left  some  money 

with    Mr.  for  her,  and  she   got   into 

Poland-street  workhouse  through  Mr.  — 
Tve  heard.  While  there,  she  received  If.  6dL 
a-week,  but  my  father  never  came  to  see  her 
or  me.  At  one  time,  my  father  used  to  live 
by  teaching  languages.  He  had  been  in 
Spain,  and  France,  and  Morocco.  Tve  heard, 
at  any  rate,  that  he  could  speak  the  Moors' 
language,  bat  I  know  nothing  more.  All  this 
is  what  I've  heard  from  my  mother  and  my 
grandmother — that's  my  mother's  mother. 
My  grandfather  and  grandmother  are  dead. 
He  was  a  sawrer.  I  have  a  great  grandmother 
living  in  Ox&rd,  now  ninety-two,  supported 
by  her  parish.  I  lived  with  my  granamotlier 
at  Oxford,  who  took  me  out  of  pity,  as  my 
mother  never  cared  about  me,  inien  I  was 
four  months  old.  I  remained  with  her  until 
I  was  ten,  and  then  my  mother  came  from 
Beading,  where  she  was  living,  and  took  me 
away  with  her.  I  lived  with  her  and  my  step- 
father, but  tliey  wore  badly  off.  He  couldn't 
get  mncli  to  do  at  his  ti*ade  as  a  box-maker, 
and  he  drank  a  great  dcaL  I  was  witli  them 
about  nine  months,  when  1  ran  away.  He 
beat  me  so ;  ho  never  liked  me.  I  couldnt 
bear  it.  I  went  to  Pangboume,  but  there  I 
was  stopped  by  a  man  my  stepfather  had 
sent — at  least  I  suppose  so — and  I  was  forced 
to  walk  back  to  ReiDding — ^ten  miles,  perhaps. 
My  father  appUod  to  the  overseer  for  support 
for  me,  and  the  overseer  was  rather  harsh, 
and  my  father  struck  him,  and  for  that  he  was 
sent  to  prison  for  three  months.  My  mother 
and  her  children  then  got  into  the  workhouse, 
but  not  until  after  my  stepfather  had  been 
some  time  in  prison.  Before  that  she  had  an 
allowance,  which  was  stopped ;  I  don't  know 
how  much.  I  was  in  the  .workhouse  twenty- 
one  days.  I  wasn't  badly  treated.  My  mother 
swtarcd  my  parish,  and  I  was  removed  to  St. 
James's,  Poland-street,  London.  I  was  there 
three  weeks,  and  tlicn  I  was  sent  to  New 
Brentford — ^it  was  called  the  Juvenile  Esta- 
blishment— and  I  went  to  school.  There  was 
about  150  boys  and  girls ;  the  boys  were  sent 


to  Norwood  when  they  were  fifteen.  Some  of 
the  girls  were  eighteen,  kept  there  until  they 
could  get  a  place.  I  don't  know  whether  they 
aU  belonged  to  St  James's,  or  to  different 
paxishes,  or  how.  I  stayed  there  about  two 
years.  I  was  vexy  well  treated,  sufiicient  to 
eat ;  but  we  worked  hard  at  scrubbing,  clean- 
ing,  and  making  shirts.  We  made  all  the 
boys'  clothes  as  well,  jackets  and  trousers,  and  ■ 
alL  I  was  then  apprenticed  a  maid-of-all- 
work,  in  Duke-street,  Grosvcnor-square,  for 
three  years.  I  was  there  two  years  and  a 
half,  when  my  master  failed  in  business,  and 
had  to  purt  with  me.  They  had  no  servant  but 
me.  Mv  mistress  was  sometimes  kind,  pretty 
well.  I  had  to  work  very  hard.  She  sometimes 
beat  me  if  I  stopped  long  on  my  errands.  My 
master  beat  me  once  for  bringing  things  i!^Tong 
from  a  grocer's.  I  made  a  mistake.  Once  my 
mistress  knocked  me  down-staii^  for  being 
long  on  an  eirand  to  Pimlico,  and  I'm  sure  I 
couldnt  help  it,  and  my  eye  was  cut.  It  was 
three  weeks  befbre  I  could  see  welL  [There 
is  a  slight  mark  under  the  girl's  eye  stilL] 
They  beat  me  with  their  fists.  After  I  left  my 
master,  I  tried  hard  to  get  a  place ;  I'm  sure  I 
did,  but  I  really  couldn't;  so  to  live,  I  got 
watercresses  to  sell  up  and  down  Oxford- 
street  I  stayed  at  lodging-houses.  I  tried 
that  two  or  three  monliis,  but  couldn't  live. 
My  mother  had  been  '  through  the  countiy,' 
and  I  knew  other  people  that  hod,  through 
meeting  them  at  the  lodging-houses.  I  first 
went  to  Croydon,  begging  my  way.  I  slept  in 
the  workhouse.  After  that  I  went  to  Brighton, 
begging  my  way,  but  couldn't  get  much,  not 
enough  to  pay  my  lodgings.  I  was  constantly 
insulted,  both  in  the  lodgmig-houses  and  in  the 
streets.  I  sung  in  the  streets  at  Brighton,  and 
got  enough  to  pay  my  lodgings,  and  a  little 
for  food.  I  was  there  a  week,  and  then  I  went 
to  the  Mendicity,  and  they  gave  me  a  piece  of 
bread  (morning  and  night)  and  a  night's  lodg- 
ing. I  then  went  to  Lewes  and  other  places, 
begging,  and  got  into  prison  at  Tunbridge 
Wells  for  fourteen  days,  for  begging.  I  only 
used  to  say  I  was  a  poor  girl  out  of  place,  could 
they  relieve  me  ?  I  told  no  lies.  I  didn't  pick 
my  ofJium  one  day,  it  was  such  hard  stuff; 
three  and  a  half  pounds  of  it  to  do  from  nine  to 
h^-past  three :  so  I  was  put  into  solitary  for 
three  days  and  three  nights, ha\'ing  half  apound 
of  bread  and  a  pint  of  cold  water  morning  and 
night ;  nothing  else,  and  no  bed  to  sleep  on. 
I'm  sure  I  tell  you  the  truth.  Some  had  irons 
on  their  hands  if  they  were  obstropolous.  Thnt's 
about  two  months  ago.  I'm  sorry  to  say  that 
during  this  time  I  couldn't  be  virtuous.  I 
know  veiy  well  what  it  means,  for  I  can  read 
and  write,  but  no  girl  can  be  so  circumstanced 
as  I  was.  I  seldom  got  monpy  for  being 
wicked;  I  hated  being  wicked,  but  I  was 
tricked  and  cheated.  I  am  truly  sorry  for 
it,  but  what  could  a  poor  girl  do  ?  I  begged 
my  way  fkrom  London  to  Hastings,  and  got 
here  on  Saturd^gr  last,  and  having  no  money, 


386 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


came  here.  I  heard  of  this  asylum  from  a 
«^rl  in  Whitcchapel,  who  had  been  here.  I 
met  her  in  a  lodging-house,  where  I  called 
to  rest  in  the  daytime.  They  let  us  rest  some- 
times in  lodging-houses  in  the  daytime.  I 
never  was  in  any  prison  but  Tunbridge  Wells, 
and  in  Gravesend  lock-up  for  being  out  after 
twelve  at  night,  when  I  had  no  money  to  get  a 
lodging.  I  was  there  one  Saturday  night,  and 
got  out  on  Sunday  morning,  but  had  nothing 
jnven  me  to  eat— I  was  in  by  myself.  It's  a 
bad  place — just  straw  to  sleep  on,  and  very 
cold.  I  told  you  I  could  read  and  write.  I 
learnt  tliat  partly  at  Oxford,  and  finished  my 
learning  at  the  JuTenile  Establishment  at 
Brentford.  There  I  was  taught,  reading,  writ- 
ing, simis,  marking,  sewing,  and  scrubbing. 
Once  I  could  say  sll  the  multiplication  table, 
but  I've  forgot  most  of  it  I  know  how  to  make 
lace,  too,  because  I  was  taught  by  a  cousin  in 
Oxford,  another  grandchild  of  my  grandmo- 
ther's. I  can  make  it  with  knitting-needles. 
I  could  make  cushion-loce  with  pins,  but  I'm 
afraid  I've  forgot  how  now.  I  should  like,  if  I 
could  to  get  into  service  again,  here  or  abroad. 
I  have  heard  of  Australia,  where  I  have  a  cou- 
sin. I  am  sure  I  could  and  would  conduct 
myself  well  in  service,  I  have  suffered  so  much 
out  of  it  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  never  stole  any- 
thing in  my  life,  and  have  told  all  I  have  done 
wrong.** 

Statement  of  ▲  Retubmeo  Conyict. 

I  SHALL  now  give  the  statement  of  a  man 
who  was  selected  at  random  from  amongst  a 
number  such  as  himself,  congregated  in  one 
of  the  most  respectable  lodging-houses.  He 
proved,  on  examination,  to  be  a  returned  con- 
vict, and  one  who  had  gone  through  the 
severest  bodily  and  mentfd  agony.  He  had 
lived  in  the  bush,  and  been  tried  for  his  life. 
He  was  an  elderly-looking  man,  whose  hair 
was  just  turning  grey,  and  in  whose  appear- 
ance there  was  nothing  remarkable,  except 
that  Ids  cheek-bones  were  unusually  high, 
and  that  his  face  presented  that  collected  and 
composed  expression  which  is  common  to 
men  exposed  to  habitual  watchAilness  frt)m 
constant  danger.  He  gave  me  the  following 
statement.  His  dress  was  bad,  but  differed  in 
nothing  from  that  of  a  long- distressed  me- 
chanic.   He  said  :— 

"  I  am  now  43  (he  looked  much  older),  and 
hod  respectable  parents,  and  a  respectable 
education.  I  am  a  native  of  London.  When 
I  was  young  I  was  fond  of  a  roving  Ufe,  but 
cared  nothing  about  drink.  I  liked  to  see 
*  life,'  as  it  was  called,  and  was  fond  of  the 
company  of  women.  Money  was  no  object 
in  those  days ;  it  was  like  picking  up  dirt  in 
the  streets.  I  ran  away  from  home.  My 
parents  were  very  kind  to  me ;  indeed,  I  think 
I  was  used  too  well,  I  was  petted  so,  when  I 
was  between  12  and  13.  I  got  acquainted 
with  some  boys  at  Bartlemy-fair  a  little  before 


that,  and  saw  them  spending  lots  of  moQ^ 
and  throwing  at  cock-shies,  and  such-like; 
and  one  of  Uiem  said,  *  Why  don't  jou  oome 
out  like  us  ?'  So  afterwards  I  ran  away  and 
joined  them.  I  was  not  kept  shorter  of  money 
than  other  boys  like  me,  but  I  couldnt  settle, 
I  couldn't  fix  my  mind  to  any  regular  business 
but  a  waterman's,  and  my  friends  wouldn't 
hear  of  that  There  was  nine  boys  of  us 
among  the  lot  that  I  joined,  but  we  didn't  all 
work  together.  All  of  'em  came  to  be  sent  to 
Van  Dieman's  Land  as  transports  except  one, 
and  he  was  sent  to  Sydney.  While  we  were 
in  London  it  was  a  merry  life,  with  change  of 
scene,  fbr  we  travelled  about  We  were  suc- 
cessful in  nearly  all  our  plans  for  several 
months.  I  worked  in  Fleet  Street  and  could 
make  3/.  a- week  at  handkerchiefs  alone,  some- 
times fiedling  across  a  pocket-book.  The  best 
handkerchiefs  then  brought  4j.  in  Field-lane, 
Our  chief  enjoyments  were  at  the  *  Free  and 
Easy,'  where  all  the  thieves  and  young  women 
went,  and  sang  and  danced.  I  had  a  young 
woman  for  a  partner  then ;  she  went  out  to 
Van  Dieman's  Land.  She  went  on  the  lift  in 
London  (shopping  and  stealing  from  the 
counter).  She  was  clever  at  it  I  carried  on 
in  this  way  for  about  15  months,  when  I  was 
grabbed  for  an  attempt  on  a  gentleman's 
pocket  by  St  Paul's  Cathedral,  on  a  grand 
charity  procession  day.  I  had  two  months 
in  the  Old  Horse  (Bridewell).  I  never  thought 
of  my  parents  at  this  time — ^I  wouldn't  I 
was  two  years  and  a  half  at  this  same  trade. 
One  week  was  very  like  another, — successes 
and  esci^s,  and  free-and-easies,  and  games 
of  all  sorts,  made  up  the  life.  At  the  end  of 
the  two  years  and  a  half  I  got  into  the  way  of 
forged  Bank-of-England  notes.  A  man  I 
knew  in  the  course  of  business,  said,  *  I  would 
cut  that  game  of  *  smatter-hauling,*  (stealing 
handkenmiefs),  and  do  a  little  soft,'  (pass  bad 
notes).  So  I  did,  and  was  very  successful  at 
first  I  had  a  mate.  He  afterwards  went  oat 
to  Sydney,  too,  for  14  years.  I  went  stylishly 
dressed  as  a  gentleman,  with  a  watch  in  my 
pockety  to  pass  my  notes.  I  passed  a  good 
many  m  drapers'  shops,  also  at  tailors'  shops. 
I  never  tried  jewellers,  they're  reckoned  too 
good  judges.  The  notes  were  all  finnies, 
(5/.  notes),  and  a  good  imitation.  I  made 
more  money  at  this  game,  but  lived  as  before, 
and  had  my  partner  still.  I  was  fond  of  her; 
she  was  a  nico  girl,  and  I  never  found  that 
she  wronged  me  in  any  way.  I  thought  at 
four  months'  end  of  retiring  into  Uie  country 
with  gambling-tables,  as  the  risk  was  be- 
coming considerable.  They  hung  them  for  it 
in  them  days,  but  that  never  daunted  me 
the  least  in  life.  I  saw  Cashman  hung  for 
that  gimsmith's  shop  on  Snow-hill,  and  I  saw 
Fauntleroy  hung,  and  a  good  many  others, 
but  it  gave  me  no  uneasiness  and  no  fear. 
The  gallowR  had  no  terror  for  people  in  my 
way  of  life.  I  started  into  the  oonntiy  with 
another  man  and  his  wife — ^his  lawlhl  wife-* 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


887 


for  I  had  a  few  words  with  my  own  young 
woman,  or  I  shouldn't  have  left  her  behind 
me,  or,  indeed,  have  started  at  all.  We  carried 
gambling  on  in  different  parts  of  the  country 
for  six  months.  We  made  most  at  the  E.  0. 
tables, — ^not  those  played  with  a  ball,  they 
weren't  in  vogue  then,  but  throwing  dice  for 
prizes  marked  on  a  table.  The  highest  prize 
was  ten  guineas,  but  the  dice  were  so  made 
that  no  prize  could  be  thrown ;  the  numbers 
were  not  regular  as  in  good  dice,  and  they 
were  loaded  as  well.  If  anybody  asked  to  see 
them,  we  had  good  dice  ready  to  show.  AU 
sorts  played  with  us.  London  men  and  all 
were  taken  in.  We  made  most  at  the  races. 
My  mate  and  his  wife  told  me  that  at  the  last 
Newmarket  meeting  we  attended,  65/.  was 
made,  but  they  rowed  in  the  same  boat.  I 
know  they  got  a  deal  more.  The  60/.  was 
shared  in  ikree  equal  portions,  but  I  had  to 
maintain  the  horse  and  cart  out  of  my  own 
share.  We  used  to  go  out  into  the  roads 
(highway  robbery)  between  races,  and  if  we 
met  an  *  old  bloke'  (man)  we  *  propped  him' 
(Imocked  him  down),  and  robbed  him.  We 
did  good  stakes  that  way,  and  were  never 
found  out.  We  lived  as  well  as  any  gentle- 
man in  the  land.  Our  E.  0.  table  was  in  a 
tilted  cart.  I  stayed  with  this  man  and  his 
wife  two  months.  She  was  good-looking,  so 
as  to  attract  people.  I  thought  they  didn't 
use  me  altogether  right,  so  at  Braintree  I 
gave  another  man  in  the  same  way  of  business 
28/.  for  his  kit — horse,  harness,  tilted-cart, 
and  table.  I  gave  him  two  good  5/.  notes 
and  three  bad  ones,  for  I  worked  that  way 
Btin,  not  throwing  much  of  a  chance  away. 
I  came  to  London  for  a  hawker's  stock,  braces 
and  such -like,  to  sell  on  the  road,  just  to  take 
the  down  oflf  (remove  suspicion).  In  the 
meantime,  the  man  that  I  bought  the  horse, 
&t,y  of,  had  been  nailed  passing  a  bad  note, 
and  he  stated  who  he  got  it  from,  and  I  was 
traced.  He  was  in  a  terrible  rage  to  find 
himself  done,  particularly  as  he  used  to  do 
the  same  to  other  people  himself.  He  got 
acquitted  for  that  there  note  after  he  had  me 
*  pinched '(arrested).  I  got' fullied'(fyilly  com- 
mitted). Iwas  tried  at  the  *  Start'  ( OldBailey), 
and  pleaded  guilty  to  the  minor  offence,  (that 
of  utterance,  not  knowing  the  note  to  be 
forged),  or  I  should  have  been  hanged  for  it 
then.  It  was  a  favourable  sessions  when  I 
was  tried.  Thirty-six  were  cast  for  death, 
and  only  one  was  *  topped'  (hanged),  the  very 
one  that  expected  to  be  ^turned  up '  (acquitted) 
for  highway  robbery.  I  was  sentenced  to 
14  years'  transportation.  I  was  ten  weeks  in 
the  Bellerophon  hulk  at  Sheemess,  and  was 
then  taken  to  Hobart  Town,  Van  Dieman's 
Land,  in  the  Sir  Godfrey  Webster.  At  Ho- 
bart Town  sixty  of  us  were  picked  out  to  go 
to  Launceston.  There  (at  Launceston)  we 
lay  for  four  days  in  an  old  church,  guarded  by 
constables ;  and  then  the  settlers  came  there 
frtmi  all  parts,  and  picked  their  men  out.    I 


got  a  vexy  bad  master.  He  put  me  to  harvest 
work  that  I  had  never  even  seen  done  before, 
and  I  had  the  care  of  pigs  as  wild  as  wild 
boars.  After  that  I  was  sent  to  Launceston 
with  two  letters  from  my  master  to  the  super- 
intendent, and  the  other  servants  thought  I 
had  luck  to  get  away  from  Red  Barks  to 
Launceston,  which  was  16  miles  off.  I  then 
workedinaGovemmentpotato-field;  in  the  Go- 
vernment charcoal-works  for  about  1 1  months ; 
and  then  was  in  the  Marine  department,  going 
by  water  from  Launceston  to  George  Town, 
taking  Government  officers  down  in  gigs,  pro- 
visions in  boats,  and  such-like.  There  was  a 
crew  of  six  (convicts)  in  the  gigs,  and  four  in 
the  watering-boats.  All  the  time  I  consider  I 
was  very  hardly  treated.  I  hadn't  clothes  half 
the  time,  being  allowed  only  two  slop-suits  in 
a  year,  and  no  bed  to  lie  on  when  we  had  to 
stay  out  all  night  with  the  boats  by  the  river 
Tamor.  With  12  years'  service  at  this  my 
time  was  up,  but  I  had  incurred  sevend 
punishments  before  it  was  up.  The  first  was 
25  lashes,  because  a  bag  of  flour  had  been 
burst,  and  I  picked  up  a  capfull.  The  flogging 
is  dreadfully  severe,  a  soldier's  is  nothing  to 
it.  I  once  had  50  lashes,  for  taking  a  hat 
in  a  joke  when  I  was  tipsy;  and  a  soldier 
had  300  the  same  morning.  I  was  flogged  as 
a  convict,  and  he  as  a  soldier ;  and  when  wo 
were  both  at  the  same  hospital  after  the 
flogging,  and  saw  each  oiler's  backs,  the  other 
convicts  said  to  me,  *  D —  it,  you've  got  it  this 
time  ,*'  and  the  soldier  said,  when  he  saw  my 
back,  'You've  got  it  twice  as  bad  I  have.' 
*No,'  said  the  doctor,  *ten  times  as  bad — 
he's  been  flogged;  but  you,  in  comparison, 
have  only  had  a  child's  whipping.'  The  cats 
the  convicts  were  then  flogged  with  were 
each  six  feet  long,  made  out  of  the  log- 
Hue  of  a  ship  of  500  tons  burden ;  nine 
over- end  knots  were  in  each  tail,  and  nine 
tails  whipped  at  each  end  with  wax-end.  With 
this  we  had  half-minute  lashes ;  a  quick  lash- 
ing would  have  been  certain  death.  One 
convict  who  had  75  lashes  was  taken  from  the 
triangles  to  the  watch-house  in  Launceston, 
and  was  asked  if  he  would  have  some  tea, — he 
was  found  to  be  dead.  The  military  surgeon 
kept  on  sa}ing  in  this  case,  *  Go  on,  do  your 
duty.'  I  was  mustered  there,  as  was  every 
hand  belonging  to  the  Government,  and  saw 
it,  and  heaurd  the  doctor.  When  I  was  first 
flogged,  there  was  inquiry  among  my  fellow-con. 
ricts,  as  to  *  How  did  D-—  (meaning  me)  stand 
it — did  he  sing  ? '  The  answer  was,  *  He  was 
a  pebble;*  that  is,  I  never  once  said,  *  Oh  !'  or 
gave  out  any  expression  of  the  pain  I  suffered. 
I  took  my  flogging  like  a  stone.  If  I  had 
sung,  some  of  the  convicts  would  have  given 
me  some  lush  with  a  locust  in  it  (laudanum 
hocussing),  and  when  I  was  asleep  would  have 
given  me  a  crack  on  the  head  that  would  have 
laid  me  straight.  That  first  flogging  made  me 
ripe.  I  said  to  myself,  *  I  can  take  it  like  a 
bullock.'    I  could  have  taken  the  flogger's  life 


3S(» 


LOXDOy  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDOS  POOR. 


at  tht  time,  I  felt  sach  revenge.  Hogging 
vXwMjn  gme  that  lieeling;  I  know  it  does, 
from  what  I've  heard  othern  mj  who  had  heen 
flogged  like  mjselfl  In  all  I  had  875  lashes 
at  my  different  ponishmentfl.  I  nsed  to  hoast 
of  it  at  last  I  would  saj, '  I  don't  care,  I  can 
take  it  till  they  see  my  backbone.'  After  a 
flogging,  I'te  rubbed  my  back  against  a  wall, 
just  to  show  my  bravery  like,  and  squeezed 
the  congealed  blood  out  of  it  Once  I  would 
not  let  them  dress  my  back  after  a  flogging, 
and  I  had  29  additional  for  that  At  last  I 
bolted  to  Hobart  Town,  120  miles  off.    There 

I  was  taken  before  Mr.  H ,  the  magistrate, 

himself  a  convict  formerly,  I  )»elieve  from  the 
I  Irish  Bebellion ;  but  he  was  a  good  man  to  a 
prisoner.  He  ordered  me  00,  and  sent  me 
back  to  Launreston.  At  I^nnceston  I  was 
*  follied'  by  a  bench  of  magistrates,  and  had 
100.  Seven  years  before  my  time  was  up  I 
took  to  the  bush.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
of  course  not  In  the  bush  I  met  men  with 
whom,  if  I  had  been  seen  associating,  I  should 
have  been  hanged  on  any  slight  charge,  such 
as  Brittan  was  and  his  pals.** 

I  am  not  at  liberty  to  continue  this  raan*s 
statement  at  present :  it  would  be  a  breach  of 
the  trust  reposed  in  me.  Suffice  it,  he  was 
in  after  days  tried  fur  his  life.  Altogether  it 
was  a  most  extraordinary  statement;  and, 
from  confirmations  I  received,  was  altogether 
truthful.  He  declared  that  he  was  so  sick  of 
the  life  he  was  now  leading,  that  he  would,  as 
a  probation,  work  on  any  kind  of  land  any- 
where for  nothing,  just  to  get  out  of  it  He 
pronounced  the  hnlging-houses  the  grand 
encouragements  and  concealments  of  crime, 
though  he  might  be  speaking  against  himself, 
he  said,  as  he  had  always  hidden  safely  there 
during  the  hottest  search.  A  policeman  once 
walked  through  the  ward  in  search  of  him, 
and  he  was  in  bed.  He  knew  the  policeman 
well,  and  was  as  well  known  to  the  officer, 
but  he  was  not  recognise<1.  He  attributed  his 
escape  to  the  thick,  bad  atmosphere  of  tlie 
place  giring  his  features  a  different  look,  and 
to  his  having  shaved  off  his  whiskers,  and 
pulled  his  nightcap  over  his  head.  The 
officer,  too,  seemed  half-sick,  he  said. 

It  ought  also  to  be  added,  that  this  man 
stated  that  the  severity  of  the  Government  in 
this  penal  colony  was  so  extreme,  that  men 
thought  httle  of  giving  others  a  knock  on  the 
head  with  an  axe,  to  get  hanged  out  of  the 
way.  Under  the  discipline  of  Captain  Mac- 
conochie,  however,  who  introduced  better 
order  with  a  kindlier  system,  there  wasn't  a 
man  but  what  svould  have  laid  down  his  life 
for  him. 

Lives  of  the  Bot  Iksates  of  the  Casual 
Wabds  of  the  Lordon  Workhouses. 

An  intelligent-looking  boy,  of  sixteen  yean  of 
age,  whose  dress  was  a  series  of  ragged  coats, 
three  in  number-*  as  if  one  was  to  obviate  the 


deficiency  of  another,  since  one  would  not 
button,  and  another  was  almost  sleeveless — 
gave  me  the  following  statement  He  had 
long  and  rather  fidr  hair,  and  spoke  quietly. 
Hesmid.*^ 

"  I'm  a  native  of  Wisbench.  in  Cambridge- 
shire, and  am  sixteen.  My  father  was  a  shoe- 
maker,  and  my  mother  died  when  I  was  five 
yean  old,  and  my  father  married  again.  I  was 
sent  to  school,  and  can  read  and  write  well 
My  fiither  and  step-mother  were  kind  enough 
to  me.  I  was  apprenticed  to  a  tailor  three 
yean  ago,  but  I  wasn't  long  with  him;  I 
ninncd  awa^.  I  think  it  was  three  months  I 
was  with  hmi  when  I  fin^t  nmned  aw^y.  It 
was  in  August — I  got  as  far  as  Boston  in 
Lincolnshire,  and  was  away  a  fortnight  I 
hod  4i.  fM,  of  my  own  money  when  I  started, 
/uid  that  lasted  two  or  three  da^-s.  I  stopped 
in  lodging-houses  until  my  money  was  gooe^ 
and  then  I  slept  anywhere — under  the  hedges, 
or  anywhere.  I  didn't  bee  so  much  of  life  then, 
but  I've  seen  plenty  of  it  since.  I  had  to  beg 
my  way  back  from  Boston,  but  was  vefy 
awkwanl  at  first.  I  lived  on  turnips  mainly. 
My  reason  for  running  off  was  because  my 
master  ill-used  me  so ;  he  beat  me,  and  kept 
me  finom  my  meals,  and  mode  roe  sit  up  won- 
iog  late  at  nights  for  a  pimishment :  but  it 
was  more  to  his  good  than  to  punish  me.  I 
hated  to  be  confined  to  a  tailor's  shopboard, 
but  I  would  rather  do  that  sort  of  work  now 
then  hunger  about  like  this.  But  you  see,  sir,. 
God  punishes  yon  when  you  dont  think  of  it 
When  I  went  back  my  father  was  glad  to  see 
me,  and  he  wouldn't  have  me  go  back  again 
to  my  master,  and  my  indentures  were  eanceUed. 
I  stayed  at  home  seven  months,  doing  odd 
jobs,  in  driving  sheep,  or  any  countiy  work, 
but  I  always  wanted  to  be  off  to  sea.  I  hked 
the  thoughts  of  gcing  to  sea  fkr  better  than 
tailoring.  I  determined  to  go  to  sea  if  I  could. 
When  a  dog's  determined  to  have  a  bone,  it's 
not  easy  to  hinder  him.  I  didnt  read  storiei 
about  the  sea  then,  not  even  *  Itobinson 
Crusoe,'-* indeed  I  haven't  read  that  still,  but 
I  know  vexj  well  there  is  such  a  book.  My 
father  had  no  books  but  religions  books; 
they  were  all  of  a  religions  turn,  and  what 
people  might  think  dull,  but  they  never  made 
me  duU  I  read  W^osley's  and  WattsTs  hymns, 
and  religions  magazines  of  different  con- 
nexions. I  had  a  natural  inclination  for  ths 
sea,  and  would  like  to  get  to  it  now.  rv« 
read  a  good  deal  about  it  since — Clazk'i 
« lives  of  Pirates,'  'Tales  of  Shipwrecks,'  and 
other  things  in  penny  numbera  (Clark's  I  got 
out  of  a  libraiy  though).  I  was  what  people 
called  a  deep  boy  for  a  book ;  and  am  s^ 
Whenever  I  had  a  penny,  after  I  got  a  bellyftd 
of  victuals,  it  went  for  a  book,  but  I  havent 
bought  many  lately.  I  did  buy  one  yestord^y 
— the  'Family  Hendd' — one  I  often  i«ad  when 
I  can  get  it  There's  good  reading  in  it;  it 
elevates  your  mind— ai^1>ody  that  has  a  mind 
for  studying.    It  has  good  tides  in  it    I  never 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


330 


read  *■  Jack  Sheppard,' — that  is,  I  haven't  read 
the  hig  book  that's  written  about  him ;  but 
I*Te  often  heard  the  boys  and  men  talk  about 
it  at  the  lodging-hoosee  and  other  places. 
TTken  they  haven't  their  bellies  and  money  to 
think  about  they  sometimes  talk  about  books ; 
bat  for  such  books  as  them  —  that's  as '  Jack ' 
—  I  haven't  a  partiality.  I've  read  *  Windsor 
Castle/  and  *The  Tower/ — they're  by  the 
same  man.  I  liked  *  Windsor  Castle/  and  all 
about  Henry  VIIL  and  Heme  the  hunter. 
It*8  a  book  that's  connected  with  history,  and 
that's  a  good  thing  in  it.  I  like  adventurous 
tales.  I  know  very  little  about  theatres,  as  I 
waa  never  in  one. 

**  Well,  after  that  seven  months — I  was 
kindly  treated  all  the  time — I  runned  away 
again  to  get  to  sea ;  and  hearing  so  much  talk 
about  this  big  London,  I  comed  to  it.  I 
couldn't  settle  down  to  anything  but  the  sea. 
I  oft^i  watched  the  ships  at  Wisbeach.  I 
had  no  particular  motive,  but  a  sort  of  pleasure 
in  it.  I  was  aboard  some  ships,  too;  just 
looking  about,  as  lads  wilL  I  started  without 
a  furthing,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  -I  felt  I 
must  come.  I  forgot  all  I  suffered  before — 
'  at  least,  the  impression  had  died  off  my  mind. 
I  came  up  by  the  unions  when  they  would 
take  me  in.  When  I  started,  I  didn't  know 
where  to  ^eep  any  more  than  the  dead;  I 
learned  it  from  other  travellers  on  the  road. 
It  was  two  winters  ago,  and  very  cold  weather. 
Sometimes  I  slept  in  bams,  and  I  begged  my 
w^  as  well  as  I  could.  I  never  stole  anything 
then  or  since,  except  turnips;  but  I've  been 
often  tempted.  At  last  I  got  to  London,  and 
was  by  myself.  I  travelled  sometimes  with 
others  as  I  come  up,  but  not  as  mates — not 
as  friends.  I  camo  to  London  for  one  purpose 
just  by  myself.  I  was  a  week  in  London  be- 
fore I  knew  where  I  was,  I  didn't  know  where 
to  go.  I  slept  on  door-stcpe,  or  anywhere.  I 
used  often  to  stand  on  London.bridge,  but  I 
didn't  know  where  to  go  to  get  to  sea,  or  any. 
thing  of  that  kind.  I  was  sadly  hungered,  regu. 
larly  starved ;  and  I  saw  so  many  policemen,  I 
durstn't  beg — and  I  dare  not  now,  in  London. 
I  got  crusts,  but  I  can  hardly  tell  how  I  lived. 
One  night  I  was  sleeping  under  a  railway-arch, 
somewhere  about  Bishopsgate-street,  and  a 
policeman  came  and  asked  me  what  I  was  up 
to  ?  I  told  him  I  had  no  place  to  go  to,  so  he 
saild  I  must  go  along  with  him.  In  the 
morning  he  took  me  and  four  or  five  others  to 
a  house  in  a  big  street.  I  don't  know  where ; 
and  a  man — a  magistrate,  I  suppose  he  was 
— heard  what  the  policeman  htui  to  say,  and 
he  said  there  was  always  a  lot  of  lads  there 
about  the  arches,  young  thieves,  that  gave  him 
a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  I  was  one  associated 
with  them:.  I  declare  I  didn't  know  any  of  the 
other  boys,  nor  any  boys  in  London — not  a 
soul;  and  I  was  under  the  ardi  by  myself;  and 
only  that  night.  I  never  saw  the  polioeman 
himself  before  that,  aa  I  know  of.  Igotfbor- 
te«[i  d^8  of  it,  and  they  took  ma  in  an  omnibus, 


but  I  don't  know  to  what  jnison.  I  was  com. 
mitted  for  being  a  rogue  and  somethiug  else. 
I  didn't  very  well  hear  what  other  thmgs  I 
was,  but '  rogue '  I  know  was  one.  They  were 
very  strict  in  prison,  and  I  wasn't  allowed  to 
speak.  I  was  put  to  oakum  some  days,  and 
others  on  a  wheeL  That's  the  only  time  I 
was  ever  in  prison,  and  I  h<^  it  will  always 
be  the  only  time.  Something  may  turn  up  — 
there's  nobody  knows.  When  I  was  turned  out 
I  hadn't  a  farthing  given  to  me.  And  so  I  was 
again  in  the  streets,  without  knowing  a  creature, 
and  without  a  farthing  in  my  pocket,  and 
nothing  to  get  one  with  but  my  tongue.  I  set 
off  that  day  for  the  country.  I  didn't  try  to 
get  a  ship,  because  I  didn't  know  where  to  go 
to  aak,  and  I  had  got  ragged,  and  they  wouldn't 
hear  me  out  if  I  asked  any  people  about  \X\e 
bridges.  I  took  the  first  road  that  offered, 
and  got  to  Greenwich.  I  eouldn't  still  think 
of  going  back  home.  I  would  if  I  had  had 
clothes,  but  they  were  rags,  and  I  had  no 
shoes  but  a  pair  of  old  slippers.  I  was  some- 
times sorry  I  left  home,  but  then  I  began  to 
get  used  to  travelling,  and  to  b^  a  bit  in  the 
villages.  I  had  no  regular  mate  to  travel  witli, 
aud  no  sweetheart.  I  slept  in  the  unions 
whenever  I  could  get  in — that's  in  tiie  country. 
I  didn't  never  sleep  in  the  London  workhouses 
till  afterwards.  In  some  country  places  there 
were  as  many  as  forty  in  the  casual  wards,  men, 
women,  and  children;  in  some,  only  two  or 
three.  There  used  to  be  part  boys,  like  my- 
self,  but  far  more  bigger  than  I  was ;  they  were 
generally  frcMU  eighteen  to  twenty-three : 
London  chaps,  chiefly,  I  believe.  They  were  a 
regularly  jolly  set.  They  used  to  sing  and 
dance  a  part  of  the  nights  and  mornings  in  the 
wards,  and  I  got  to  sing  and  dance  with  them. 
We  were  all  in  a  mess ;  there  was  no  better  or 
no  worse  among  us.  We  used  to  sing  comio 
and  sentimental  songs,  both.  I  used  to  sing 
*■  Tom  Elliott,'  that's  a  sea  song,  for  I  han- 
kered about  the  sea,  and  '  I'm  Atioat.'  I 
hardly  know  any  but  sea-songs.  Many  used 
to  sing  indecent  songs;  they're  impudent 
blackguards.  They  used  to  sell  these  songs 
among  the  others,  but  I  never  sold  any  oi 
them,  and  I  never  had  any,  though  I  luiow 
some,  from  hearing  them  often.  We  told 
stories  sometimes ;  romantic  tales,  some ;  others 
blackguard  kind  of  tales,  about  bad  women ; 
and  others  about  thieving  and  roguery ;  not  so 
much  about  what  they'd  done  Uiemselves,  as 
about  some  big  thief  that  was  very  clever  at 
stealing,  and  c^d  trick  anybody.  Not  stories 
such  as  Dick  Turpin  or  Jack  Sheppard,  or 
things  that's  in  history,  but  inventions.  I 
used  to  say  when  I  was  telling  a  story — for 
I've  told  one  story  that  I  invented  till  I  learnt 
it,— 

[I  give  thia  story  to  show  what  are  the  objects 
of  admiration  with  these  Tagranta.] 

**  *  You  see,  mates,  there  waa  once  upon  a 
time,  and  a  very  good  time  it  was,  a  young 
man,  and  he  nuined  awi^,  aad  got  along  with 


300 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


a  gang  of  thieves,  and  he  went  to  a  gentleman's 
house,  and  got  in,  hecanse  one  of  his  mates 
sweotheartod  the  sen-ant,  and  got  her  awaj, 
and  she  left  the  door  open.'  [•*  But  don't,"  he 
expostulated,  *'  take  it  all  down  that  way ;  it's 
foolishness.  I'm  ashame<l  of  it — it's  just 
what  we  say  to  amuse  ourselves.**]  *  And  the 
door  being  left  open,  the  young  man  got  in  and 
robbod  the  house  of  a  lot  of  money,  1000/., 
and  he  took  it  to  their  gang  at  the  cave.  Next 
day  there  was  a  reward  out  to  find  the  robber. 
Nobody  found  him.  So  the  gentleman  put 
out  two  men  and  a  horse  in  a  field,  and  the 
men  were  hidden  in  the  field,  and  the  gentle- 
man put  out  a  notice  that  anybody  that  could 
catch  the  horse  should  have  him  for  his 
clevcmoR<?,  and  a  reward  as  well ;  for  he  thought 
the  man  that  got  the  1000/.  was  sure  to  try  to 
catch  that  there  horse,  because  he  was  so  bold 
and  clever,  and  then  the  two  men  hid  would 
nab  him.  This  here  Jack  (that's  the  young 
man)  was  watching,  and  ho  saw  the  two  men, 
and  he  went  and  cAught  two  live  hares:  Then 
he  hid  himself  behind  a  hedge,  and  let  one 
hare  go,  and  one  man  said  to  the  other,  *  There 
goes  a  hare,'  and  they  both  run  after  it,  not 
thinking  Jack's  there.  And  while  they  were 
running  he  let  go  the  t'other  one,  and  they 
said,  *  There's  another  hare,*  and  they  ran 
different  ways,  and  so  Jack  went  and  got  the 
horse,  and  took  it  to  the  man  that  offered  the 
reword,  and  got  the  reward ;  it  was  100/. ;  and 

the  gentleman  said  *  D n  it,  Jack's  done  me 

this  time.'  The  gentleman  then  wanted  to 
sen-e  out  the  parson,  and  he  said  to  Jack,  *  I'll 
give  you  another  100/.  if  you'll  do  something 
to  the  parson  as  bad  as  you've  done  to  me.' 
Jack  said,  *  Well,  I  will ; '  and  Jack  went  to  the 
church  and  lighted  up  the  lamps,  and  rang  the 
bolls,  and  the  parson  he  got  up  to  see  what 
was  up.  Jack  was  standing  in  one  of  the  pews 
like  an  angel,  when  the  parson  got  to  the 
church.  Jack  said,  *  Go  and  put  your  plate  in 
a  bag ;  I'm  an  angel  come  to  take  you  up  to 
heaven.'  And  the  parson  did  so,  and  it  was 
as  much  as  he  could  drag  to  church  fix)m  his 
house  in  a  bag ;  for  he  was  very  rich.  And 
when  he  got  to  the  church  Jack  put  the  parson 
in  one  bag,  and  the  money  stayed  in  the 
other;  and  he  tied  them  both  together,  and 
put  them  across  his  horse,  and  took  them  up 
hills  and  through  water  to  the  gentleman's, 
and  then  he  took  the  parson  out  of  the  bog, 
and  the  parson  was  wringing  wot.  Jack 
fetched  the  gentleman,  and  the  gentleman 
gave  the  parson  a  horsewhipping,  and  the 
parson  cut  away,  and  Jack  got  nil  the  parson's 
monoy  and  the  second  100/.,  and  gave  it  all  to 
the  poor.  And  the  parson  brought  an  action 
against  the  gentleman  for  horsewhipping  him, 
and  they  both  were  ruined.  That's  the  end 
of  it'  That's  the  sort  of  story  that's  liked 
best,  sir.  Sometimes  there  was  fighting  in  the 
,  casual-wards.  Sometimes  I  was  in  it,  I  was 
like  the  rest  We  jawed  each  other  often, 
calling  names,  and  coming  to  fight  at  lost    At 


Romsey  a  lot  of  voung  fellows  broke  all  the 
windows  they  could  get  at,  because  they  were 
too  late  to  be  admitted.  They  broke  them 
firom  the  outside.  We  couldn't  get  at  them 
from  inside.  I've  carried  on  begging,  and 
going  finom  union  to  union  to  sleep,  until  now. 
Once  I  got  work  in  Northampton  with  a  drover. 
I  kept  working  when  he'd  a  job,  ftom  August 
last  to  the  week  before  Christmas.  I  always 
tried  to  get  a  ship  in  a  seaport,  but  couldn't. 
I've  been  to  Portsmouth.  Plymouth,  Bristol, 
Southampton,  Ipswich,  Liverpool,  Brighton, 
Dover,  Shoreham,  Hastings,  and  aU  through 
Lincolnshire,  Nottinghamshire,  Cambridge- 
shire, and  Suffolk — not  in  Norfolk — ^they  won*t 
let  you  go  there.  I  dont  know  why.  All  this 
time  I  used  to  meet  boys  like  myself,  but 
mostly  bigger  and  older ;  plenty  of  them  could 
read  and  write,  some  were  gentlemen's  sons, 
they  said.  Some  had  their  young  women 
with  Uiem  that  they'd  taken  up  with,  but  I 
never  was  much  with  them.  I  often  wished 
I  was  at  home  again,  and  do  now,  but  I  can't 
think  of  going  back  in  these  rags ;  and  I  dcm't 
know  if  my  father's  dead  or  alive  (his  voice 
trembled),  but  I'd  like  to  be  there  and  have  it 
over.  I  can't  face  meeting  them  in  these  rags, 
and  I've  seldom  had  better,  I  make  so  little 
monoy.  I'm  unhappy  at  times,  but  I  get  over 
it  better  than  I  used,  as  I  get  accustomed  to 
this  life.  I  never  hc»rd  anything  about  home 
since  I  left.  I  have  applied  at  the  Marine 
Society  here,  but  it's  no  use.  If  I  could  only 
get  to  sea,  I'd  be  happy ;  and  I'd  be  happy  if  I 
could  get  home,  and  would,  but  for  the  reasons 
I've  told  you." 

The  next  was  a  boy  with  a  quiet  look,  rather 
better  dressed  than  most  of'  the  vagrant  boys, 
and  for  more  clean  in  his  dress.  He  made 
the  following  statement : — 

*'  I  am  now  seventeen.  My  father  was  a 
cotton -spinner  in  Manchester,  but  has  been 
dead  ten  years ;  and  soon  after  that  my  mo- 
ther went  into  the  workhouse,  leaving  me  with 
an  aunt ;  and  I  hod  work  in  a  cotton  factoiy. 
As  young  as  I  was,  I  earned  2a.  2d.  a-week  at 
first.  I  can  read  well,  and  can  write  a  little. 
I  worked  at  the  factoiy  two  years,  and  was  then 
earning  7f .  a-week.  I  then  ran  away,  for  I  had 
always  a  roving  mind;  but  I  should  have 
stayed  if  my  master  hadn't  knocked  me  about 
so.  I  thought  I  should  make  my  fortune  in 
London — I'd  heard  it  was  such  a  grand  place. 
I  had  read  in  novels  and  romances, — half^f^eniiy 
and  penny  books, — about  such  things,  bat 
I've  met  with  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  started 
without  money,  and  begged  my  way  from 
Manchester  to  London,  sajring  I  was  going  up 
to  look  for  work.  I  wanted  to  see  Uie  place 
more  than  anything  else.  I  suffered  verj 
much  on  the  road,  having  to  he  out  all  night 
often ;  and  the  nights  were  cold,  though  it  was 
summer.  When  I  got  to  London  all  my  hopes 
were  blighted.  I  could  get  no  fVtrther.  I  ne- 
ver  tried  for  work  in  London,  for  I  believe  there 
are  no  cotton  factories  in  it ;  besides,  I  wanted 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


801 


to  see  life.  I  begged,  and  slept  in  the  unions. 
L  got  acquainted  with  plenty  of  boys  like 
myself.  We  met  at  the  casual  wards,  both  in 
London  and  the  country.  I  have  now  been 
five  years  at  this  life.  We  were  merry  enough 
in  the  wards,  we  boys,  singing  and  telling 
stories.  Songs  such  as  'Paul  Jones'  was 
liked,  while  some  sung  very  blackguard  songs ; 
but  X  never  got  hold  of  such  songs,  though  I 
have  sold  lots  of  songs  in  Essex.  Some  told 
long  stories,  very  interesting ;  some  were  not 
fit  to  be  heard;  but  they  made  one  laugh 
sometimes.  I've  read  *  Jack  Sheppaixl ' 
through,  in  three  volumes ;  and  I  used  to  tell 
stories  out  of  that  sometimes.  We  all  told  in 
our  turns.  We  generally  began, — •  Once  upon 
A  time,  and  a  very  good  Ume  it  was,  though  it 
was  neither  in  your  time,  nor  my  time,  nor 
nobody  else's  time.*  The  best  man  in  the 
stoiy  is  always  called  Jack." 

At  my  request,  this  youth  told  me  a  long 
stoiy,  and  told  it  very  readily,  as  if  by  rote. 
I  give  it  for  its  peculiarity,  as  it  is  extra- 
ragant  enough,  without  humour. 

**  A  farmer  hired  Jack,  and  instructed  him 
over-night.  Jack  was  to  do  what  he  was 
required,  or  lose  his  head.  *  Now,  Jack,' 
said  the  farmer,  [I  give  the  conclusion  in 
the  boy's  words,]  *  what's  my  name  ? '  'Mas- 
ter, to  be  sure,'  says  Jack.  *  No,*  said  he,  *  you 
must  call  me  Tom  Per  Cent.'  He  showed  his 
bed  next,  and  asked,  'What's  this.  Jack?' 
•  Why,  the  bed,'  said  Jack.  '  No,  you  must 
call  that,  He's  of  Degree.'  And  so  he  bid 
Jaek  call  his  leather  breeches  'forty  cracks;' 
the  cat,  *  white-faced  Simeon ; '  the  fire, '  hot 
coleman;'  the  pump,  the 'resurrection;'  and 
the  haystack,  the  '  little  cock-a-mountain.' 
Jaek  was  to  remember  these  names  or  lose  his 
head.  At  night  the  cat  got  under  the  grate, 
and  burned  herself,  and  a  hot  cinder  struck 
her  f^,  and  she  ran  under  the  haystack  and 
set  it  on  fire.  Jack  ran  up-stairs  to  his  master, 
and  said :— > 

*  Tom  Per  Cent,  arise  out  of  he's  of  degree. 
Put  on  your  fortv  cracks,  come  dowu  and  see ; 
Vor  the  little  whiie-iacod  Simoon 
HMrun  away  with  hot  oolemau 
Under  the  little  cock-a-mountain. 
And  without  the  aid  of  the  resurrection 
We  shall  be  damned  and  burnt  to  death.' 

So  Jack  remembered  his  lesson,  and  saved  his 
head.  That's  the  end.  Blackguard  stories 
were  often  told  about,  women.  There  was 
plenty  told,  too,  about  Dick  Turpin,  Sixteen- 
string  Jack,  Oxford  Blue,  and  such  as  tliem ; 
as  weU  as  about  Jack  Sheppard ;  about  Bam- 
fylde  Moore  Carew,  too,  and  his  disguises. 
We  very  often  had  fighting  and  quarrelling 
among  ourselves.  Once,  at  Birmingham,  we 
smashed  all  the  windows,  and  did  all  the 
damage  we  could.  I  can't  teU  exactly  why  it 
was  done,  but  we  must  aU  take  part  m  it,  or 
we  should  be  marked.  I  believe  some  did 
it  to  get  into  prison,  they  were  so  badly  offl 
They  piled  up  the  rugs ;  there  was  no  straw ; 


and  some  put  their  clothes  on  the  rugs,  and 
then  the  heap  was  set  fire  to.  There  was  no 
fire,  and  no  Ught,  but  somebody  had  a  box  of 
lucifers.  We  were  all  nearly  suffocated  before 
the  people  of  the  place  could  get  to  us.  Seven- 
teen of  us  had  a  month  a-piece  for  it :  I  was 
one.  The  rugs  were  dirty  and  filthy,  and  not 
fit  for  any  Christian  to  sleep  under,  and  so  I 
took  part  in  the  burning,  as  I  thought  it  would 
cause  something  better.  I've  known  wild 
Irishmen  get  into  the  wards  with  knives  and 
sticks  hidden  about  their  persons,  to  be  I'eady 
for  a  fight.  I  met  two  young  men  in  Essex 
who  had  been  well  off — very  well,— but  they 
liked  a  tramper's  life.  Each  had  his  young 
woman  with  him,  living  as  man  and  wife. 
They  often  change  their  young  women ;  but  I 
never  did  travel  with  one,  or  keep  company 
with  any  more  than  twelve  hours  or  so.  There 
used  to  be  great  numbers  of  girls  in  the 
casual  wards  in  London.  Any  young  man 
travelling  the  country  could  get  a  mate  among 
them,  and  can  get  mates — partners  they're 
often  called, — still.  Some  of  them  are  very 
pretty  indeed ;  but  among  them  are  some  hor- 
rid  ugly — the  most  are  ugly;  bad  expressions 
and  coarse  faces,  and  lame,  and  disgusting  to 
the  eye.  It  was  disgusting,  too,  to  hear  tliem 
in  their  own  company ;  that  is,  among  such  as 
themselves; — beggars,  you  know.  Almost 
every  word  was  an  oath,  and  every  blackguard 
word  was  said  plain  out.  I  think  the  pretty 
ones  were  worst.  Very  few  have  children. 
I  knew  two  who  had.  One  was  seventeen,  and 
her  child  was  nine  months  old ;  the  other  was 
twenty-one,  and  her  child  was  eighteen  months. 
They  were  very  good  to  their  children.  I've 
heard  of  some  having  children,  and  saying 
they  couldn't  guess  at  the  fathers  of  tliem, 
but  I  never  met  with  any  such  myself.  I 
didn't  often  hear  them  quarrel, — I  mean  the 
young  men  and  yoimg  women  that  wont  out 
as  partners, — in  the  lodging-houses.  Some 
boys  of  fifteen  have  their  young  women  as 
^  partners,  but  with  yoimg  boys  older  women 

I'  are  generally  partners — women  about  twenty. 
They  always  pass  as  man  and  wife.  All  beg- 
I  gar-girls  are  bad,  I  believe.  I  never  heard 
j  but  of  one  that  was  considered  virtuous,  and 
I  she  was  always  reading  a  prayer-book  and  a 
[  testament  in  her  lodging-house.  The  last 
time  I  saw  her  was  at  Cambridge.  She  is 
about  tliirty,  and  has  traces  of  beauty  left 
The  boys  used  to  laugh  at  her,  and  say, '  Oh ! 
how  virtuous  and  righteous  we  are !  but  you 
get  your  living  by  it.'  I  never  knew  her  to 
get  anything  by  it.  I  don't  see  how  she  could, 
for  she  said  nothing  about  her  being  righteous 
when  she  was  begging  about,  I  beheve.  If  i* 
wasn't  for  the  casual  wards,  I  couldn't  get 
about.  If  two  partners  goes  to  the  same 
union,  they  have  to  be  parted  at  night,  and 
join  again  the  morning.  Some  of  the  young 
women  are  very  dirty,  but  some's  as  clean.  A 
few,  I  think,  can  read  and  write.  Some  boasts 
of  their  wickedness,  and  others  tell  them  in 


302 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


derision  it's  wrong  to  do  that,  and  then  a 
qunrrel  rages  in  the  lodging-honse.  I  liked  a 
roTing  life,  at  first,  being  my  own  master.  I 
was  fond  of  going  to  plays,  and  snch-like, 
when  I  got  money ;  but  now  I'm  getting  tired 
of  it,  and  wish  for  something  else.  I  hare 
tried  for  work  at  cotton  fisctories  in  Lancashire 
and  Yorkshire,  bat  never  could  get  any.  I've 
been  all  over  the  country.  I'm  sore  I  coold 
settle  now.  I  couldnt  have  done  that  two  years 
ago,  the  roving  spirit  was  so  strong  upon  me, 
and  the  company  I  kept  got  a  strong  hold  on 
me.  Two  winters  back,  there  was  a  regular 
gang  of  us  boys  in  London.  After  sleeping 
at  a  union,  we  would  fix  where  to  meet  at 
night  to  get  into  anotlier  union  to  sleep. 
There  were  thirty  of  us  that  way,  all  boys ; 
besides  forty  young  men,  and  thirty  young 
women.  Sometimes  we  walked  the  streets  all 
night.  We  didn't  rob,  at  least  I  never  saw  any 
robbing.  We  had  pleasure  in  chaffing  the 
policemen,  and  some  of  us  got  taken  up.  I 
always  escaped.  We  got  broken  up  in  time, 
— some's  dead,  some's  gone  to  sea,  some  into 
the  country,  some  home,  and  some  lagged. 
Among  them  were  many  lads  very  eiq>ert  in 
reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic.  One  young 
man — he  was  only  twenty-five, — could  speak 
several  languages :  he  had  been  to  sea.  He 
was  thon  begging,  though  a  strong  young 
man.  I  suppose  he  liked  that  life:  some 
soon  got  tired  of  it  I  often  have  suffered 
from  cold  and  hunger.  I  never  made  more 
than  3d,  a-day  in  money,  take  the  year  round, 
by  begging ;  some  make  more  than  (id, :  but 
then,  I've  had  meat  and  bread  given  besides. 
I  say  nothing  when  I  beg,  but  that  I  am  a 
poor  boy  out  of  work  and  starving.  I  never 
stole  anything  in  my  life.  I've  often  been 
asked  to  do  so  by  my  mates.  I  never  would. 
The  young  women  steal  the  most.  I  know, 
least,  I  did  know,  two  that  kept  yotmg  men, 
their  partners,  going  about  the  country  with 
them,  chiofly  by  their  stealing.  Some  do  so 
by  their  prostitution.  Those  that  go  as  part- 
ners are  all  prostitutes.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  sickness  among  the  young  men  and 
women,  but  I  never  was  ill  these  last  seven 
years.  Fevers,  colds,  and  venereal  diseases, 
are  very  common." 

The  last  statement  I  took  was  that  of  a  boy 
of  thirteen.  I  can  hardly  say  that  he  was 
clothed  at  all.  He  had  no  shirt,  and  no  waist- 
coat; all  his  neck  and  a  great  part  of  his 
chest  being  bare.  A  ragged  cloth  jacket  hung 
about  him,  and  was  tied,  so  as  to  keep  it 
togetlier,  with  bits  of  tape.  What  he  liad 
wrapped  round  for  trousers  did  not  cover  one 
of  his  legs,  while  one  of  his  thighs  was  bare. 
IIo  wore  two  old  shoes ;  one  tied  to  his  foot 
with  an  old  ribbon,  the  other  a  woman's  old 
boot.  Ho  had  an  old  cloth  CB;p,  His  features 
were  distorted  somewhat,  through  being  swol- 
len with  the  cold.  "  I  was  bom,"  he  said, "  at  a 
place  calleil  Hadley,  in  Kent.  My  father  died 
wlieu  I  was  thi-e  days  old,  Fve  heard  my  mo- 


ther  say.  He  was  married  to  her,  I  believe, 
but  I  don't  know  what  he  was.  She  had  on]|y 
me.  My  mother  went  about  begging,  some- 
times tailing  me  with  her ;  at  other  times  she 
left  me  at  the  lodging-house  in  Hadlej.  She 
went  in  the  eonntry,  roond  about  Tunhridge 
and  there,  begging.  Sometimes  she  had  a 
day's  work.  We  had  plenty  to  eat  thfl&>  but  I 
haven't  had  mnch  lately.  My  mother  died  at 
Hadley  a  year  ago.  I  didn't  know  how  the 
was  buried.  She  was  ill  a  long  time,  and  I 
was  out  begging ;  for  she  sent  me  oat  to  beg 
for  myself  a  good  while  before  that,  and  when 
I  got  back  to  the  lodging.hoaae  they  told  mu 
she  was  dead.  I  had  sixpence  in  my  podret, 
but  I  eooldn't  help  crying  to  think  I'd  kst  my 
mother.  I  cry  about  it  stiU.  I  ^dn't  wait  to 
see  her  buried,  but  I  started  on  my  own  ac- 
count I  met  two  navvies  in  Bromley,  and 
tbcy  paid  my  first  night's  lodging ;  and  theru 
was  a  man  passing,  going  to  London  with  po- 
tatoes, and  the  navvies  gave  the  man  a  pot  of 
beer  to  take  me  up  to  London  in  the  van,  and 
they  went  that  way  with  me.  I  came  to  Lon- 
don to  beg,  thinking  I  could  get  more  there 
than  anywhere  else,  hearing  that  London  was 
such  a  good  place.  I  begged ;  but  sometimes 
wouldn't  get  a  farthing  in  a  day ;  often  walking 
about  the  streets  all  mgfat  I  have  been  beg- 
ging about  all  the  time  till  now.  I  am  very 
we^ — starving  to  death.  I  never  stole  a^f* 
thing :  I  always  kept  my  hands  to  myaell  A 
boy  wanted  me  to  go  witL  him  to  pick  a  gen- 
tleman's pocket  We  was  mates  for  two  days, 
and  then  he  asked  me  to  go  picking  pockets ; 
but  I  wouldn't  I  know  it's  wrong,  though  I 
can  neither  read  nor  write.  The  boy  asked 
me  to  do  it  to  get  into  prison,  as  that  would 
be  better  than  the  streets.  He  picked  pockets 
to  get  into  prison.  He  was  starving  about  the 
streets  like  me.  I  never  slept  in  a  bed  sinee 
I've  been  in  London :  I  am  sure  I  haffcnt:  I 
generally  slept  under  the  dry  arches  in  West- 
street,  where  they're  building  houses— I  mean 
the  arches  for  the  cellars.  I  begged  chiefly 
from  the  Jews  about  Petticoat-lane,  for  they 
all  give  away  bread  that  their  children  leave— 
pieces  of  crust,  and  such-like.  I  woold  do 
anything  to  be  out  of  this  miseiy." 

Incbeise  and  Deoiiease  of  Numbeb  of  Ap- 
plicants TO  Casual  Wabds  of  Lokdov 

WOBKBOUSSS. 

Thb  vagrant  applying  for  shelter  is  admitted 
at  all  times  of  the  day  and  night  He  applies 
at  the  gate,  he  has  his  name  entered  in  &e  va- 
grant book,  and  he  is  then  supplied  with  six 
ounces  of  bread  and  one  ounce  of  cheese.  As 
the  admission  generally  takes  place  in  the  even- 
ing, no  work  is  required  of  them  until  the  lul- 
lowing  morning.  At  one  time  every  vagrsnt 
was  searched  and  bathed,  but  in  the  cold  sea- 
soif  of  the  year  the  bathing  is  diseontinaed; 
neitlier  are  ihey  searched  unless  there  sra 
grounds  for  suspeoting  that  they  haTepropertr 


LOV^OK  LABOUR  AND  TBE  LONDON  POOR. 


gecreted  upon  them.  The  males  are  conducted 
to  the  Trard  allotted  to  them,  and  the  females 
to  their  ward.  These  wards  consist  each  of  a 
large  chamber,  in  which  are  arranged  two  large 
guard-beds,  or  inclined  boards,  similar  to  those 
used  in  soldiers'  giuird -rooms ;  between  these 
there  is  a  passage  from  one  end  of  the  cham- 
ber to  the  otiier.  The  boards  are  strewn  with 
straw,  so  that,  on  entering  the  place  in  the  day- 
time, it  has  the  appearance  of  a  well-kept 
stable.  All  persons  are  supplied  with  two,  and 
in  the  cold  season  with  three,  rugs  to  cover 
them.  These  rugs  are  daily  placed  in  a  fumi- 
gating oven,  so  as  to  decompose  all  infectious 
matter.  Formerly  beds  were  supplied  in  place 
of  the  straw,  but  the  habitual  vagrants  used  to 
amuse  ^emselves  with  cutting  up  the  mat- 
tresses, and  strewing  the  flock  all  over  the 
place;  the  blankets  and  rugs  they  tore  into 
shreds,  and  wotmd  tliem  round  their  legs,  un- 
der their  trousers.  The  windows  of  the  casual 
ward  are  protected  on  the  inside  with  a  strong 
guard,  similar  to  those  seen  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  racket-grounds.  No  lights  are  allowed 
ia  the  casual  ward,  so  that  they  are  expected 
to  retire  to  rest  immediately  on  their  entrance, 
and  this  they  invariably  are  glad  to  do.  In  the 
morning  they  are  let  out  at  eight  in  the  winter, 
and  seven  in  the  summer.  And  then  another  six 
ounces  of  bread  and  one  ounce  of  cheese  is 
given  to  them,  and  they  are  discharged.  In 
return  for  this,  three  hours'  labour  at  &e  hand 
oom-mill  was  formerly  exacted ;  but  now  the 
mmibers  are  so  few,  and  the  out-door  paupers 
80  numerous,  and  so  different  f^om  the  class 
of  vagrants,  that  tlie  latter  are  allowed  to  go 
on  their  road  immediately  the  doors  of  the 
easual  ward  are  opened.  The  labour  formerly 
exacted  wns  not  in  any  way  remunerative.  In 
the  Uiree  hours  that  they  were  at  work,  it  is 
supposed  that  the  value  of  each  man's  labour 
eoohl  not  be  expressed  in  any  coin  of  the  realm. 
The  work  was  demanded  as  a  test  of  destitu- 
tion and  industry,  and  not  as  a  matter  of  com- 
pensation. If  the  vagrants  were  very  yoimg, 
they  were  put  to  oakum-picking  instead  of  the 
hand-mill.  The  women  were  very  rarely  em- 
ployed at  any  time,  because  there  was  no  suit- 
able place  in  the  union  fbr  them  to  pick 
oakum,  and  the  master  was  unwiUing  to  allow 
them,  on  account  of  their  bad  and  immoral 
characters,  ns  well  as  their  filthy  habits,  to 
communicate  with  the  other  inmates.  The 
female  vagrants  generally  consist  of  prostitutes 
of  the  lowest  and  most  miserable  kmd.  They 
are  mostly  young  girls,  who  have  sunk  into  a 
state  of  dirt,  disease,  and  almost  nudity.  There 
are  few  of  them  above  twenty  years  of  age,  and 
they  appear  to  have  commenced  their  career 
of  vice  frequently  as  early  as  ten  or  twelve 
years  old.  They  mosUy  are  found  in  the  com- 
pany of  mere  boys. 

The  above  descriptions  apply  rather  to  the 
state  of  the  vagrants  some  two  or  three  years 
back,  than  to  Uiings  as  they  exist  at  present. 
In  the  year  1837,  a  coxrespondenoe  took  place 


between  the  Commissioners  of  Police  and  the 
Commissioners  of  the  Poor-law,  in  which  the 
latter  declare  that  **  if  a  person  state  that  he 
has  no  food,  and  that  he  is  destitute,  or  other- 
wise express  or  signify  that  he  is  in  danger  of 
perishing  unless  relief  be  given  to  him,  then 
any  officer  charged  with  the  administration  of 
relief  is  bound,  unless  he  have  presented  to 
him  some  reasonable  evidence  to  rebut  such 
statement,  to  give  relief  to  such  destitute  per- 
son in  the  mode  prescribed  by  law."  The  Poor- 
law  Commissioners  further  declare  in  the  same 
document,  that  they  will  feel  it  their  duty  to 
make  the  officers  responsible  in  their  situa- 
tions for  any  serious  neglect  to  give  prompt 
and  adequate  relief  in  any  case  of  real  destitu- 
tion and  emergency.  The  consequence  of  this 
declaration  was,  that  Poor-law  officers  ap- 
peared to  feel  themselves  bound  to  admit  all 
vagrants  upon  their  mere  statement  of  destitu- 
tion, whereas  before  that  time  parties  were 
admitted  into  the  casual  wards  either  by  tick- 
ets from  the  ratepayers,  or  else  according  to 
the  discretion  of  the  master.  Whether  or  not 
the  masters  imagined  that  they  were  compelled 
to  adn^it  every  applicant  from  that  period  my 
informant  cannot  say,  but  it  is  certain  that 
after  the  date  of  that  letter  vagrancy  began  to 
increase  throughout  the  country  5  at  first  gra- 
dually, but  after  a  few  years  with  a  most  enor- 
mous rapidity;  so  that  in  1848,  it  appeared 
from  the  Poor-law  Report  on  Vagraney  (pre- 
sented to  both  Houses  of  Parliament  in  that 
year)  that  the  number  of  vagrants  had  in- 
creased to  upwards  of  16,000.  The  rate  of 
increase  for  the  three  years  previous  to  that 
period  is  exhibited  in  the  following  table : — 

I. — Summaiy  of  the  Number  of  Vagrants  in 
Unions  and  Places  under  Local  Acts,  in 
England  and  Wales,  at  difi^rent  periods, 
as  appears  from  the  Returns  which  fol. 
low: — 

Average  number  relieved  in  one  night  \ 
in  603  Unions,  <frc.,  in  the  week)     3,791 
ending  20th  December,  1845 ; 

Average  number  relieved  in  one  night  \ 
in  603  Unions,  ftc,  in  the  week}     2,224 
ending  1 9th  December,  1840 ) 

Average  number  relieved  in  one  night  \ 
in  596  Unions,  &C.,  in  the  week)     4,008 
ending  18th  December,  1847 ) 

Total  number  relieved,  whether  in  or ) 

outof  the  workhousein  626  Unions, }  16,080 
&c.,  on  the  25th  March,  1848 ) 

Matters  had  reached  this  crisis,  when  the 
late  Mr.  0.  BuUer,  President  of  the  Poor-law 
Board,  issued,  in  August  1848,  a  ndnute,  in 
which— after  stalang  that  the  Board  had  re- 
ceived representations  from  every  part  of  Eng- 
land and  Wales  respecting  the  continual  and 
rapid  increase  of  vagrancy— he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing instructions  to  the  officers  employed  in 
the  administration  of  the  Poor-law  :— 


No.  LXXVII. 


394 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


^'With  respect  to  the  applicants  that  will 
thus  come  before  him,  the  relieving  officer  will 
havo  to  exercise  his  judgment  as  to  the  truth 
of  their  assertions  of  destitution,  and  to  ascer- 
tain by  searching  them  whether  they  possess 
any  means  of  supplying  their  own  necessities. 
He  will  not  be  likely  to  err  in  judging  from  their 
appearance  wheUier  they  ore  suffering  from 
want  of  food.  He  will  take  care  that  women 
and  children,  the  old  and  infirm,  and  those 
who,  without  absolutely  serious  disease,  pre- 
sent an  enfeebled  or  sickly  appearance,  are 
supplied  with  necessary  food  and  shelter.  As 
a  general  rule,  he  would  be  right  in  refusing 
relief  to  able-bodied  and  healthy  men ;  though 
in  inclement  weather  he  might  afford  them 
shelter,  if  really  destitute  of  the  means  of 
procuring  it  for  themselves.  His  duUes 
would  necessarily  make  him  acquainted  with 
the  persons  of  the  habitual  vagrants;  and 
to  these  it  would  be  his  duty  to  refuse 
relief,  except  in  case  of  evident  and  urgent 
necessity. 

**  It  was  found  necessary  by  the  late  Poor- 
law  Commissioners  at  one  time  to  remind  the 
various  unions  and  their  officers  of  the  respon- 
sibility  which  would  be  incurred  by  refusing 
relief  where  it  was  required.  The  present  state 
of  things  renders  it  necessary  that  this  Board 
should  now  impress  on  ihem  the  grievous 
mischiefs  that  must  arise,  and  the  responsibi- 
lities that  may  be  incurred,  by  a  too  ready  dis- 
tribution of  relief  to  tramps  and  vagrants  not 
entitled  to  it.  Boards  of  guardians  and  their 
officers  may,  in  their  attempts  to  restore  a 
more  wise  and  just  system,  be  subjected  to 
some  obloquy  from  prejudices  that  confound 
poverty  with  profligacy.  They  will,  however, 
be  supported  by  Uie  consciousness  of  dis- 
charging their  duty  to  those  whose  frmds  they 
have  to  administer,  as  well  as  to  the  deserving 
poor,  and  of  resisting  the  extension  of  a  most 
pernicious  and  formidable  abuse.  They  may 
confidently  reckon  on  the  support  of  public 
opinion,  which  the  present  state  of  things  has 
aroused  and  enlightened ;  and  those  who  are 
responsible  to  the  Poor-law  Board  may  feel 
asstured  that,  while  no  instance  of  neglect  or 
hardship  to  the  poor  will  be  tolerated,  they 
may  look  to  the  Board  for  a  candid  construc- 
tion ct  their  acts  and  motives,  and  for  a  hearty 
and  steadfast  support  of  those  who  shall  exert 
themselves  to  gufuxi  from  the  grasp  of  impos- 
ture that  fund  which  should  be  sacred  to  the 
necessities  of  the  poor." 
.  Thus  authorised  and  instructed  to  exercise 
their  own  discretion,  rather  than  trust  to  the 
mere  statements  of  the  vagrants  themselves, 
the  officers  immediately  proceeded  to  act  upon 
the  suggestions  g^ven  in  the  minute  above 
quoted,  and  the  consequence  was,  that  the 
number  of  vagrants  diminished  more  rapidly 
even  than  they  had  increased  throughout  the 
country.  In  the  case  of  one  union  alone — 
the  Wandsworth  and  Clapham — the  following 
returns  will  show  both  how  vagrancy  was  fos- 


tered under  the  one  system,  and  how  it  has 
declined  under  the  other : — 

The  number  of  vagrants  admitted  into  the 
casual  ward  of  Wandsworth  and  Clapham  was, 


In  1840 

.   6,750 

1847 

.  11.323 

1848 

.  14,075 

1849 

.   8,900 

In  the  quarter  ending  Jane  1848,  previously 
to  the  issuing  of  the  minute,  the  nimib^  ad- 
mitted was  7325,  whereas,  in  the  quarter  end- 
ing December,  after  the  minute  had  beoi 
issued,  the  number  fell  to  1035. 

The  cost  of  relief  for  casuals  at  the  same 
union  in  the  year  1848  was  94/.  2«.  9|il.;  in 
1849  it  was  24/.  10s.  IK 

The  decrease  throughout -all  London  has 
been  equally  striking.  From  the  returns  of 
the  Poor-law  Conmussioners,  as  subjoined,  I 
find  that  the  total  number  of  vagrants  relieved 
in  the  metropolitan  unions  in  1847-48  wm 
no  less  than  310,058,  whereas,  in  the  year 
1848-40,  it  had  decreased  to  the  extent  of 
166,000  and  odd,  the  number  relieved  for  that 
year  being  only  143,004. 

During  the  great  prevalence  of  vagrancy, 
the  cost  of  the  sick  was  far  greater  than  the 
expense  of  relief.  In  the  quarter  ending 
Jime  1848,  no  less  than  822  casuals  were 
under  medical  treatment,  either  in  the  work- 
house of  the  Wandsworth  and  Clapham  union 
or  at  the  London  Fever  Hospital.  The  whole 
cost  of  curing  the  casual  sick  in  1848  was  near 
upon  800/.,  whereas,  during  1840  it  is  com- 
puted not  to  have  exceeded  30/. 

Another  curious  fact,  illustrative  of  the 
effect  of  an  alteration  in  the  administration  of 
the  law  respecting  vagrancy,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  proportion  of  vagrants  committed  for  acts 
of  insubordination  in  the  workhouses.  In  the 
year  1846,  when  those  who  broke  tlie  law  were 
committed  to  Brixton,  where  the  diet  was 
better  than  that  allowed  at  the  workhouse— 
the  cocoa  and  soup  given  at  the  treadmill  be- 
ing especial  objects  of  attraction,  and  indeed 
the  allowance  of  food  being  considerably 
higher  there — ^the  vagrants  generally  brolro 
the  windows,  or  tore  their  clothes,  or  burnt 
their  beds,  or  refused  to  work,  in  order  to  be 
committed  to  the  treadmill;  and  this  got  to 
such  a  height  in  that  year,  that  no  less  than 
467  persons  were  charged  and  convicted  with 
disorderly  conduct  in  the  workhouse.  In  the 
year  following,  however,  an  alteration  was 
made  in  the  diet  of  prisoners  sentenced  to  not 
more  than  fourteen  days,  and  the  prison  of 
Kingston,  of  which  they  had  a  greater  terror, 
was  substituted  for  that  of  Brixton,  and  then 
the  number  of  committals  decreased  from  467 
to  57 ;  while  in  1848,  when  the  number  of 
vagrants  was  more  than  double  what  it  had 
been  in  1846,  the  committals  again  fell  to  97 ; 
and  in  1840,  out  of  3000  admissions,  there 
were  only  10  committed  for  insubordination. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


809 


VAGRANTS,    OR    TRAMPS,    ADMITTED    INTO    THE    WORKHOUSES    OF    THE 
METROPOLITAN  DISTRICTS  DURING  THE  YEARS  1847-8  AND  1848-9. 


WOBKIlOtFSEfl. 


KcmiT^Htaa , >» .. .  *. 

Clielieii    ........................... 

YuXh^m 

Hi  Georfv.  Ha«o*cir'»4iiiAre. 

8t,  MMriJji-in-t1i«-KLQlldi    ..... 
fit,  JAcnefl,  Wesunlniter........ 

RfLTj^vbaue    , „..,....„,,..., 

P*dd  in  j{to>n ...,.,..,.,,...  I,.....,,  ,^ .. 
HftinpitjMd  ,., ^^„H,« „.,,«,..„ ,^ „. , 

it.  Puneru    »»«.,«...***...»». 

IfllLngton.*. ...*..»«........,..,.. 

ffMktitjf ........ .»..^. ..,*^,M.. 

li.  GUd  »... .,., 

itmxl .««... .«..,..«,4.».,,»,,,-.^t^.. 

Cttr¥«n«eU   .*,«»♦. *^, *,,„♦.. 

U.  Luk#'i  ...,. ,.„.„.,„»... 

EMt  Loadva  „, 

West  Ijjndoo  ,,.*.....„..,.....*... 

LAtukiti  CHj  .......*. *,... 

Shur«{lUcb ...... ...+4^ „»,„,„„.., 

Dethn&l-'greeii   m^,„«»»......^.... 

Wiiittch*|)cl  ...„„.,  .....,...,„„ 

81.  Gtcirge^LDklbe^EaM   ....,.„ 

Stepn4; ...„„.,.».,.., 

Foplmr ........,...*,,.„,. 

it.  fiaTiaoTp  HouttucKrli  ........ 

It-Olnf*.............. 

Bflnf»in4i#7  .... 

fit.  OeoilEfi.  Southwftrk 

NewlnftDd  ...........    ,,,.,„,...,, 

Lunbeth  ,Kh*H, ,..+.+.. .*., ,..«...... 

Wuidi^wortli  .„„..,.* 

Cftfnitrrwf'll    ,.,... .t*--...... 

EotherhUHQ    ...*,» 

Gneenfflc]]  * ^,. ,,...,. 

L«  wlAhtm 


Total 


FOpvil' 


*Q.I7r 

aiT7a 

25,1  *J3 
37 .1^ 

9M73 

li«H47y 

4'J,1]74 
&4.'ili3 
43.^91 
S3.045 
^£i,7.■>li 

33,0:e? 

M,@*;7 

S3^4»a 

74,081 
7t,7M 
4I,J51 

SI.OBI 
M,94T 

4«,fita 

fl|,60G 

]3.&L<i 
BO.HII 
33,013 


Fbtt  0,0*1 
ftAdjQf 


184' 


3,»oa 

V,4M 
MI4 

1.M4 


&4t 

im; 
4,10!) 

HA 

691 

1  J/0 

8,703 

4,r».'i4 
4,a» 


S73 

3,444 

S07 

S75 

1*977 

13 


ivr,  enAmv 


4,607 

2,57.^ 
i4T 

im 

1^4^ 

7^437 
Q44 
3  10 
174 

43 

117^ 

9*13 

S.4*H 

ft.709 

I  ,MiS 

441 

t,074 

31 

4,  BO  I 

^Sh 

7 


3,6Ta 
3JU6 

44.-i 

2S3 

9 


1.3119 

10 

a,973 

3,637 

J  37 

2,083 

7(1 
lOfi 
1 .063 
3,34« 
43 
Ml 

3.S73 

»M{ 

731 

4*414 

4,,%7» 

4h31I» 
3,4ri3 


1,17S 
4,03^ 
7, MO 
3,374 
TOG 

3,436 
4 


rtiinl  9iiiireA, 


}u*i   m» 


I.S33I  \&hQ 

4.l4fi;  ^,e04 

157     1,353 


M09 

1,459 

4i439 
374 

\a 

a*S34 

5 

1.D80 

1.390 

1,476 

CIS 

3,4W 

474 

S 


3,31  lj 
I  ,»4  T 
674 
J,3fl7 
4{^ 
43f9 
3S4 


S.IOO 

9,7 1 4i 

)04 

1*438 

6.W7 

1,439 

2il0 

100 

3,040 

4,301 

115 

i,a«3 

3.96G 
U*«0O 
IJ3I 
454 
4.5Sa 
7.977 

fi,5e4 


1.240 

4*917 
6*730 
1,635 
309 
4,761 
18 


7 

3, 1^9 

453 

I,"m5 


1,515 

1.516 
80 

3fj 

i,ni 

1,975 
1,914 

381 
1,954 

53N 
M23 

3]^4 
378 


131 
ST3 

1,344 

793 

917 

4il 

T 


**.   76,130  flj  JW  70*ii0  5S.156  9e,S4G  38,335  n.iSt*  tG,74fi    aiO^Ofii  i4»,C04 


Of  the  character  of  the  vagrants  frequentixig 
the  unions  in  the  centre  of  the  metropolis,  and 
the  system  pursued  there,  one  description  will 
serve  as  a  type  of  the  whole. 

At  the  Holbom  workhouse  (St  Andrew's) 
there  are  two  casual  wards,  established  just 
after  the  passing  of  the  Poor-law  Amendment 
Act  in  1834.  The  men's  ward  will  contain  40, 
and  the  women's  20.  The  wards  are  under- 
ground, but  dry,  clean,  and  comfortable.  When 
Uiere  was  a  "  severe  pressure  from  without," 
as  a  porter  described  it  to  me,  as  many  as  106 
men  and  women  have  been  received  on  one 
night,  but  some  were  disposed  in  other  parts 
of  the  workhouse  away  from  the  casual 
wards. 

**  Two  years  and  a  half  ago,  *  a  glut  of 
Irish  • "  (I  give  the  words  of  my  informant) 
"came  over  and  besieged  the  doors  inces- 
santly ;  and  when  above  a  hundred  were  ad- 
mitted, &s  many  were  remaining  outside,  and 
when  locked  out  they  lay  in  the  streets 
stretched  along  by  the  almshouse  close  to  the 
workhouse  in  Gray's-inn-lane."  I  again  give 
the  statement  (which  afterwards  was  verified) 
verbatim  : — ^"  They  lay  in  camps,"  he  said,  **  in 


their  old  cloaks,  some  having  brought  blankets 
and  rugs  with  them  for  the  purpose  of  sleeping 
out;  pots,  and  kettles,  and  vessels  for  cook- 
ing when  they  camp;  for  in  many  parts  of 
Ireland  they  do  nothing — I've  beanl  from 
people  that  have  been  there  —  but  wander 
about;  and  these  visitors  to  the  workhouse 
behaved  just  like  gipsies,  combing  their  hair 
and  dressing  themselves.  The  girls'  heads, 
some  of  them,  looked  as  if  they  were  full  of 
caraway  seeds — vermin,  sir— shocking !  I  had 
to  sit  up  all  night;  and  the  young  women 
from  Ireland — fine-looking  young  women; 
some  of  them  finer-looking  women  than  the 
English,  well  made  and  well  formed,  but  vm- 
cultivated  —  seemed  happy  enough  in  the 
casual  wards,  singing  songs  all  night  long, 
but  not  too  loud.  Some  would  sit  up  all  night 
washing  their  clothes,  coming  to  me  for  water. 
They  had  a  cup  of  tea,  if  Uiey  were  poorly. 
They  made  themselves  at  home,  the  children 
did,  as  soon  as  they  got  inside;  they  ran 
about  Uke  kittens  used  to  a  place.  The  young 
women  were  often  full  of  joke ;  but  I  never 
heard  an  indecent  word  from  any  of  them,  nor 
an  oath,  and  I  have  no  doubt,  not  in  the  least, 


896 


LONDON  LABOUB  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


that  they  were  chaste  and  modest  Fine 
young  women,  too,  sir.  I  have  said,  *Pity 
young  women  like  yon  should  be  carrying  on 
this  way '  (for  I  felt  for  them),  and  they  would 
say,  *What  can  we  do?  It's  better  than 
starving  in  Ireland,  this  workhouse  is.'  I  used 
to  ask  Uiem  how  they  got  over,  and  they  often 
told  me  their  passages  were  paid,  chiefly  to 
Bristol,  Liverpool,  and  Newport,  in  Mon- 
mouthshire. They  told  me  that  was  done  to 
get  rid  of  them.  They  told  me  that  they 
didn't  know  by  whom;  but  some  said,  they 
believed  the  landlord  paid  the  captain. 
Some  declared  they  knew  it,  and  that  it  was 
done  just  to  get  rid  of  Uiem.  Others  told  me 
the  captain  would  bring  them  over  for  any 
trifle  they  had ;  for  he  would  say,  '  I  shall 
have  to  take  you  back  again,  and  I  can  charge 
my  price  then.'  The  men  were  uncultivated 
fellows  compared  to  the  younger  women.  We 
have  had  old  men  with  children  who  could 
speak  English,  and  the  old  man  and  his  wife 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  it.  When  asked 
the  age  of  their  children  (the  children  were 
the  interpreters),  they  woiild  open  the  young 
creatures'  mouths  and  count  their  teeth,  just 
as  horse-dealers  do,  and  then  they  would  tell 
the  children  in  Irish  what  to  answer,  and  the 
children  would  answer  in  English.  The  old 
people  could  never  tell  their  own  age.  The 
man  would  give  his  name,  but  his  wife  would 
give  her  maiden  name.  I  would  say  to  an 
elderly  man,  •  Give  me  your  name.*  *  Dennis 
Murphy,  your  honour.'  Then  to  his  wife, 
*  And  your  name  V  *  The  widdy  Mooney,  your 
honour.'    *  But  you're  married  V   •  Sure,  then, 

yes,  by  Father .'  This  is  the  case  with  them 

still.  Last  night  we  took  in  a  family,  and  I 
asked  the  mother — there  was  only  a  woman 
and  three  children — her  name.  *  The  widdy 
Callaghan,  indeed,  then,  sir.'  <But  your 
Christian  name?**  The  widdy,'  (widow,)  was 
the  only  answer.  It's  shocldng,  sir,  what 
ignorance  is,  and  what  their  suiferings  is. 
My  heart  used  to  ache  for  the  poor  creatures, 
and  yet  they  seemed  happy.  Habit's  a  g^at 
thing — second  nature,  even  when  people's 
shook.  The  Irishmen  behaved  well  among 
themselves;  but  the  English  cadgers  were 
jealous  of  the  Irish,  and  chafied  them,  as 
spoiling  their  trade-— that's  what  the  cadging 
fellows  did.  The  Irish  were  quiet,  poor 
things,  but  they  were  provoked  to  quarrel, 
and  many  a  time  I've  had  to  turn  the  English 
rips  out.  The  Irish  were  always  very  thankful 
for  what  they  had,  if  it  was  only  a  morsel;  the 
English  cadger  is  never  satisfied.  I  don't 
mean  the  decent  beat-out  man,  but  the  regular 
cadger,  that  won't  work,  and  isnt  a  good  beg- 
gar, and  won't  starve,  so  they  steed.  Once, 
now  and  then,  there  was  some  suspicion  about 
the  Irish  admitted,  that  they  had  money,  but 
that  was  never  but  in  those  that  had  families. 
It  was  taken  from  them,  and  given  back  in  the 
morning,  They  wouldn't  have  been  admitted 
again  if  they  had  any  amount.    It  was  a  kind- 


ness to  take  their  money,  or  the  EngHab  naeals 
would  have  robbed  them.  I'm  an  Englishman, 
but  I  speak  the  truth  of  my  own  conntrymen, 
as  I  do  of  the  Iriah.  The  English  we  had  in 
the  casual  wards  were  generally  a  bad  cadging 
set,  as  sanoy  as  could  be,  particularly  men 
that  I  knew,  from  their  accent,  came  from 
Nottinghamshire.  I'd  tell  one  directly.  I've 
heard  Uiem,  of  a  night,  brag  of  their  dodses— 
how  they'd  done  Uirough  the  day — ana  the 
best  places  to  get  money.  They  would  talk 
of  gentlemen  in  London.    I've  often  heard 

them  say, ,  in  Piccadilly,  was  good ;  but 

they  seldom  mentioned  names,  only  described 
the  houses,  especially  club-houses  in  St 
James's-street.  They  would  tell  just  where  it 
was  in  the  street,  and  how  many  windbws 
there  was  in  it,  and  the  best  time  to  go,  and 
*  you're  sure  of  grub,'  they'd  say.  Then  they'd 
tell  of  gentlemen's  seats  in  the  countiy — sura 
cards.  They  seldom  give  names,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, dont  know  them,  bat  described  the 
houses  and  the  gentlemen.  Some  were  good 
for  bread  and  money,  some  for  bread  and  ale. 
As  to  the  decent  people,  we  had  bat  few,  snd 
I  used  to  be  sorry  for  them  when  they  had  to 
mix  with  the  cadgers ;  but  when  the  cadgers 
saw  a  stranger,  they  used  their  slang.  I  wts 
up  to  it  I've  heard  it  many  a  night  when  I 
sat  up,  and  they  thonght  I  was  asleep.  I 
wasn't  to  be  had  like  the  likes  o*  them.  The 
poor  mechanic  would  ait  like  a  lost  man — 
scared,  sir.  There  might  be  one  deserving 
character  to  thirty  cadgers.  We  have  had 
gipsies  in  the  casual  wards  ;  but  they're  not 
admitted  a  second  time,  ihey  steal  so.  We 
haven't  one  Scotch  person  in  a  month,  or  a 
Welshman,  or  perhaps  two  Welshmen,  m  a 
montU,  among  the  casuals.  They  come  firom 
all  counties  in  England.  I've  been  told  by 
inmates  of  *the  casual,*  that  they  had  got 
2$,  6d.  from  the  relieving  officers,  particularly 
in  Essex  and  Suffolk  —  difRerent  unions— to 
start  them  to  London  when  the  *  straw-yards' 
(the  asylums  for  the  houseless)  were  opened; 
but  there's  a  many  very  decent  people.  How 
they  suffer  before  they  come  to  that !  you  cant 
fancy  how  much;  and  so  there  should  be 
straw-yards  in  a  Christian  land — ^we'll  call  it  a 
Christian  land,  sir.  There's  far  more  good 
people  in  the  straw-yards  than  the  casuals ; 
the  dodgers  is  less  frequent  there,  considering 
the  numbers.  It's  shocking  to  think  a  decent 
mechanic's  houReless.  When  he's  beat  ont, 
he's  like  a  bird  out  of  a  cage ;  he  doesnt 
know  where  to  go,  or  how  to  get  a  bit — but 
don't  the  cadgers !"  The  expense  of  relieving 
the  people  in  the  casual  ward  was  twopence 
per  head,  and  the  numbers  admitted  for  the 
last  twelTe  months  averaged  oi^y  twelve 
nightly." 

I  will  now  give  the  statements  of  some  of 
the  inmates  of  the  casual  wards  themselves. 
I  chose  only  those  at  first  who  were  habitual 
vagrants. 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB. 


807 


Estimate  ov  Nuvbebs  and  Cost  of 
Yaoaamts. 

Let  me  first  endeavour  to  arrive  at  some 
estimate  as  to  the  number  and  cost  of  the 
vagrant  population. 

There  were,  according  to  the  returns  of  the 
Poor-law  Commissioners,  13,547  vagrants  re- 
lieved in  tmd  out  of  the  workhouses  of 
England  and  Wales,  on  the  1st  of  July,  1848. 
In  addition  to  these,  the  Occupation  Abstract 
informs  us  that,  on  the  night  of  the  6th  of 
June,  1841,  when  the  last  census  was  taken, 
20,348  individuals  were  living  in  bams  and 
tents.  But  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  correct 
estimate  of  the  total  number  of  vagrants 
throughout  the  country,  we  must  add  to  the 
abo^e  numbers  the  inmates  of  the  trampers' 
houses.  Now,  according  to  the  Heport  of  tlie 
Constabulaxy  Commissioners,  there  were  in 
1839  a  nightly  averago  of  very  nearly  5000 
vagrants  infesting  some  700  mendicants'  lodg- 
in^.houses  in  London  and  six  other  of  the 
principal  towns  of  England  and  Wales.  (See 
"London  Labour,-  VoL  I.  p.  408.)  Further, 
it  will  be  seen  by  the  oalculationa  given  at 
the  same,  that  there  are  in  the  3823  postal 
towns  throughout  the  country  (averaging  two 
trampers'  houses  to  each  town,  and  ten  tramp- 
ers nightly  to  each  house),  and  70,400  other 
vagrants  distributed  throughout  England  and 
Wales. 

Hence  the  calculation  as  to  the  total  nam* 
oer  of  vagrants  would  stand  thus  ^-^ 

In  the  workhouses  .  .  .  13,647 
In  bams  and  tents  (according  to 

census) 20,348 

In  the  mendicants'  houses  of  Lon-  \ 

don,    and    six    other    principal  ( 

towns  of  England    and  Wales,  I        4,813 

according  to  Constabulary  Com-  / 

missioners'  Report     . 
Ditto  in  3820  other  postal  towns,  \ 

averaging  each  two  mendicants'  I       ^q  aqt. 

houses,  and  ten  bdgers  to  each  (  ' 

•    house ; 


115,108 

Deduct  five  per  cent  for  characters  i         .  ^k« 

really  destitute  and  deserving    .  J        o,iod 


Total  number  of  habitual  va-  \     iaaokq 
grants  in  England  and  Wales  /     ^""»^'^» 

The  cost  of  relieving  these  vagrants  may  be 
computed  as  follows:— On  the  night  of  the 
1st  of  July,  1848,  there  were  13,547  vagranU 
relieved  throughout  England  and  Wales ;  but 
I  am  informed  by  the  best  authorities  on  the 
subjer^t,  that  one- third  of  this  number  only  can 
be  fairly  estimated  as  receiving  relief  eveiy 
night  throughout  the  year  at  the  different 
anions.      Now,  the  third  of  13,547  is  4515, 


and  this,  multiplied  by  865,  gives  1,647,075 
M  the  total  number  of  cases  of  vagrancy  re- 
lieved  throughout  England  and  Wales  daring 
the  year  1848.  The  cost  of  each  of  these  is 
estimated  at  twopence  i>er  head  per  night  for 
food,  and  this  makes  the  sum  expended  in 
their  relief  amount  to  18,733/.  7s.  Sd. 

In  addition  to  this,  we  must  estimate  the 
sum  given  in  charity  to  Uie  mendicants,  or 
carried  off  surreptitiously  by  the  petty  thieves 
frequenting  the  trampiug-houscs.  The  sums 
thus  abstracted  fh>m  the  public  may  be  said 
to  amount  at  the  lowest  to  6<i.  per  day  for 
each  of  the  trampers  not  applying  for  relief  at 
the  workhouses.  In  the  Constabulary  Be« 
port,  p.  11,  the  earnings  of  the  petty  thieves 
are  estimated  at  10«.  per  week,  and  those  of 
the  beggars  at  ds.  dd.  per  day  (p.  24).  Hence 
we  have  the  foUowing  account  of  the  total  cost 
of  the  vagrants  of  England  and  Wales : — 


Sum  given  in  relief  to  the 
vagrants  at  the  work, 
houses     .        .        .        . 

Sum  abstracted  by  them, 
either  by  begging  or  pil- 
fering  on  the  road  . 


^13,783    7    8 
188,888  11     8 


^152,021  10    4 
As  five  per  bent  must  be) 
taken  offthis  for  the  truly}        7,631     1    8 
deserving        •  .) 

The  total  cost  win  be  .   ^6144,900  17    8 

By  this  it  appears  that  the  total  number  of 
professional  vagrants  dispersed  throughout 
England  and  Wales  amounU  to  47,669.  These 
live  at  the  expense  of  the  industrious 
classes,  and  oost  the  countiy  no  less  than 
144,990/.  17«.  8d.  per  annum.  And  if  the 
13,()00  and  odd  vagrants  relieved  in  the  work- 
houses  constitute  merely  the  twentieth  dis- 
persed throughont  the  country,  we  have  in 
round  numbers  nearly  3,000,000/.  for  the  cost 
of  the  whole. 

There  are,  then,  no  less  than  100,000  indi- 
viduals of  the  lowest,  the  filthiest,  and  most 
demoralised  classes,  continually  wandering 
through  the  countiy ;  in  other  wonU,  there  is 
a  stream  of  vice  and  disease — a  tide  of  ini- 
quity and  fever,  continually  flowina  firom 
town  to  to^Ti,  from  one  end  of  tha  land  to 
the  other. 

**  One  of  the  worst  concomitants  of  vagrant 
mendicancy,"  says  the  Poor-law  Report,  'Ms 
the  fever  of  a  dangerous  typhoid  character, 
which  has  universally  marked  the  path  of  the 
mendicants.  There  is  scarcely  a  workhouse 
in  which  this  pestilence  does  not  prevail  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  and  numerous  anion 
officers  have  fallen  victim  t  to  it"  Those  who 
are  acquainted  wiUi  the  exceeding  flHh  of  the 
persons  frequenting  the  oaaual  wards,  will  not 
wonder  at  the  fever  which  fbllows  in  the  wake 


308 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TBE  LONDON  POOB. 


of  the  vagrants.  "  Manj  have  the  itch.  I 
have  seen,"  says  Mr.  Boase,  •*  a  party  of 
twenty  almost  all  scratching  tliemselves  at 
once, 'before  settling  into  their  rest  in  tlie 
straw.  Lice  exi«*t  in  great  numbers  upon 
thorn." 

That  vftgnincy  is  tlie  nursery  of  crime,  and 
tliat  the  habitual  tramps  are  first  the  beggars, 
then  the  thieves,  and,  finally,  the  convicts  of 
the  country,  the  evidence  of  all  parties  goes  to 
prove.  There  is,  however,  a  curious  corrobo. 
ration  of  the  fact  to  be  found,  by  referring  to 
the  period  of  life  at  which  both  crime  and 
vagrancy  seem  to  be  in  their  youth.  The  ages 
of  the  vagrants  frequenting  the  asylums  for 
the  houseless  poor,  are  chiefly  between  fifteen 
and  twenty-five  years  old ;  and  the  tables  of 
the  ages  of  the  criminals,  given  in  the 
Government  Returns,  show  that  the  miyority 
of  persons  convicted  of  crime  are  equaUy 
young. 

The  total  number  of  vagrants  in  the  me- 
tropolis may  be  calculated  as  follows : — There 
were  310,058  vagrants  relieved  at  the  metro- 
politan  unions  during  the  year  1848.  (I  take 
the  metropolitan  returns  of  1848,  because  those 
for  England  and  Wales  published  as  yet  only 
extend  to  that  year.)  As  the  vagrants  never 
remain  two  days  in  the  same  place,  we  must 
divide  this  number  by  365,  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain the  number  of  vagrants  resident  at  one 
and  the  same  time  in  London.  This  gives  us 
840  for  the  average  number  relieved  each  night 
in  the  whole  of  the  metropolitan  unions.  To 
this  we  must  add  the  2431  tramps  residing  in 
the  221  metropolitan  mendicants'  lodging- 
houses  (averaging  11  inmates  each);  and  the 
sum  of  these  must  be  fUrther  increased  by  the 
750  individuals  relieved  nightly  at  the  asylums 
for  the  houseless  poor  (including  that  of 
Market -street,  Edgeware-road),  for  the  majority 
of  these  seldom  or  never  make  their  appear- 
ance in  the  casual  wards  of  the  metropolis, 
but  are  attracted  to  London  solely  by  the 
opening  of  the  asylums.  Hence  the  account 
will  stand  as  follows: — 

Average  number  of  vagranta  relieved!    g.^ 
night  in  the  metropolitan  unions      .  j 


Average  number  of  vagrants  resident  in 
the  mendicants'  lodging-houses  in 
London     

Average  number  of  individuals  relieved  \ 
nt  the  metropolitan  asylums  for  the  | 
houseless  poor  .        .        ,        . ) 


2431 


760 


4030 

Now,  as  5  per  cent  of  this  amount  is  said 
to  consist  of  characters  really  destitute  and 
dt'serving,  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
there  are  3820  vagrants  in  London,  living 
either  by  mendicancy  or  theft. 


The  cost  of  the  vagrants  in  London  in  the 
year  1848  may  be  estimated  as  follows : — 


810,058  vagrants  relieved  at| 
the  metropolitan  unions,  at  \ 
the  cost  of  2d,  per  head     . ; 

67,500  nights'  lodgings  af-' 
forded  to  the  houseless  poor 
at  the  metropolitan  asylum  s, 
includingthe  West-end  Asy- 
lum, Market-street,  Edge- 
ware  road  .        .        .        ., 

2,431  inmates  of  the  mendi-' 
cants'  lodging-houses  in 
London,  gaining  upon  an 
average  1«.  per  day,  or 
altogether  per  year 


£        9. 

2,584  13 


3,134    1    4i 


44,365  15    0 


ie50,084    0    4i 
Deduct  5  per  cent  for  the  cost  \ 
of  the  relief  of  the  truly  [    2,504    4    5 
deserving   .        .        .        .; 


The  total  will  then  be  .   ^£47,580    4  Hi 

It  appears,  then,  that  there  are  8820  ha- 
bitual vagrants  in  the  metropolis,  and  the 
cost  for  their  support  annually  amoonts  to 
47,580/.  4«.  Hid. 

The  number  of  metropolitan  beggars  ig 
considerably  increased  on  the  eve  of  any 
threatened  disturbances,  or  any  large  open-air 
meeting  in  London.  For  several  days  previous 
to  the  Chartist  display  in  1848,  there  was  an 
influx  of  100  tramps  over  and  above  the  ordi- 
nary quantity,  each  day,  at  one  union  alone  in 
the  suburbs  of  London;  and  the  master 
assured  me  that  on  the  night  of  the  meeting 
on  Kennington  Common,  he  overheard  the 
inmates  of  the  casual  ward  boasting  how  they 
had  assisted  in  pillaging  the  pawnbroker's 
house  that  had  been  broken  into  that  after- 
noon. 

Well  might  the  master  of  the  Wandsworth 
and  Clapham  Union  say,  therefore,  that  the 
vagrants  form  one  of  the  most  restless,  dis- 
contented, vicious,  and  dangerous  elements 
of  society.  Of  these  we  have  seen  that  there 
are  about  100,000  dispersed  throughout  the 
country,  4000  of  whom,  in  round  numbers, 
are  generally  located  in  London.  These  con- 
stitute, in  the  words  of  the  same  gentleman, 
the  main  source  from  which  the  criminals  are 
continually  recruited  and  augmented. 

Routes  ov  the  Vagrants. 

I  was  desirous  of  ascertaining  some  inform- 
ation concerning  the  routes  of  the  vagrants 
and  the  reason  why  they  frequent  one  mstrict 
or  county  more  than  another.  It  will  be  seen 
fix>m  the  following  table,  computed  firom  the 
Poor-Law  Returns  for  the  Ist  July,  1848,  that 
the  vagrants  were  far  from  equally  distributed 
over  the  coimtry  at  that  period. 


LONDON  LABOUR    AND  THE  LONDON  FOQtl, 


BOO 


NUMBER  OF  VAGRANTS  RELIEVED  IN  THE  DIFFERENT  COUNTIES  OF 
ENGLAND  AND  WALES  ON  THE  IST  OF  JULY,  1848. 


Durham 

.  1425 

Essex    . 

.     147    Oxfordshire  . 

40 

Middlesex      . 

.  1393 

Northamptonshire 

136 

Carmarthenshire  . 

46 

Lincolnshire . 

.  1855 

Wiltshire 

.    135 

Radnorshire  . 

40 

West  Riding. 

.  1197 

Westmoreland 

.    130 

Denbighshire 

.      45 

Cumberland  . 

.  1087 

Nottinghamshire  . 

129 

Dorsetshire  . 

43 

Lancashire     . 

.     673 

Norfolk. 

128 

Cardiganshire 

39 

Southampton 

.     C48 

North  Riding 

105 

Carnarvonshire      . 

38 

Derbyshire    . 

.     541 

Bedfordshire 

102 

Buckinghamshire  . 

28 

Warwickshire 

.     509 

Hertfordshire 

.     100 

Suffolk  .        .        . 

21 

Monmouthshire 

.    476 

Devonshire    . 

94 

Cambridgeshire 

20 

Staffordshire . 

.     351 

Cheshire 

92 

Brecknockshire 

17 

Surrey  . 

.    319 

Somersetshire 

88 

Pembrokeshire 

.       15 

Glamorganshire 

.     244 

Shropshire    . 

80 

Montgomeryshire  . 

14 

Worcestershire 

.     227 

Huntingdonshire  . 

75 

Anglesea 

11 

Kent     . 

.     179 

Leicestershire 

72 

Flintshire 

10 

Berkshire 

.     175 

Cornwall 

63 

Rutlandshire 

6 

Northumberland 
East  Riding  . 

.     172 
.     152 

Merionethshire      . 
Gloucestershire     . 

54 
62 

Total    .     . 

13,547 

Sussex  . 

.     150 

Herefordshire 

.      48 

In  order  to  discover  the  cause  of  this 
unequal  distribution,  I  sought  out  a  person, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  an  experienced  trtonper, 
and  who  had  offered  to  give  any  information 
that  I  might  require  upon  the  subject.  There 
wan  a  strange  mystery  about  the  man.  It  was 
evident,  both  from  his  manner  and  his  features, 
that  he  had  once  been  well  to  do  in  the  world. 
He  was  plainly  not  of  tlie  common  order  of 
vagrants,  though  his  dress  was  as  filthy  and 
ragged  as  that  of  the  generality  of  the  class. 

**  I  have  been  right  through  the  countiy  on 
the  tramp,"  he  said,  "  about  six  or  seven 
summers.  What  I  was  formerly  I  do  not 
wish  to  state.  I  have  been  much  better  off. 
I  was,  indeed,  in  receipt  of  a  very  large  income 
at  one  time ;  but  it  matters  not  how  I  lost  it. 
I  would  rather  that  remained  a  secret  You 
may  say  that  I  lost  it  through  those  follies  and 
extravagancies  that  are  incident  both  to  the 
higher  and  the  lower  classes ;  but  let  it  pass. 
You  want  to  know  about  the  habits  and 
characters  of  the  vagrants  generally,  and  there 
is  no  necessity  for  my  going  into  my  private 
history,  further  than  saying,  I  was  a  gentleman 
once,  and  I  am  a  vagrant  now.  I  have  been 
so  for  the  last  six  years.  I  generally  start  off 
into  the  country  about  April  or  May.  I  stay, 
after  the  refuges  are  closed,  until  such  time 
as  I  have  tired  out  all  the  unions  in  and  around 
London.  I  go  into  the  countiy  because  I  am 
known  at  all  the  casual  wards  in  the  metro- 
polis, and  they  will  not  let  atramper  in  a 
second  time  if  they  know  it,  except  at  the 
City  of  London,  and  there  I  have  been  allowed 
to  stay  a  montli  together.  The  best  of  the 
casual  w^ards  used  to  be  in  Bermondsey,  but 
they  are  closed  there  now,  I  believe,  as  well 
as  many  of  the  others  ;  however,  the  vagrants 
seldom  tliink  of  going  to  the  London  unions 


until  after  the  refuges  are  closed,  because  at 
the  refuges  the  accommodation  is  better,  and 
no  work  is  required.  I  know  that  the  vagrants 
come  purposely  to  London  in  large  bodies 
about  the  end  of  December,  on  purpose  to 
sleep  at  the  refuges  for  the  winter.  I  myself 
always  make  it  a  point  to  come  up  to  town 
every  winter,  so  as  to  have  my  lodgings  for 
nothing  at  the  refuge,  not  being  able  to  get  it 
by  any  other  means.  There  are  at  the  refuges, 
of  course,  many  worthy  objects  of  charity.  I 
have  met  with  men  who  have  become  desti- 
tute, certainly  not  through  any  fault  of  their 
own;  a  good  many  of  such  persons  I  have 
found.  But  still  the  greater  number  at  such 
places  are  persons  who  are  habitual  vagabonds 
and  beggars,  and  many  thieves.  As  the  re- 
ftiges  are  managed  at  present,  I  consider  they 
do  more  harm  than  good.  If  there  were  no 
such  places  in  London  in  the  winter,  of  course 
I,  and  such  as  are  like  me,  would  have  been 
driven  to  find  shelter  at  our  parishes ;  whereas 
the  facilities  they  afford  for  obtaining  a  night's 
shelter — to  the  vagabond  as  well  as  to  the 
destitute — ai-e  such  that  a  large  number  of  the 
most  depraved  and  idle  classes  are  attracted  to 
London  by  them.  I  believe  some  such  places 
to  be  necessary,  in  order  to  prevent  persons 
dying  of  cold  and  starvation  in  the  streets,  but 
they  should  be  conducted  on  a  different  plan. 
You  see  I  tell  you  the  truth,  although  it  may 
be  against  my  own  interest.  After  these 
refuges  are  dosed,  and  the  unions  round  the 
suburbs  are  shut  against  me,  as  far  as  Rich- 
mond, Kingston,  Bromley,  Romford,  Stratford, 
Greenwich,  and  similar  distances  from  the 
metropolis,  1  generally  proceed  upon  my 
travels  for  the  summer.  Those  who  make  a 
practice  of  sleeping  at  the  casual  wards  are 
vagrants  either  by  nature,  by  habit,  or  by 


400 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


force  of  circumstances.  They  generally  sup- 
port themselves  by  begging  or  thieving,  and 
oft«n  by  both.  They  are  mostly  boys,  from 
about  nine  up  to  twenty  years  of  age.  The 
othen  are  prindpaUy  Irish  beggars,  and  a  very 
few  arc  labourers  and  meohanics  out  of  work. 
The  youths  I  beheve  to  be,  with  some  eroep- 
tir^ns,  naturally  bad,  and  almost  irreclaimable. 
I  know  that  many  of  them  have  been  made 
▼agrants  by  harsh  treatment  at  home;  they 
have  run  away.  They  have  been  threatened 
to  b<;  punished,  generally  for  going  to  some 
place  of  amusement,  as  Greenwich  fair,  or 
*  penny  ga£b,' — that  is,  to  the  low  theatres; 
and,  being  afraid  to  return,  they  have  sought 
shelter,  first  at  the  low  lodging-houses,  and 
when  they  have  had  no  money  left,  they  have 
gone  to  the  casual  wards  of  the  unions.  Other 
boys  have  contracted  bad  habits  from  being 
allowed  by  their  parents  to  run  about  the 
streets  and  pick  up  vagabond  companions. 
These  soon  initiate  them  into  their  mode  of 
life,  and  they  then  leave  their  homes  in  order 
to  follow  it.  This  is  the  way  that  most  of  the 
lads  are  depraved.  I  am  sure  that  the  fault 
lies  more  with  the  parents  than  with  the  boys 
themselves.  The  lads  are  either  neglected  or 
ill.treated  in  their  youth.  Some  of  the  lads 
ore  left  destitute;  they  are  left  orphans — 
probably  to  the  care  of  some  distant  relation 
or  friend » and  the  lads  very  soon  find  that 
they  are  not  treated  or  cared  for  like  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  and  they  take  to  the 
streets.  The  mijority  of  the  vagrants  are 
very  sharp,  intelligent  lads,  and  I  believe  they 
are  induced  to  take  to  a  vagabond  life  by  the 
low  lodging-houses,  the  casual  wards,  and  the 
refuges.  These  make  shelter  and  provision  so 
easy  to  them,  that  they  soon  throw  off  the 
restraint  of  their  parents  or  guardians.  Were 
there  a  greater  difficulty  of  obtaining  food  and 
lodging,  I  am  sure  that  there  would  certainly 
not  be  the  number  of  juvenile  vagrants  that 
there  are.  The  IriRh  people  who  resort  to 
the  casual  wards  are  beggars  at  heart  and  soul. 
Many  of  them  I  know  have  lodgings  of  their 
own,  and  they  will  give  them  up  at  the  time 
the  refuges  are  open.  Some  I  have  known 
to  go  into  the  refuge  with  the  whole  of  their 
family  on  the  Saturday  niglit,  and  stop  all 
Sunday,  till  the  Monday  morning,  for  the  ex- 
press pur]>oHo  of  obtaining  the  bread  and 
ohcoso  which  is  given  away  there  on  the 
Sunday.  The  children  have  the  same  allow, 
anoo  as  the  parents,  and  the  mother  and  father 
take  all  the  young  ones  they  can  into  the 
]ilace,  to  get  the  greater  quantity.  This  they 
take  bock  home  with  them,  and  it  serves  to 
kecD  them  the  greater  part  of  the  week.  The 
Irisn,  I  think,  do  not  make  a  point  of  travel- 
ling the  country  so  much  as  the  English 
vagrants.  When  they  go  into  the  provinces, 
it  is  generally  to  get  work  at  harvesting,  or 
•talo  getting,  or  hop-picking;  not  like  the 
English,  for  the  mere  sake  of  vagabondising. 
"  The  low  Irish  do  better  in  London.    They 


are  the  best  beggars  we  have.  They  have 
more  impudence  and  more  blarney,  and  there- 
fore they  do  much  better  than  we  can  at  it  A 
very  large  portion  of  the  Irish  beggars  in  London 
are  in  possession  of  mohey,  which  they  have 
secreted  about  them  in  some  way  or  other.  I 
recollect  seeing  one  Lrishman  have  S$.  taken 
from  him  by  the  vagrant  boys  in  the  casual 
ward  of  St  George's  Workhouse,  in  the 
Borough.  The  boys  generally  suspect  the 
Irish  vagrants  of  having  money  on  their  per- 
sons ;  and  I  have  often  seen  a  number  of  them 
hold,  or,  as  they  call  it, '  small-gang,'  an  Irish 
beggar  in  the  darkness  of  the  casual  wards, 
while  some  of  the  other  boys  rifled  the  Irish- 
man's pockets.  The  labomrers  and  mechanics 
are  generally  the  only  parties  to  be  found  in  the 
casual  wards  who  are  driven  there  through 
destitution.  I  have  known  many  an  honest, 
industrious,  working  man,  however,  made  a 
regular  beggar  and  vagrant  by  continued  use 
of  the  oasufd  wsrds.  They  are  driven  there 
first  by  necessity,  and  then  they  learn  that 
they  can  Uve  in  such  places  throughout  the 
year  without  working  for  their  Uvelihood. 
Many  a  hard-working  man,  I  am  convinced, 
is  made  idle  and  dishonest  by  such  means : 
yes,  that  is  the  case.  There  are  some  that  I 
know  now,  who  have  been  going  the  round  of 
the  different  reftiges  for  not  less  than  seven— 
ay,  you  may  say  for  nine  years.  They  were 
origmally  labouring  men,  or  mechanics,  and 
had  given  over  all  thoughts  of  working,  finding 
that  there  was  no  necessity  to  do  so  in  order  ti) 
live. 

"The  regular  vagrant  leaves  toi^n  every 
year  about  April,  or  the  beginning  of  May.  A 
veiT  large  portion  of  the  wandering  beggars 
and  thieves  would  remain  in  town  if  thejr  were 
allowed  to  remain  longer  in  their  nightly 
haunts ;  but  after  the  closing  of  the  refhffes, 
the  system  of  not  permitting  them  more  uan 
one  night  in  the  same  union  forces  them  to  b« 
continually  on  the  move  :  so  they  set  off  im- 
mediately they  have  made  themselves  known 
at  all  the  workhouses.  The  boys  will  mostly 
go  in  small  gangs  of  twos  and  tnrees.  Before 
(hey  start,  they  generally  pick  up  ih)m  some 
other  gang  whom  Uiey  meet  in  the  London 
wards,  the  kind  of  treatment  and  relief  they 
will  receive  at  the  country  unions,  and  they 
regulate  their  journey  accordingly ;  and  they 
will  very  often  go  one  or  two  days'  march  ont 
of  their  w^,  in  order  to  avoid  some  union 
that  has  a  bad  character  among  them,  or  to 
get  to  some  other  union  where  the  accommo- 
dation is  good,  and  the  work  required  of  them 
very  slight.  Often  they  will  go  miles  round  to 
get  to  some  gentleman's  seat  or  haU  where 
provisions  are  known  to  be  distributed.  I  have 
heard  boys  not  twelve  years  of  age  tell  every 
union  between  London  and  Newcastle.  The 
minority  of  them  seldom  go  farther  than  there ; 
some  will  go  on  to  Edinburgh,  but  not  many. 
They  would  know  what  kind  of  treatment  and 
provision  would  be  obtained  at  each  union,  and 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


M^i 


what  form  of  application  was  necessary  in 
order  to  gain  admittance.  Very  many  of  tliem 
will  go  from  London,  first  into  Essex  (the 
unions  are  good  there,  and  the  stages  not 
long) ;  then  perhi^g  through  Suffolk,  keeping 
tolerably  near  the  coast,  because  the  shipping 
is  attractive  to  most  boys  of  their  age ;  thence 
they  will  proceed,  by  long  or  short  stages, 
according  to  the  distance  of  the  unions, 
through  Lincolnshire  and  Yorkshire.  Few 
of  the  vagrants  miss  Leeds,  there  being  a 
Mendicity  Asylum  in  the  town,  where  a  good 
night's  lodging  is  given  to  them,  and  threepence 
or  foorpence,  and  in  some  cases  sixpence  (ac- 
cording to  the  apparent  worthiness  of  the 
Applicant)  ifi  bestowed  upon  each.  I  believe 
the  habitual  vagrants  will  go  three  or  four 
stages  out  of  the  direct  road  to  make  Leeds  in 
their  way.  From  here  they  will  go  in  different 
directions  towards  Durham  and  Northumber- 
land, or,  perhaps,  to  Manchester,  where  there 
is  a  society  of  the  same  kind  as  at  Leeds,  sup- 
ported by  the  Quakers,  where  similar  relief  is 
afforded.  At  Northumberland,  the  body  of 
vagrants  generally  torn  back  and  begin  to  steer 
southwards.  Some,  indeed,  will  go  as  fur  as 
Berwick;  but  as  the  relief  afforded  in  Scot- 
land is  not  obtained  so  readily  as  in  England, 
they  seldom,  as  I  have  said,  proceed  northward 
beyond  that  point  The  Scotch  are  *  too  far 
north  •  for  the  regular  English  tramps.  It  is 
true  they  sometimes  give  them  a  little  barley- 
cake,  but,  from  all  I  have  heard,  the  vagrants 
fai'e  very  poorly  beyond  Berwick.  From 
Northumberland,  they  turn  off  towards  Cum- 
berland, Westmoreland,  and  Lancashire;  and 
then  many  will  go  off  through  Cheshire  into 
North  Wales,  and  thence  come  round  again 
into  Shropshire.  Others  will  wander  through 
Staffordshire  and  Derbyshire,  but  most  of 
them  centre  in  Birmingham  ;  thatisafavourite 
meeting-place  for  the  young  vagrants.  Hero 
they  make  a  point  of  tearing  up  their  clothes, 
because  tor  this  offence  they  are  committed  to 
Warwick  gaol  for  a  month,  and  have  a  shilling 
on  being  discharged  from  the  prison.  It  is 
not  the  diet  of  Warwick  gaol  that  induces  them 
to  do  this,  but  the  shilling.  Frequently  they 
tear  up  their  clothes  in  order  to  get  a  fresh 
supply.  You  see,  sir,  from  continuaUy  sleeping 
in  their  clothes,  and  never  washing  Uieir 
bodies,  or  changing  their  shirts — even  if  they 
liave  such  things  to  change— they  get  to 
swarm  witli  vermin,  to  such  an  extent  that 
they  cannot  bear  them  upon  their  bodies.  Oh ! 
I  have  seen  such  sights  sometimes — such 
sights  as  any  decent,  cleanly  person  would  not 
credit.  I  have  seen  the  lice  on  their  clothes 
in  the  sunshine,  as  thick  as  blight  on  the 
leaves  of  trees.  When  their  garments,  from 
this  cause,  get  very  uncomfortable  to  them, 
they  will  tear  them  up,  for  the  purpose  of 
forcing  the  parish  officers  to  give  them  some 
fresh  ones.  From  Birmingham  they  will  come 
up,  generally  through  Northampton  and  Hert- 
ford, to  London ;  for  by  this  time  either  the 


refuges  will  be  about  opening,  or  the  lads  will 
have  been  forgotten  at  the  unions  in  and 
around  the  metropolis.  They  say  that  Lon- 
don is  fresh  to  them,  when,  owing  either  to 
long  absence,  or  some  alteration  in  their  ap- 
pearance,  they  are  looked  upon  as  strangers 
by  the  masters  or  porters  of  the  workhouses. 
London,  on  the  other  hand,  they  say,  is  dead 
to  them,  when  they  have  become  too  well 
known  at  such  places.  Some  will  make  only 
a  short  torn  out  of  London,  going  across  the 
country  through  Sussex,  Hampshire,  or  Wilt- 
shire. Hampshire  they  are  attracted  to  in 
large  numbers,  in  consequence  of  the  charity 
distributed  at  Winchester."  [It  will  be  seen 
by  the  table  above  given,  that  Southampton 
stands  very  high  among  the  places  upon  the 
vagrant  list.]  "  In  these  parts  the  vagrants 
keep  crossing  the  coimtry  to  various  *  relief,* 
as  they  call  it,  and  so  manage  to  spin  out  nearly 
two  months  in  the  autumn.  The  vagrants 
mostly  go  down  with  the  fashionables  to  the 
sea-side  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year — the 
practised  beggars  in  particular.  In  the  spring 
they  generally  make  for  the  north  of  England. 
I  believe  there  are  more  beggars  and  tramps 
in  Durham,  Lincolnshire,  and  Yorkshire,  than 
in  half  of  the  other  parts  of  England  put 

together." "  Begging  is  more 

profitable  there  than  in  any  other  quarter  of 
the  kingdom.  A  man  may  pick  up  more  pro- 
visions in  the  day-time  in  those  counties  Uian 
anywhere  else.  The  farmers  are  more  liberal 
in  those  parts,  which  are  great  places  for  pud- 
ding, pies,  and  cakes ;  and  of  these  the  young 
tramps  are  remarkably  fond.  Round  about 
these  parts  the  tramps  pass  the  summer. 
If  the  weather  is  fine  and  mild,  they  profer 
*  skippering  it,'  that  is,  sleeping  in  an  outhouse 
or  hay-field,  to  going  to  a  union.  They  have 
no  trouble  in  getting  *  scran,'  or  provisions 
there,  and  Uiey  object  to  the  work  connected 
with  the  casual  wards.  In  the  autumn,  they 
are  mostly  in  Sussex  or  Kent ;  for  they  like 
the  hop-picking.  It  is  not  hard  work,  and 
there  are  a  great  many  loose  girls  to  be  found 
there.  I  believe  many  a  boy  and  man  goes 
hop-picking  who  never  does  anything  else 
during  the  year  but  beg.  The  female  tramps 
mostly  go  down  to  Kent  to  pick  up  their 
'young  chaps,'  as  they  call  them  ;  and  with 
them  Uiey  travel  through  the  country  as  long 
as  they  can  agree,  or  until  either  party  meets 
with  some  one  they  are  better  pleased  with, 
and  then  they  leave  the  other,  or  bury  them, 
as  they  term  it. 

"  The  Irish  vagrants  are  mostly  to  be 
found  on  the  roads  from  Liv^ool  or  from 
Bristol  to  London.  I  should  think  that  at  the 
end  of  June  the  roads  must  be  literally  covered 
with  the  Irish  families  tramping  to  London. 
They  come  over  in  boatsful,  without  a  penny 
in  their  pockets,  to  get  a  little  work  during  the 
harvesting  and  hop-picking.  Such  of  them  as 
make  up  Uieir  minds  to  return  to  their  country 
after  the  autumn,  contrive,  by  some  means,  to 


Ma 


lOVhOS  LABOVB  ASD  TBE  tOSJfOlS  rOOM, 


Jr<*r.   r'*  V/  tiwt  •-zf^ve  of  F*r2b7  tor  tA*sr 
j      V^;;^^/.  *i^*:n  yh.*if»  Xtjr;  ux^h  vj^Xiffj.    TLtj 

vfj//  u  t/i^nr  k/irf)k«r,  auM  k«  hU:^m  id  tn^Ahfft 
pl^>«,  fr/r  fear  h^  itbMiJd  Iia  Mstrth^^  or  ro&bibd 
«t  U<«  tmiaI  v«r4*.  l'L«  Ifuh  fer«  tl'a^x 
ytfrj  ft\\hj  tA  diMrAMrd.  TfMrr  lire  npr/Q  2iul« 
i>r  ri'/tijin^,  ^A  ujyyn  i4»*  w'>ni  kio  J  of  pr>. 
▼t«i/>n  U«ja  e«a  Iia  ly/aj|fht,  «t«&  thoq;rh  it  be 
n*A  fix  Vff  liaiAwi  ii/A.  Tb^^  vill  ^  anj- 
thinif.  Tl*«  iriiifa  tmupliT«!ik  ivj1«1v  \rj  btggiog. 
Jt  |j«4  'yfUffi  ^tCUmvAthA  in*T,  »ir,  t>i«t  th«n;  are 
wrArcI/  ftA/  W*:hh  trairipii.  I  f'-Qf»f»OK  this 
t:tmtf.%  ff'/m  th*  indoAtry  r/f  th«  p'^'plc  The 
Kni^mh  trunp  liv««  hy  \f»tn^mtt  aod  ttMling, 
«— I  thiijk,  UifAtlj  hj  huiuin^;  a  thorough 
inunp  fi;*iU  niorn  that  wa)r  than  th<;  other.  If 
h^  ^*/»:%  Uj  thti  \,tM'd0fisr  *A  a  house  on  the 
nrtrU:ut»  of  htrtff^ng,  and  sees  aoy  IsDen,  or 
bnjiihc'Sf  or  kh'jes,  or,  indeed,  even  a  hit  of 
nttMn,  ho  will  t^  off  with  it,  and  Bell  it,  TDOstly 
U»  uu:  VtmyHzf  tit  some  low  lodgin^'-hoose  where 
he  msy  put  up  fr^r  the  uighL  They  seldom 
r/^njinit  highway  rr/bU-ries,  and  arc  generally 
tlio  v<;ry  IfiweHt  and  meanest  of  thieves.  No 
one  ran  imagine,  but  thone  who  hare  gone 
through  it,  the  horror  of  a  casual  ward  of  a 
union;  what  with  the  fllth,  the  vermin,  the 
stifuch,  tlie  heat,  and  the  noise  of  the  place,  it 
is  intokruble.  The  usual  conversation  is  upon 
the  Si  I  ventures  of  the  day.  One  recounts  how 
he  htolu  til  is  thing,  and  another  that.  Some 
tell  wliat  i>olico  are  stationed  in  Uie  difEerent 
towns;  othent,  what  places  to  go  to  either 
to  Um,  rob,  or  sleep ;  and  others,  what  places 
to  Iniware  of.  I  have  muMcd  seven  years  of 
my  life  in  this  way,  and  I  have  been  so  used 
to  tramping  about,  tliatwlien  the  spring  comes 
n)und  1  muHt  be  on  Uje  move.  In  the  winter 
Uiore  is  more  food  to  be  pieko<l  up  in  London 
than  in  the  country,  and  the  beggars  seldom 
foil  to  make  a  grxxl  thing  of  it  in  the  cold 
weather.  I  have  met  with  beggars  in  Car. 
nurvon  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  London 
for  the  express  puq)oso  of  begging  from  the 
visitors  to  the  Snowdon  mountains.  There 
are  very  few  houses  round  about,  but  a  good 
deal  is  picked  up  from  the  company  coming  to 
the  hotels." 

I  shall  now  conclude  thiti  account  of  the 
numbers,  cost,  and  character  of  the  country 
and  tlio  metropolis,  with  the  narratives  of  two 
fumiklo  tramps. 

The  first — a  young  woman  30  years  of  age 
—gave  me  the  following  statement.  Her  face 
was  what  the  vulgar  would  call  **  good-looking," 
as  her  cheeks  wore  full  and  deep-coloured,  and 
h««r  eyes  tolerably  bright^  and  lier  tooth  goml. 
She  was  very  stout,  too.  Her  dress  was 
t<»lenibly  cloftn  and  good,  but  sat  cU)so  about 


&V.  as  d  fijt  zjA  so  rBder-cSochziie.    She 


""I  1^  a  zjoj^  <A ^  wbes«  my  father 

w«s  a  w9:iiWE.&»r.  I  wis  aa  ccly  child.  I 
CK.  I  r»Bi«s.b€r  -c^  coeh^r.  she  died  when  I 
«u  10  7'C&£.  My  fssh^  daed  morv  than  f'>!2r 
'}VB%  %£•*.  It4  beard  as  ia:Kh  sinee  I  left 
,  b'jc&e.  'l  WW  i«£t  %t-j  the  Naoinal  Scfao(^  I 
em  md.  bn  eaal  w7ii«.  My  £sther  went  to 
I  work  9CL  Weili&gKA,  in  Somersetshire,  taking 
rme  widi  him,  whm  I  was  qoiie  a  liale 
gzrL  He  was  a  sood  fisther  and  very  kind, 
and  we  had  f^eitty  to  eat.  I  think  of  him 
,  sometiELes :  it  nafces  me  sorrowfaL  He 
-  would  have  been  sadly  distressed  if  he  had 
I  seen  me  in  this  auie.  My  father  married 
again  when  I  was  12, 1  mppose.  He  married 
a  faetory.woman.  She  was  about  30.  She 
waan't  irood  to  bw.  She  led  me  a  dreadful 
life,  always  telliDg  my  lather  stories  of  me,— 
that  I  was  away  when  I  waml,  and  he  grumbltKi 
at  me.  He  never  beat  me,  bat  my  stepmother 
often  beat  me.  She  vaa  raiy  bad-tempered, 
and  I  am  veiy  bad-tempered,  too—very  pas- 
sionate; bat  if  I*m  well  traated  my  passion 
doesnX  come  oat  She  beat  me  with  anything 
that  came  first  to  hand,  aa  the  hearth-bmsh, 
and  she  flang  things  at  me.  She  disliked  me, 
beeaose  she  knew  I  hated  mj  fluher  marrying 
again.  I  was  very  happy  before  that,  living 
with  my  lather.  I  oootd  eook  dinner  for  him, 
young  as  I  was,  make  his  bed,  and  do  all  those 
sort  of  things,  all  bat  his  washing.  I  had  a 
bed  to  myBelt  My  litfher  was  a  good  man. 
He  came  home  drank  aometimea,  but  not 
often.  It  never  made  any  di£Eerence  in  him, 
he  was  always  kind.  He  seemed  comfortable 
with  my  stepmother,  bat  I  wasn't  I  used 
to  tell  my  llsther  how  she  used  me,  but  he 
said  it  was  nonsense.  This  went  on  till  I  was 
lj>,  when  J  ran  away.  Fm  aore  I  had  been  a 
good  girl  till  then.  I  never  slept  oat  cIL  my 
lather's  house  np  to  that  time,  and  didn't  ke«p 
company  with  any  young  men.  I  oould  stand 
my  stepmother's  treatment  no  longer.  If  she 
had  beien  kind  I  wouldn't  have  run  away.  I 
was  almost  as  big  then  as  I  am  now.  I  had 
44.  or  5«.  with  me,  I  don't  remember  just  how 
much,  I  started  in  anch  a  passion ;  but  it  was 
money  I  had  saved  up  flrom  what  my  father 
had  ^ven  me.  I  took  no  dothea  with  me  bat 
what  I  had  on.  I  was  tidily  dressed.  It  was 
in  the  haymaking  time,  and  I  made  straight 
away  to  London.  I  was  so  yoimg  and  in  such 
a  rage,  I  couldn't  think  of  notUng  but  getting 
away.  When  I  cooled  I  began  to  think  of  my 
father,  but  at  homo  I  had  heard  of  young  girls 
being  sent  out  to  Australia  and  having  done 
well,  and  I  thought  I  could  eadly  get  sent  out 
from  London,  and  so  I  went  on.  I  slept  in 
lodging-bouses.  I  was  shocked  the  first  night 
I  got  into  Bridgewater,  men,  women,  sad 
boys,  all  sleeping  in  the  same  room.  I  slept 
with  onotheryoung  woman,  a  travelling- woman, 
but  married.  I  couldn't  think  of  going  back. 
I  couldn't  humble  myself  before  that  step- 


m^n'  ■'  -g.. 


VAGBANTS  IN  THE  CASUAL  WARD  OF  \YOKKHOUSE, 

[/YoM  a  Skdck.] 


4 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


403 


mother.  I  thought  anything  would  be  bolter 
than  that.  I  couldn't  sleep  at  all  the  first  night 
I  was  out.  I  never  was  in  such  a  bod  before. 
A  young  man  who  saw  me  there  wanted  me 
to  Uvo  with  him ;  he  was  a  beggar,  and  I  didn't 
like  a  beggar,  and  I  wouldn't  have  nothing 
to  say  to  him.  He  wasn't  impudent ;  but  he 
followed  me  to  Bristol,  all  the  time,  whenever 
I  met  with  him,  teasing  me  to  live  with  him. 
1  lived  on  my  money  as  long  as  I  oould,  and 
then  had  to  go  and  sleep  in  a  union.  I  don't 
know  wht're.  It  was  a  dreadful  place.  The 
rats  iim  over  my  head  while  I  slept;  and  I 
prayed  for  daylight — for  I  used  to  pray  then. 
I  don't  now.  I  don't  like  the  thoughts  of  it. 
At  last  I  got  to  London.  I  was  sitting  in 
Hyde-park  thinking  where  I  should  go — I 
know  it  was  in  Hyde-park,  for  I  was  taken  up 
from  it  since.  The  park-keeper  took  me  up  for 
making  a  noise — that's  a  disturbance — in  the 
park  ;  me  and  some  other  young  women :  we 
\*vn}  only  washing  ourselves  where  the  horses 
drink,  near  the  canteen.  In  Hyde-park,  while 
1  was  sitting,  as  I've  told  you,  some  girls  and 
some  young  men,  and  some  older  men,  passed 
mc,  canning  rakes.  I  was  sitting  with  three 
other  girls  I'd  got  acquainted  with  on  the  road, 
all  Irish  girlR.  The  people  that  passed  mo 
said,  *  Wo  are  goiu^  half-way  to  Watford  a- 
haymaking.  Go  with  us?'  We  all  went. 
lOach  of  those  Irish  girls  soon  took  up  with  a 
mate.  I  think  they  had  known  each  other 
before.  I  had  a  fortnight  at  haymaking.  I 
had  a  mate  at  haymaking,  and  in  a  few  days  he 
ruined  me.  He  told  the  master  that  I  belonged 
to  him.  He  didn't  say  I  was  his  wife.  They 
don't  call  us  their  wives.  I  continued  with 
him  a  long  time,  living  with  him  as  his  wife. 
We  next  went  into  Kent  harvesting,  then  a- 
hopping,  and  I've  been  every  summer  since. 
He  was  kind  to  me,  but  we  were  both  pas- 
tiionatc  —  fire  against  fire  —  and  we  fought 
sometimes.  He  never  beat  me  but  once,  for 
contradicting  him.  He  wasn't  jealous,  and 
lie  had  no  reason  to  be  so.  I  don't  know  that 
he  was  fond  of  me,  or  he  wouldn't  have  run 
away.  I  liked  him,  and  would  have  gone 
through  trouble  for  him.  I  like  him  still.  Wo 
n<^ver  talked  about  marrying.  I  didn't  care, 
for  I  didn't  think  about  it.  I  lived  with  him, 
and  was  true  to  him,  until  he  ran  away  in  hay- 
making time  in  1848.  He  ran  away  fi^m  me 
in  Kent,  where  we  were  hopping.  We  hadnt 
(|uarrelled  for  some  days  before  he  started.  I 
didn't  think  he  was  going,  for  he  was  kind  to 
me  just  before.  I  left  him  once  for  a  fort- 
night myself,  through  some  quarrel,  but  he 
got  me  back  again.  I  came  up  to  London  in 
a  boat  from  Gravesend,  with  other  hoppers.  I 
lived  on  fifteen  shillings  i  had  saved  up.  I 
lived  on  that  as  long  as  it  lasted — ^more  than  a 
week.  I  lodged  near  the  Dials,  and  used  to 
go  drinking  with  other  women  I  met  with 
there,  as  I  was  fond  of  diink  then.  I  don't 
like  it  so  much  now.  We  drank  gin  and  beer. 
I  kept  to  myself  until  my  money  was  gone, 


and  then  I  looked  ont  for  myself.  I  had  no 
particular  friends.  The  women  I  drank  with 
were  some  bad  and  some  good.  I  got  ac- 
quainted with  a  young  girl  as  I  whs  walking 
along  the  Strand  looking  out  for  my  living  l^ 
prostitution — I  couldn't  star\'e.  We  walked 
together.  We  couldn't  stay  in  the  Strand, 
where  the  girls  were  well-dressed,  and  so  wo 
kept  about  the  Dials.  I  didn't  think  much 
about  the  life  I  was  leading,  because  I  got 
hardened.  I  didnt  like  it,  though.  Still  I 
thought  I  should  never  like  to  go  home.  I 
lodffed  in  a  back-street  near  the  Dials.  I 
couldn't  take  anybody  there.  I  didn't  do  well. 
I  often  wanted  money  to  pay  my  lodgings,  and 
food  to  eat,  and  had  often  to  stay  out  all  night 
perishing.  Many  a  night  out  in  the  streets 
I  never  got  a  farthing,  and  had  to  walk  about 
all  day  because  I  durstn't  go  back  to  my  room 
without  money.  1  never  had  a  fancy  man. 
There  was  all  sorts  in  the  lodging-house— 
thirty  of  them — ^pickpockets,  and  beggars,  and 
cadgers,  and  fuicy  men,  and  some  that  wanted 
to  be  fancy  men,  but  I  never  saw  one  that  I 
liked.  I  never  picked  pockets  as  other  girls 
did ;  I  was  not  nimble  enough  with  my  hands. 
Sometimes  I  had  a  sovereign  in  my  pocket, 
but  it  was  never  there  a  day.  I  used  to  go 
out  a^drinking,  treating  other  women,  and  they 
would  treat  me.  We  helped  one  another  now 
and  then.  X  was  badly  off  for  clothes.  I  had 
no  illness  except  colds.  The  common  fellows 
in  the  streets  were  always  jeering  at  me. 
Sometimes  missionaries,  I  think  thejr're  called, 
talked  to  me  about  the  life  I  was  leading,  but 
I  told  them,  *  You  mind  yourself,  and  I'll  mind 
myself.  What  is  it  to  you  where  I  go  when  I 
die  ?  '  I  don't  steal  anything.  I  swear  some- 
times now.  When  I  was  at  home  and  good,  I 
was  shocked  to  hear  such  a  thing.  Me  and 
the  other  girls  used  to  think  it  clever  to  swear 
hard,  and  say  bad  words  one  to  another  or  to 
anybody — we're  not  particolar.  Ifl  went  into 
the  Magdalen,  I  know  I  couldn't  stay  there.  I 
have  not  been  there,  but  I  know  I  couldn't, 
from  what  I've  heard  of  it  from  the  other 
girls,  some  of  whom  said  they'd  been ;  and  I 
suppose  they  had,  as  there  was  no  motive  at  all 
for  them  to  tell  lies  about  it  I  have  been  in 
the  casual  wards  at  Holbom  and  Kensington 
when  I  was  beat  out.  It  was  better  than  walk- 
ing the  streets.  I  think,  by  the  life  I  lead-* 
and  without  help  I  must  lead  it  still,  or  starve 
— I  sometimes  get  twenty  shillings  a- week, 
sometimes  not  more  than  five  shillings.  I 
would  like  best  to  go  to  Australia,  where  no- 
body would  know  me.  I'm  sure  I  oould  be- 
have myself  there.  There's  no  hope  for  me 
here :  everybody  that  knows  me  despises  me. 
I  could  take  a  service  in  Sydney.  I  could  get 
rid  of  my  swearing.  I  only  swear  now  when 
I'm  vexed — ^it  comes  out  natural-like  then.  I 
could  set  rid  of  my  love  of  drink.  No  one- 
no  girl  can  carry  on  the  life  I  do  ¥rithout 
drink.  No  girl's  feelings  would  let  her.  I 
never  met  one  but  what  said  so,  and  I  know 


404 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


they  all  told  the  truth  in  that.  I  am  strong 
and  healthy,  and  could  take  a  hard  place  with 
country  work.  That  about  Australia  is  the 
best  wish  I  have.  I'm  sure  I'm  sick  of.  this 
life.  It  has  only  drink  and  excitement  to 
recommend  it.  I  haven't  a  friend  in  the 
world.  I  have  been  told  I  was  a  fool  not  to 
pick  pockets  like  other  girls.  I  never  begged 
but  once,  and  that  was  as  I  was  coming  to 
London,  and  a  woman  said,  '  You  look  better 
than  I  do!*  so  I  never  begged  again — that 
checked  me  at  once.  But  I've  got  tickets  for 
the  *  straw-yards,'  or  the  •  leather-houses,'  as 
some  call  them  (asylums  for  the  houseless). 
The  old  women  all  say  it  was  far  better  when 
they  were  yoimg.  I  think  what  a  change  it  is 
from  my  country  life ;  but  when  I  get  sad,  I 
go  and  get  a  glass  of  gin,  if  I  have  the  money. 
I  can  get  a  pennyworth  in  some  houses.  I 
can't  do  much  at  my  needle.  The  idleness  of 
the  life  I  lead  is  terrible.  There  is  nothing  to 
interest  me.** 

The  next  was  a  mere  girl,  who  bad  lost  all 
traces  of  feminine  beauty.  There  was  on  im- 
pudence in  her  expression  that  was  utterly 
repulsive ;  and  even  in  her  most  serious  mo- 
ments it  was  evident  that  she  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  to  restrain  her  inward  levity.  Her 
dress  consisted  principally  of  a  ragged  red  and 
green  plaid  shawl,  pinned  tight  over  her  neck, 
and  a  torn  straw.bonnet,  worn  back  upon  her 
head. 

**  I  have  a  father  alive,"  she  said ;  '*  I  have 
got  no  mother.  I  have  been  away  these  three 
years.  I  came  away  with  a  chap.  I  was 
living,  sir,  when  I  was  at  home,  with  my  father 
in  Maidstone.  My  father  was  a  gardener, 
and  I  used  to  work  at  shirt-making  when  I  was 
at  home  with  my  father.  My  mother  has  been 
dead  eight  years,  I  think.  I  can't  say  how  old 
I  was  Sien.  I  am  twenty  now.  ^Iy  father, 
after  my  mother's  death,  married  again.  She 
was  dead  seven  years  before  ho  got  another 
wife.  He  didn't  marry  again  while  I  was  at 
home.  My  mother  was  a  very  good  mother. 
I  was  veiy  fond  of  my  mother,  for  she  was  a 
very  good  mother ;  but  not  of  my  father,  for 
he  was  a  bad  father.  Why,  sir,  he  used  to 
treat  us  three  girls  so  ill,  my  biggest  sister 
was  obliged  to  go  to  Australia  from  him.  My 
next  sister  was  younger  than  me,  ond  I  don't 
know  whether  she  is  at  home  now ;  but  I  don't 
believe  that  she  can  stop  at  home,  because  I 
have  been  down  as  far  as  Maidstone  since  I 
went  away  with  my  young  man,  and  I've  heard 
that  she's  almost  dead  between  the  pair  of 
them.  By  the  pair  of  them,  I  mean  my  father 
and  stepmother.  My  mother-in-law  is  the 
worst  to  my  sister.  My  father  was  bad  before 
she  came  ;  he  was  such  a  drimkord.  We  went 
to  school,  where  we  paid  nothing  a-week,  in 
Maidstone;  it's  a  free  school.  I  can  read. 
I  can't  write.  All  the  money  my  father  used 
to  earn  he  used  to  drink,  and  leave  us  without 
any  food.  I  went  to  the  shirt-making  when  I 
was  twelve  years   of  age,   and  that  used  to 


bring  me  about  ^.  a-day,  and  with  that  I  used 
to  buy  bread,  for  we  never  got  a  halfpenny 
firom  my  father  to  keep  us.    My  father  used  to 
work  for  a  gentleman,  and  got  pretty  good 
wages.    The  yoimg  chap  that  I  first  took  up 
with  was  a  carpenter.     He  was  apprenticed  to 
the  trade.    He  enticed  mo  away.    He  told  me 
if  I'd  come  to  London  with  him  he'd  do  any- 
thing for  me.  I  used  to  tell  him  how  badly  my 
father  tieated  me,  and  he  used  to  tell  me  not 
to  stop  at  home.    I  have  been  knocking  about 
three  years,  and  I'm  twenty  now,  so  I  leave 
you  to  say  how  old  I  was  then.    No,  I  can't 
say.    I'm  twenty  now,  and  I've    been  away 
these  three  years,  and  I  don't  know  how  old 
that  would  make  me.    I   never   learnt    any 
ciphering.    My  father  used  to  beat  us  and 
knock  us  about  when  he  came  home  drunk.   I 
liked  the  young  man  that  came  a-courting  on 
me  very  well.    I  thought  all  he  said  was  true, 
and  I  thought  he  would  make  me  much  hap- 
pier than  I  was  at  home.**    [Here  she  shook 
her  head  with  apparent  regret.]     "  Yes,  sir,  he 
promised  he  would  marry  me;  but  when  I 
came  over  to  London  he  ruined  me,  and  then 
ran  away  and  left  me.    I  knew  it  was  wrong  to 
go  away  and  live  with  him  without  b^g 
married ;  but  I  was  wretched  at  home,  and  he 
told  me  he  would  make  me  his  wife,  and  I 
believed  him.    He  brought  me  up  to  London 
with  him,  into  the  Borough.     He  took  me  to 
a  low  lodging-house  there.    The  charge  was 
6</.  a-night  for  the  two  of  us.    There  were  six 
sleeping   in  the  same  room  beside  as  two. 
They  were  men  and  women.     Some  of  'em 
were  married,  and  some  were  not.    He  had 
4t»,  6d.  when  he  came  up  to  London  with  me, 
and  I  had  none.    He  stopped  with  me.    He 
stopped  with  me  in  the  same  house  a  week. 
He  was  22  years  of  age,  or  23,  I  can't  say 
which.    ^Vhile  he  was  with  mo  he  was  very 
kind  to  me :  oh,  yes,  sir,  much  kinder  than  my 
father,  and  I  loved  him  a  great  deal  more,  Tm 
sure.    I  hadn't  many  clothes  when  I  left  my 
father's  home.    I  had  nothing  but  what  I 
stood  upright  in.    I  had  no  more  clothes  when 
I  was  at  home.    When  my  young  man  left  me 
there  was  another   yoimg  girl  in   the  same 
lodging-house,  who  advised  me  to  turn  ont 
upon  ihe  streets.    I  went  and  took  her  advice. 
I  did  like  the  life  for  a  bit,  because  I  see'd 
there  was  money  getting  by  it.    Sometimes  I 
got  4s.  or  5«.  a-day,  and  sometimes  more  than 
that.    I  still  kept  at  the  same  house.    There 
were  a  lot  of  girls  like  me  at  the  same  place. 
It  was  not  a  bad  house,  but  they  encouraged 
us  like.     No  tramps  used  to  come  there,  only 
young  chaps  and  gals  that  used  to  go  out 
thieving.     No,  my  young  man  didnt  thieve, 
not  while  he  was  with  me,  but  I  did  after- 
wards.    I've  seen   young  chaps   brought  in 
there  by  the  girls  merely  to  pay  their  lodging- 
money.    The  landlady  told  us  to  do  that ;  she 
said  I  could  do  better  than  knocking  about 
with  a  man.    If  I  hadn't  had  enough  to  pay 
for  my  lodging^,  I  couldn't  have  hod  a  bed  to 


LOXDOS  LABOVlt  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


405 


lie  on.  We  used  to  be  all  in  the  same  room, 
chaps  and  girls,  sometimes  nine  or  ten  couples 
in  the  same  room — only  little  bits  of  girls  and 
chi^.  I  have  seen  girls  there  Vi  years  of 
age.  The  boys  was  about  15  or  16.  They 
used  to  swear  dreadfuL  I  fell  out  with  the 
gal  as  first  told  me  to  go  on  the  streets,  and 
then  I  got  with  another  at  another  house. 
I  moved  to  Paddington.  I  lived  at  a  little 
public-house  there  —  a  bad  house ;  and  I 
used  to  go  out  shoplifting  with  my  pal.  1 
used  to  taJce  everything  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on.  We  went  one  night,  and  I  stole  two 
dresses,  at  a  linendfai>er'8  shop,  and  had  two 
months  a^piece  for  it.  Yes,  sir,  I  liked  prison 
very  well,  because  I  had  such  bad  clothes ;  and 
was  glad  to  be  out  of  the  way.  Some  days  we 
hardly  had  a  bit  to  put  in  our  mouths.  Some- 
times we  used  to  get  nothing  shopUfting ;  the 
men,  perhaps,  would  notice— ^he  fly-men,  as  we 
called  them.  They  used  to  be  too  wide-awake 
for  us.  Sometimes  we  used  to  make  5j.  in  the 
day ;  but  then  we  used  to  spend  it  all  in  waste 
— why,  spending  it  in  anything.  We'd  buy 
fish,  and  meat,  and  baked  potatoes,  and  pud- 
ding. No,  sir,  very  little  drink  we  had.  We 
didn't  care  for  gin,  nor  any  liquor  at  all.  There 
was  none  among  us  but  one  that  cared  for 
drink,  and  she  used  to  pawn  all  her  clothes  for 
it  I  dare  say  there  was  upwards  of  twelve  or 
thirteen  gals  ;  the  kitchen  used  to  bo  full.  The 
mistress  used  to  treat  us  well  if  we  paid  her ; 
but  she  used  to  holler  at  us  if  we  didn't.  The 
chaps  used  to  ser\'e  her  out  so.  They  used  to 
take  the  sheets,  and  blankets,  and  everything 
away  from  her.  She  was  deaf.  They  was 
mostly  all  prigs  that  used  to  come  to  see  us. 
They  used  to  go  out  nailing — Uiat's  thieving. 
There  was  one  that  they  used  to  call 
Fogerty  was  transported:  another  got  seven 
months ;  and  another  got  a  twelvemonth.  I 
had  one  fancy-man.  He  was  a  shoplifter  and 
a  pickpocket :  he  has  got  two  years  now.  .  I 
went  to  see  him  once  in  quod ;  some  calls  it 
*  the  Steel.'  I  cried  a  good  deal  when  he  got 
nailed,  sir :  I  loved  him.  A  little  time  after  he 
went  away,  I  went  down  into  the  country; 
down  into  Essex.  I  saw  1  couldn't  get  him 
off,  'cause  it  was  for  a  watch,  and  the  gen- 
tleman went  so  hard  against  him.  I  was 
with  him  at  the  time  he  stole  it,  but  I 
didn't  know  he'd  got  it  till  I  saw  him  run. 
I  got  the  man  down  by  a  saw-mill ;  he  was 
tipsy.  He  was  a  gentleman,  and  said  he 
woi^d  give  me  five  shillings  if  I  would  come 
along  with  him.  My  fancy-man  always  kept 
near  to  me  whenever  I  went  out  of  a  night  1 
usen't  to  go  out  to  take  the  men  home ;  it  was 
only  to  pick  them  up.  My  young  man  used 
to  tell  me  how  to  rob  the  men.  I'd  get  them 
up  in  a  comer,  and  then  I  used  to  take  out 
of  their  pockets  whatever  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on ;  and  then  I  used  to  hand  it  over  to  him, 
and  he  used  to  take  the  things  homo  and 
•fence'  them.  We  used  to  do  a  good  deal 
this  way  sometimes:  often  we'd  get  enough 


to  keep  us  two  or  three  days.  At  last  he  got 
caught  for  the  watch;  and  when  1  seo'd  I 
couldn't  get  him  oflf,  I  went  down  into  the 
country-— down  into  Essex,  sir.  I  travelled  all 
parts,  and  slept  at  the  unions  on  the  road.  I 
met  a  young  girl  down  in  Town  Mailing,  in 
Kent  I  met  her,  and  then  we  used  to  go 
begging  together,  and  tramp  it  firom  one  union 
to  another.  At  last  we  got  so  ragged  and 
dirty,  and  our  things  all  got  so  bad,  that  we 
made  up  our  minds  to  go  in  for  three  months 
into  prison,  at  Battle,  down  in  Sussex.  We 
used  to  meet  a  great  many  on  the  road  boil- 
ing  their  kettle,  and  sometimes  we  used  to 
stop  and  skipper  with  them  of  a  night  Skip- 
pering is  sleeping  in  bams  or  under  hedges, 
if  it's  warm  weather.  They  weren't  gipsies. 
We  usen't  to  stop  to  speak  to  the  gipsies — ^not 
much — unless  we  went  to  fairs  or  horse-races. 
Then  we  used  to  sit  with  them  for  a  little 
while,  if  they  had  their  tent  We  generally 
used  to  steal  on  the  way.  If  we  could  see 
anything,  we  used  to  take  it.  At  last,  when 
our  clothes  got  bad,  I  and  the  other  girl — she 
still  kept  with  me---determined  to  break  the 
parson's  windows  at  Battle.  We  broke  one 
because  the  house  was  good  for  a  cant — that's 
some  food — bread  or  meat,  and  tliey  wouldn't 
give  it  us,  so  we  got  savage,  and  broke  all  the 
glass  in  the  windows.  For  that  we  got  three 
months.  After  we  got  out,  the  parson  sent 
word  for  us  to  come  to  his  house,  and  he  gave 
us  half-a-crown  a-piece  to  take  us  on  our  road. 
He  would  have  given  us  some  clothes — we  had 
no  shoes  and  stockings :  we  was  very  bad  off; 
but  his  wife  was  in  London.  So  we  went  on 
the  road  tramping  again,  and  I  have  been 
tramping  it  about  the  country  ever  since.  I 
was  all  last  winter  in  Town  Mailing  union 
with  the  fever,  and  when  I  got  well  I  set  off 
tramping  again.  I  didn't  have  no  more  chaps 
since  1  left  my  foncy-man — I  mean,  I  never 
took  up  with  no  others,  not  to  keep  their 
company.  I  have  been  about  two  years 
tramping  altogether;  out  of  that  I  had  five 
months  in  prison  for  stealing  and  breaking 
windows.  I  like  the  tramping  life  well  enough 
in  the  summer,  'cause  there's  plenty  of  victuals 
to  be  had  then,  but  it's  the  winter  tliat  we  can't 
stand.  Then  we  generally  come  to  London, 
but  we  can't  call  at  house  to  house  here  as  we 
do  in  the  country,  so  we  make  but  a  i)oor 
thing  of  it  I  never  was  so  bad  off  as  I  am 
now,  excepting  when  I  was  at  Battle,  for  I  had 
no  shoes  or  stockings  then.  The  police  is  too 
sharp  for  us  in  London.  I'm  very  fond  of 
going  through  the  country  in  fine  weather. 
Sometimes  we  don't  make  much  freedom  with 
the  chaps  in  the  union,  and  sometimes  we  do. 
They  tells  us  to  go  along  with  them,  for  they 
knows  good  houses  to  call  at  What  you  make 
is  all  according  to  whether  you're  in  a  lone- 
some road.  I've  travelled  a  day,  and  not  seen 
a  house  that  I  could  get  anything  at  Some 
days  I've  got  ashiUmg  given  to  me,  and  some 
days  as  much  as  half-a-crown.  We  can  always 


400 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOB. 


get  plenty  of  bread  and  meat,  for  cotintryfolks 
is  very  good.  If  I  had  some  good  things-^ 
that  is,  good  boots— I  should  Uke  to  go  into 
the  country  again.  Sometimes  we  gets  so  much 
scran  we  sells  it  among  ourselves.  I  should  sell 
my  lot  to  some  travellers  on  the  road.  They  gives 
us  3d.  or  4i/.,  but  we  must  give  them  a  good 
lot  for  that.  I  can't  say  which  is  the  best  of 
the  unions  now,  for  they  are  all  shut  up. 
They  used  to  be  good  at  one  time,  but  the 
Irish  ruined  them ;  they  came  in  such  swarms, 
the  people,  I  knew,  would  never  stand  it.  We 
used  often  to  say  of  a  night  that  them  Irish 
Greeks  would  iiiin  the  business.  They  are 
much  better  beggars  than  we  are,  though  they 
don't  get  as  much  as  the  English,  because 
they  go  in  such  swarms  up  to  the  door.  Now, 
down  in  Hawkhurst,  there  used  to  be  a  two- 
penny loaf  allowed  to  everybody  that  called  at 
the  parson's  house,  little  and  big;  it  was 
allowed  by  a  lady,  till  the  pigs  of  liiah  ckme 
in  such  lots,  that  they  spoilt  all  the  game. 
The  parson  won't  give  it  to  no  one  now,  except 
eight  travelling-men  in  the  morning.  I  know 
all  the  good  houses,  and  the  tidy  grubbikens, 
—  that's  the  unions  where  there's  little  or 
nothing  to  do  for  the  food  we  gets.  We  walk 
mostly  eleven  miles  a-day.  If  it's  hot  we 
walk  only  six  miles,  and  turn  in  under  a  hedge 
if  we've  got  our  things  with  as  to  make  a  tent. 
We  go  all  right  round  the  country,  np  to 
Yorkshire,  and  as  far  as  Northumberlaiid.  We 
dont  try  Warwick  gaol,  because  the  shilling 
they  used  to  give  on  being  discharged  is 
stopped,  excepting  to  those  that's  not  been 
there  before,  and  there's  very  few  of  the 
trampers,  boys  or  girls,  that  hasn't.  Then 
there's  the  twopenny-houae  down  in  High- 


field,  in  Kant.  I'm  Uowed  if  they  aln*t  been 
and  stopped  that !  I  oaii*t  tell  what's  oome  to 
the  country  of  late.  It's  got  very  bad  and 
scaly,  there's  no  hospitality  going  on.  I've 
been  two  years  at  the  ouainaBs,  and  I've  seen 
it  grow  worse  and  worse,  meaaer  and  meaner, 
every  day  before  my  very  eyes.  I  dont  know, 
I'm  sure,  what  poor  trampers  will  do  if  it  gets 
any  worse.  S<nne  do  talk  of  the  good  old 
times,  when  there  was  plenty  of  money- getting 
in  them  daya.  I  shouldn't  like  to  give  it  up 
just  yet.  I  do  like  to  be  in  the  eonntry  in 
the  summer-time.  I  like  haymaking  and 
hopping,  because  that's  a  good  bit  of  ftin. 
StUl,  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  what  I'm  doing 
now.  It's  the  winter  that  sickens  me.  I'm 
worn  out  now,  and  I  often  site  and  thinks  of 
the  life  that  Fve  led.  I  think  of  my  land, 
dear  mother,  and  how  good  X  would  have 
been  if  my  father  had  taught  me  beUer.  Still, 
if  I'd  clothes  I'd  not  give  up  my  present  lift. 
I'd  be  down  in  the  counUy  now.  I  do  love 
roving  about,  and  I'm  wretched  when  I'm  not 
at  it.  After  my  mother  died  I  never  liked  to 
be  at  home.  I've  seen  many  an  unhappy  day 
since  I've  been  aw^y;  BtiU,  I  wouldn't  go 
back  to  my  home,  because  it^s  no  home  to 
me." 

London  Vaorants'  Astlums  fob  tbb 
houbblbbs. 

To  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  Hiotky 
assemblage  to  be  found  in  these  plaees,  I  sub- 
join  the  following  table  (taken  nora  the  Be- 
port),  by  which  it  will  be  seen  that  almoit 
every  quarter  of  the  globe  oontribotes  its  qoota 
of  wretchedness  .•-^ 


PLACES  TO  WHICH  THE   INDIVIDUALS   SHELTERED  BY  THE  HOUSELESS 

POOR  SOCIETY  DURING  THE  WINTER  1848-49  APPEARED 

TO  BEI^NG. 


AfHca    . 

la 

Hampshire    . 

.    414 

Russia  . 

7 

America 

78 

Herefordshire 

.      40 

Rutlandshire 

.        .     24 

Bedfordshire. 

65 

Hertfordshire 

.    181 

Scotland 

.        .    2W 

Berkshire      . 

.     207 

Huntingdonshire  . 

25 

Shropshire    . 

.     48 

"Rq^^lfingbftmftbirp  . 

88 

Ireland 

8068 

Somersetahire 

,    246 

Cambridgeshire 

.       88 

Italy      .        .        . 

7 

Spain    . 

.     10 

Cheshire 

40 

Jersey   . 

16 

St.  Helena    . 

.       8 

Cornwall 

32 

Kent      . 

.    523 

Staffordshire 

.    199 

Cumberland  . 

la 

Lancashire    . 

811 

Suffolk  . 

.    138 

Derbyshire    . 

48 

Leicestershire 

75 

Surrey  . 

.    204 

Denmark 

C 

Lincolnshire . 

85 

Sussex  . 

,    147 

Devonshire   . 

209 

London 

343 

Wales    . 

.    122 

Dorsetshire  . 

40 

Mildlesex     . 

214 

Warwickshire 

.    180 

Durham 

04 

Norfolk 

103 

West  Indies  . 

.      2ft 

East  Indies  . 

19 

Northamptonshire 

67 

Westmoreland 

.       6 

Essex    . 

392 

Northumberland   . 

72 

W^iltshire 

.      87 

France  . 

14 

Nottinghamshiro   . 

08 

Worcestershire 

.      88 

Germany 

58 

Oxfordshire  . 

100 

Yorkshire      . 

.    128 

Gibraltar 

3 

Poland  . 

4 

Unknown 

.      29 

Gloucestershutj     . 

103 

Portugal 

5 

Bom  at  sea   . 

6 

Guernsey 

32 

LONDON  LABOUR  AND  TBM  LONDON  POOB. 


ior 


These  places  of  shelter  for  the  houseless  are 
only  open  at  certain  periods  of  the  year ;  and 
at  this  season  a  large  proportion  of  the  coun- 
try labourers  who  are  out  of  employ  flock  to 
London,  either  to  seek  for  work  in  the  winter- 
time, or  to  avail  themselves  of  the  food  and 
lodging  afforded  by  these  charitable  institu- 
tions. Others,  again,  who  are  professional 
vagrants,  tramping  through  the  country,  and 
sleeping  at  the  diflerent  unions  on  their  road, 
come  to  town  as  regularly  as  noblemen  eveiy 
winter,  and  make  their  appearance  annually 
in  these  quarters.  Moreover,  it  is  at  this 
season  of  the  year  that  the  sufferings  and 
privations  of  the  really  poor  and  destitute  are 
rendered  tenfold  more  severe  than  at  any 
other  period ;  and  it  is  at  the  houses  of  refuge 
that  the  great  mass  of  London,  or  rather 
English  and  Irish,  poverty  and  misery,  is  to 
be  met  with. 

The  congregation  at  the  Refuges  for  the 
Destitute  is,  mdeed,  a  sort  of  ragged  con- 
gress of  nations — a  convocation  of  squalor  and 
misciy — a  synopsis  of  destitution,  degrada- 
tion, and  suffering,  to  be  seen,  perhaps,  no- 
where else. 

Nor  are  the  returns  of  the  bodily  ailments 
of  the  wretched  inmates  of  these  abodes  less 
instructive  as  to  their  miserable  modes  of 
life,  their  continual  exposure  to  the  weather, 
and  their  want  of  proper  nutriment.  The 
subjoined  medical  report  of  the  diseases  and 
bodily  afflictions  to  which  these  poor  crea- 
tures are  liable,  tells  a  tale  of  suffering  which, 
to  persons  with  even  the  smallest  amount  of 
paUiological  knowledge,  must  need  no  com- 
ment.  The  catarrh  and  influenza,  the  rheu- 
matism, bronchitis,  ague,  asthma,  lumbago — 
all  speak  of  many  long  night's  exposure  to  the 
wet  and  cold ;  whereas  the  abscesses,  ulcers, 
the  diorrhuBa,  and  the  excessive  debility  from 
starvation,  tell,  in  a  manner  that  precludes  all 
doubt,  of  the  want  of  proper  sustenance  and 
extreme  privation  of  these,  the  very  poorest  of 
all  the  poor. 

Medical  Report  for  1848-49.  Of  the  ptrtotu 
who  applied  at  ths  general  asylnm,  there 
were  afflicted  with — 

Catarrh  and  influenza      ....  149 

Incipient  fever 52 

Bheumadsm 50 

Atrophy 3 

Dropsy 3 

Incised  wounds 3 

Diarrhcea GO 

Cholera 2 

Bronchitis 13 

Abscess 15 

Ulcers 11 

Affections  of  the  head      .  .12 

Ague 13 

Excessive  debility  from  starvation    .  17 

Inflammation  of  lungs     ....  2 

Asthma    .                         ....  10 


Epilepsy 4 

Diseased  joints         .....  4 

Eiysipelas 3 

Rupture 5 

Cramps  and  pains  in  bowels    ...  a 

Spitting  of  blood 4 

Lumbago l 

Rheumatic  ophthalmia    ....  2 

Strumous  disease 2 

Sprains 1 

Fractures 4 

Pregnant 30 

The  returns  of  the  dififorent  callings  of  the 
individuals  seeking  for  the  shelter  of  the 
refdges  are  equally  curious  and  worthy  of 
study.  These,  however,  I  shall  reserve  for  my 
next  letter,  as,  by  comparing  the  returns  for 
each  year  since  the  opening  of  the  institution, 
now  thirty  years  ago,  we  shall  be  enabled  to 
arrive  at  almost  an  historical  account  of  the 
distress  of  the  different  trades  since  the  year 
1820.  These  tables  I  am  now  preparing  from 
the  valuable  yearly  reports  of  the  Society,  one 
of  the  most  deserving  among  all  our  charitable 
institutions,  and  one  which,  especially  at  this 
bitter  season,  calls  for  the  support  of  all  those 
who  would  give  a  meal  and  a  bed  to  such  as 
are  too  poor  to  have  either, 

I  will  now  proceed  to  a  description  of  the 
Refuge  itself. 

The  only  refuge  for  the  hQuselesa  now  open 
which  is  reallv  a  home  for  the  homeless,  is 
that  in  Pli^house-yard,  Cripplegate.  The 
doors  open  into  a  narrow  by -street,  and  the 
neighbourhood  needs  no  other  announcement 
that  the  establishment  is  open  for  the  reception 
of  the  houseless,  than  the  assembly  of  a  crowd 
of  Tagged  shivering  people,  certain  to  be  seen 
on  the  night  of  opening,  as  if  they  knew  by 
instinct  where  they  might  be  housed  under  a 
w^rm  and  comfortable  roof.  The  crowd 
gathers  in  Playhouse-yard,  and  many  among 
Uiem  look  sad  and  weary  enough.  Many  of 
the  women  carry  infants  at  the  breast,  and 
have  children  by  their  sides  holding  by  their 
gowns.  The  cries  of  these,  and  the  wrangling 
of  the  hungry  crowds  for  their  places,  is  indeed 
disheartening  to  hear.  The  only  sounds  of 
merriment  come  from  the  errand-boys,  as 
they  call  themselves,  whom  even  starvation 
cannot  make  sorrowfril  for  two  hours  together. 
The  little  struggle  that  there  usually  is  among 
the  applicants  is  not  for  a  rush  when  the  doors 
are  opened,  but  for  what  they  call  the  *'  frxmt 
rank."  They  are  made  to  stand  clear  of  the 
footpath ;  and  when  five  o'clock — the  hour  of 
admission — comes,  an  officer  of  the  Refrige 
steps  out,  and  quietly,  by  a  motion  of  his 
hand,  or  a  touch  on  the  shoulder,  sends  in 
about  150  men  and  boys,  and  about  50  women 
and  girls.  He  knows  the  great  majority  of 
those  who  have  tickets  which  entitle  them  to 
one  or  two  nights'  further  lodging  (the  tickets 
are  generally  for  three  nights),  and  these  are 
commonly  in  the  foremost  rank.    The  number 


iOH 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


thus  admitted  show  themselves  more  or  less 
at  home.  Some  are  quiet  and  abashed ;  but 
gome  proceed  briskly,  and  in  a  business-like 
way,  to  the  first  process,  to  wash  themselves. 
This  is  done  in  two  large  vessels,  in  what 
may  be  called  the  hall  or  vestibule  of  tlie 
building.  A  man  keeps  pumping  fresh  water 
into  the  vessels  as  fast  as  that  used  is  drained 
off,  and  soap  and  clean  towels  are  supplied 
when  thought  necessary;  the  clean  towels, 
which  are  long,  and  attached  to  rollers,  soon 
becoming,  in  truth,  exceedingly  dirty.  I 
noticed  some  little  contention — whether  to 
show  an  anxiety  to  conform  to  the  rules  of 
the  Refuge,  or  to  hurry  through  a  disagree- 
able but  inevitable  task,  or  really  for  the 
comfort  of  ablution,  I  will  not  pretend  to 
determine  —  but  there  was  some  little  con- 
tention for  the  first  turn  among  the  young 
men  at  the  washing.  To  look  down  upon 
them  from  thn  main  staircase,  as  I  did,  was 
to  survey  a  veiy  motley  scene.  There  they 
were — the  shirtless,  the  shoeless,  tlie  coatless, 
the  unshaven,  the  uncouth,  ay,  and  the  decent 
and  respectable.  There  were  men  from  every 
part  of  the  United  Kingdom,  with  a  coloured 
man  or  two,  a  few  seamen,  navigators,  agri- 
cultural labourers,  and  artizans.  There  were 
no  foreigners  on  the  nights  tliat  I  was  there  ; 
and  in  the  returns  of  those  admitted  there 
will  not  be  found  one  Jew.  It  is  possible  that 
Jews  may  be  entered  under  the  heads  of  "  Ger- 
mans "  or  **  Poles  " — I  mean,  foreign  Jews ; 
but  on  my  visits  I  did  not  see  so  much  as  any 
near  approach  to  the  Hebrew  physiognomy. 
To  attempt  to  give  an  account  of  any- 
thing like  a  prevailing  garb  among  these 
men  is  impossible,  unless  I  described  it  as 
rags.  As  they  were  washing,  or  waiting  for 
a  wash,  there  was  some  stir,  and  a  loud  buzz 
of  talk,  in  which  "  the  brogue  "  strongly  pre- 
dominated. There  was  some  little  fun,  too, 
as  there  must  be  where  a  crowd  of  many 
youths  is  assembled.  One  in  a  ragged,  coarse, 
striped  shirt,  exclaimed  as  he  shoved  along, 
"  By  your  leave,  gentlemen ! "  with  a  significant 
emphasis  of  his  "  gentlemen."  AnotJier  man 
said  to  his  neighbour,  "  Tho  bread's  fine,  Joe ; 
but  tlio  sleep,  isn't  that  plummy  ?  "  Some  few, 
I  say,  seemed  merry  enough,  but  that  is  easily 
accounted  for.  Their  present  object  was  at- 
tained, and  your  real  professional  vagabond  is 
always  happy  by  that — for  a  forgetfulness  of 
the  past,  or  an  indificrenoe  to  it,  and  a  reck- 
lessness as  to  the  future,  are  the  primary 
elements  of  a  vagrant's  enjoyment.  Those  who 
had  tickets  were  of  course  subjected  to  no  fur- 
ther examination,  unless  by  the  surgeon  sub- 
sequently; but  all  the  new  candidates  for 
admission  —  and  tlie  officers  kept  admitting 
fri'sh  batches  as  they  were  instructed — were 
not  passed  before  a  rigid  examination,  when 
a  ticket  for  three  nights  was  given  to  each 
fresh  applicant  On  the  right  hand,  as 
you  enter  the  building,  is  the  office.  The 
assistant-superintendant  sits  before  a  large 


ledger,  in  which  he  enters  every  najne  and 
description.  His  questions  to  every  fresh 
candidate  are: — "Your  name?**  **How  old 
are  you?"  "What  trade?"  "How  do  you 
live  (if  no  trade)?"  "Where  did  you  sleep 
last  night  ?  '*  "  'lo  what  parish  do  you  b^ 
long  ?  **  In  order  to  answer  these  questions, 
each  fresh  applicant  for  admission  stands  before 
the  door  of  Uie  office,  a  portion  of  the  upper 
dirision  of  the  door  being  thrown  open. 
Whilst  I  was  present,  there  was  among  a 
portion  of  the  male  applicants  but  little  hesi- 
tation in  answering  the  inquiries  glibly  and 
promptly.  Others  answered  reluctantly.  The 
answers  of  some  of  the  boys,  especially  the 
Irish  boys,  were  curious.  "Whtxe  did  you 
sleep  last  night  ?  "  "  Well,  then,  sir,  I  sleep 
walking  about  the  streets  all  night,  and  veiy 
cowld  it  was,  sir."  Another  lad  was  asked, 
after  he  had  stated  his  name  and  age,  how 
he  lived  ?  "I  beg,  or  do  anything,**  he  an- 
swered. "What's  yoiur parish ? "  •* Ireland." 
(Several  pronounced  their  parish  to  be  the 
"  county  Corruk.")  "  Have  you  a  father  h«re?  " 
"He  died  before  we  left  Ireland."  "How 
did  you  get  here,  then ? "  "I  came  with  my 
mother."  "Well,  and  where*s  she?"  "She 
died  after  we  came  to  England."  So  the 
child  had  the  streets  for  a  stepmother. 

Some  of  the  women  were  as  glib  and  sys- 
tematic in  their  answers  as  the  men  and 
boys.  Others  were  much  abashed.  Among 
the  glib-tongued  women,  there  seemed  no 
shamefacedness.  Some  of  the  women  ad- 
mitted here,  however,  have  acquitted  them- 
selves well  when  provided  (through  charitable 
institutions)  with  situations.  The  absence  of 
shame  which  I  have  remarked  upon  is  the 
more  notable,  because  these  women  wane  ques- 
tioned  by  men,  with  other  men  standing  by. 
Some  of  the  women  were  good-looking;  and 
when  asked  how  old  they  were,  they  answered 
at  once,  and,  judging  by  their  appearance, 
never  understated  their  years.  Many  I  should 
have  pronounced  younger  than  they  stated. 
Vanity,  even  with  silliness  and  prettiness,  does 
not  seem  to  exist  in  their  utter  destitution. 

All  the  regular  inrocesses  having  beoi 
observed  (and  the  women  have  a  place  for 
their  ablutions  after  the  same  fashion  as 
the  men),  the  applicants  admitted  enter 
their  several  wards.  The  women's  ward  is 
at  the  top  of  the  building.  It  supplies  se- 
commodaUon,  or  berths,  for  95  women  in  an 
apartment  35  yards  in  length  and  Q  in  width. 
At  one  comer  of  this  long  chamber,  a  few 
steps  lead  down  to  what  is  cidled  "  the  nursery," 
which  has  80  berths.  Most  of  these  berths 
may  be  described  as  double,  and  aie  large 
enough  to  accommodate  a  mother  and  her 
children.  The  children,  when  I  saw  them, 
were  gambolling  about  in  some  of  the  berths 
as  merry  as  children  elsewhere,  or  perhaps 
merrier,  for  they  were  experiencing  the  un- 
wonted luxuries  of  warmth  and  Ibod.  Tho 
matron  can  supply  these  women  and  their 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


409 


children  with  gruel  at  her  disoretiou ;  and  it 
appeu^  to  be  freely  given.  Some  who  had 
children  seemed  to  be  the  best  of  all  there  in 
point  of  physiognomy.  They  had  not,  gene- 
rally, tho  stolid,  stnpid,  indifferent,  or  shame- 
less look  of  many  of  the  other  women ;  it  was 
as  though  the  motherly  feeling  had  somewhat 
humanized  them.  Some  of  the  better  sort  of 
women  spoke  so  low  as  to  be  hardly  audible. 
Among  them  were,  indeed,  many  decent-look- 
ing  females. 

The  men's  wards  are  the  Chapel  Ward  (for 
the  better  sort  of  persons),  containing  00 
berths,  one  line  being  ranged  2  berths  deep ; 
the  Lower  Ward,  containing  120  berths ;  the 
Boys'  Ward,  containing  60  berths;  and  the 
Straw  Loft,  40.  There  is  a  walk  alongside  the 
berths  in  each  ward.  What  is  called  Uie  Boys' 
Ward  is  not  confined  to  boys :  it  used  to  be  so, 
but  they  were  found  so  noisy  that  thoy 
could  no  longer  be  allowed  a  separate  apart- 
ment. They  are  now  scattered  through  the 
several  wards  with  the  men,  the  officers  ar- 
ranging them,  and  varying  the  arrangements 
as  they  consider  best  Before  there  can  be 
any  retirement  to  rest,  each  man,  woman,  and 
child  must  be  examined  by  a  surgeon.  Whilst 
I  was  present,  a  young  assistant  conducted 
the  investigation  in  a  careful,  yet  kindly  and 
gentlemanly  manner.  Inde^,  I  was  much 
struck  with  the  sympathy  and  gentleness  he 
displayed ;  and  it  was  evident  from  the  respect 
of  the  people,  that  kindness  and  consideration 
are  the  very  qualities  to  impress  and  control 
the  class  he  has  to  deal  with.  All  afflicted 
with  cutaneous  disorders  (and  there  were  but 
five  men  so  afflicted)  were  lodged  apart  from 
the  others.  Bronchitis  and  rheumatism  are 
the  prevalent  disorders,  occasioned  by  their 
exposure  to  the  weather,  and  their  frequent 
insufficiency  of  food.  Ninety  per  cent  of 
them,  I  was  told  by  Mr.  Gay,  the  intelligent 
surgeon  of  the  establishment,  might  have 
coughs  at  some  periods,  but  of  that  they 
thought  nothing.  Women  advanced  in  preg- 
nancy, and  men  with  any  serious  (es|)ecially 
any  infectious)  ailment,  are  not  permitted  to 
sleep  in  the  Befrige ;  but  the  institution,  ii 
they  have  been  admitted,  finds  them  lodgings 
elsewhere. 

Each  person  admitted  receives  in  the  even- 
ing^ half-a-ponnd  of  the  best  bread.  Every 
child  has  die  same  allowance.  If  a  woman 
be  admitted  with  four  children,  she  receives 
two  half-pounds  of  bread  —  a  half-pound  for 
every  one,  no  matter  if  one  be  at  the  breast,  as 
is  not  unfrequenUy  the  case.  The  same 
quantity  of  bread  is  given  in  the  mornings. 
In  the  night  that  I  was  present,  430  were  ad- 
mitted, and  consequently  (including  the  even- 
ing and  morning  allowances),  430  lbs.  of 
bread  were  disposed  of.  On  Sundays,  when 
Divine  Service  is  celebrated  by  a  clergyman  of 
the  Church  of  England,  three  half-pounds  of 
bread  and  three  ounces  of  cheese  are  distri- 
buted to  each  inmate,  children  and  babies 


included.  I  witnessed  a  number  of  young 
men  eating  the  bread  administered  to  them. 
They  took  it  with  a  keen  appetite;  nothing 
was  heard  among  them  but  the  champing  of 
the  teeth,  as  they  chewed  large  mouthfuls  of 
the  food. 

The  berths,  both  in  the  men's  and  women's 
wards,  are  on  the  grotmd,  and  divided  one 
fh>m  another  only  by  a  wooden  partition 
about  a  foot  high;  a  similar  partition  is  at 
the  head  and  feet ;  so  that  in  idl  the  wards  it 
looks  as  if  there  were  a  series  of  coffins  arranged 
in  long  catacombs.  This  burial-like  aspect  is  ' 
the  more  striking  when  the  inmates  are  all 
asleep,  as  they  were,  with  the  rarest  excep- 
tions, when  I  walked  round  at  ten  o'clock  at 
night  Each  sleeper  has  for  covering  a  large 
basQ  (dressed  sheep-skin),  such  as  cobblers 
use  for  aprons.  As  they  lie  in  long  rows,  in 
the  most  profound  repose,  with  these  dark 
brown  wrappers  about  them,  they  present  the 
uniform  look  and  arrangement  of  a  long  line 
of  mummies.  Each  bed  in  the  coffin,  or 
trough -like  division,  is  made  of  waterproof 
cloth,  stuffed  with  hay,  made  so  as  to  be 
easily  cleaned.  It  is  soft  and  pleasant  to  the 
touch.  Formerly  the  beds  were  plain  straw, 
but  the  present  plan  has  been  in  use  for  seven 
years.  In  this  Refhge  only  three  men  have 
died  since  it  was  established,  thirty  years  ago. 
One  fell  dead  at  the  sink-stone  while  washing 
himself;  the  other  two  were  found  dead  in 
their  berths  during  the  prevalence  of  the 
cholera. 

Every  part  of  the  building  was  scrupu- 
lously clean.  On  the  first  night  of  the  open- 
ing, the  matron  selects  Arom  the  women  who 
have  sought  an  asylum  there,  three,  who  are 
engaged  for  the  season  to  do  the  household 
work.  This  is  dune  dining  the  day  when  the 
inmates  are  absent  All  must  leave  by  eight 
in  the  morning,  tho  doors  being  open  for  their 
departure  at  five,  in  case  any  wish  to  quit  early 
— as  some  do  for  the  chance  of  a  job  at 
Covent-garden,  Farringdon,  or  any  of  the  early 
markets.  The  three  women-helpers  receive 
7s.  a- week  each,  the  half  of  that  sum  being  paid 
them  in  money  every  Saturday,  and  the  other 
half  being  retained  and  given  to  each  of  them, 
in  a  round  sum,  at  the  closing  of  the  llefuge. 
The  premises  in  which  this  accommodation  to 
the  houseless  is  now  supplied  were  formerly  a 
hat  manufactory  on  a  laige  scale;  but  the 
lath  and  plaster  of  the  ce^gs,  and  the  par- 
titions, have  been  removed,  so  that  what  was 
a  suite  of  apartments  on  one  floor  is  now 
a  long  ward.  The  rafters  of  the  ceilings  are 
minutely  whitewashed,  as  are  the  upright 
beams  used  in  tlie  construction  of  the  several 
rooms  before  the  place  was  applied  to  its 
present  charitable  end.  Those  now  are  in  the 
nature  of  pillars,  and  add  to  the  catacomb-like 
aspect  that  I  have  spoken  of.  In  different 
parts  of  each  ward  are  very  large  grates,  in 
which  bright  fires  are  kept  glowing  and  crack- 
ling; and  as  these  are  lighted  some  time  before 


410 


LOUDON  XiABOVn  AVJ>  THE  LONDON  POOM, 


the  hour  of  opening,  the  plaoe  has  a  wannth 
and  cosiness  which  most  be  veiy  grateAil  to 
those  who  hare  enconntered  the  cold  air  all 
the  day,  and  perhaps  all  the  night  before. 

In  order  to  arrive  at  a  correct  estimate  as  to 
tlie  number  of  the  really  poor  and  houseless  who 
availed  themselves  of  the  establishment  (to 
afford  nightly  shelter  to  whom  the  refbge  was 
originally  instituted  by  the  benevolent  founder, 
Mr.  Hick,  the  City  mace-bearer)  I  consulted 
with  the  superintendent  as  to  the  class  of  per- 
sons he  found  most  generally  seeking  refuge 
there.  These  were — among  the  men — mostly 
labourers  out  of  work— agricultural,  railway, 
and  dock;  discharged  artisans,  chiefly  carpen- 
ters and  painters ;  sailors,  either  cAst  away  or 
without  their  registry  tickets;  broken-down 
tradesmen,  clerks,  shopmen,  and  errand-boys, 
who  either  through  illness  or  misfortune  had 
been  deprived  of  their  situations ;  and,  above 
all,  Irish  immigrants,  who  had  been  starved 
out  of  their  own  oountiy.  These  he  con- 
sid(>red  the  really  deserving  portion  of  the 
inmates  for  whom  the  institution  was  designed. 
Among  the  females,  the  better  and  largest 
class  of  poor  were  needlewomen,  servants, 
rhaiwomon,  gardenwomcn,  sellers  of  laces  in 
the  street,  and  occasionally  a  b^gar-woman. 
Under  his  guidance  I  selected  such  as  ap- 
peared the  most  meritorioas  among  the  classes 
he  had  enumerated,  and  now  subjoin  the 
statements  of  a  portion  of  the  number. 

The  first  of  the  houseless  that  I  saw  was  a 
rwlway  navigator.  He  was  a  fine,  stoutly- 
built  fellow,  with  a  fViesh-coloured  open  coun- 
tenanco,  and  flaxen  hair — indeed,  altogether  a 
splendid  specimen  of  the  Saxon  labourer.  He 
was  habited  in  a  short  blue  smockfrock,  yellow 
in  parts  with  clay,  and  he  wore  the  heavy  high 
lace-np  boots,  so  characteristic  of  the  tribe. 
These  were  burst,  and  almost  soleless  with 
long  wear. 

The  poor  fellow  told  the  old  story  of  the 
labourer  compelled  to  squander  the  earnings  al 
the  public-house  of  his  master : — 

'*  I  have  been  a  navvy  for  about  eighteen 
years.  The  first  work  that  I  done  was  on  the 
Manchester  and  Liverpool.  I  was  a  lad  then. 
I  used  to  grease  the  railway  waggons,  and  got 
about  In.  6d.  a -day.  There  we  had  a  tommy- 
shop,  and  we  had  to  go  there  to  get  our  bit  of 
victuals,  and  they  used  to  charge  ns  an  extra 
price.  The  next  place  I  had  after  that  was  on 
the  London  and  Brummagem.  There  I  went 
as  horse-driver,  and  had  2*.  6rf.  a- day.  Things 
was  dear  then,  and  at  the  tommy-shop  they  was 
nuich  dearer ;  for  there  was  tommy-shops  on 
every  line  then  ;  and  indeed  every  contractor 
and  sub-contractor  had  his  shop  that  he  forced 
his  men  to  deal  at,  or  else  he  wouldn't  have 
them  in  his  employ.  At  the  tommy-shop  we 
was  charged  half  as  much  again  as  we  should 
have  had  to  pay  elsewhere ;  and  it's  the  same 
now,  wherever  these  tommy-shops  is.  What 
the  contractors,  you  see,  can't  m  Ae  out  of  the 
company,  they  fleeces  out  of  the  men.    Well, 


sir,  I  worked  on  that  line  tbrongh  all  the 
diflferent  contracts  till  it  was  finished:  some- 
times  I  was  digging,  sometunes  shoyelling.  I 
was  mostly  at  work  at  open  cuttings.  All  this 
time  I  was  getting  from  fU.  dd.  to  Ss.  and 
Hn.  (\(t.  a-day ;  that  was  the  top  price ;  and  if 
rd  had  the  ready-mon^  to  lay  out  myself,  I 
could  have  done  pretty  well,  and  maybe  have 
put  a  penny  or  two  by  against  a  ndny  day : 
but  the  tommy-shop  and  the  lodging-house 
took  it  all  out  of  us.  Tou  see,  the  tommy- 
shop  found  us  in  beer,  and  they  would  let  us 
drink  away  all  our  earnings  there  if  we  pleased, 
and  when  pay-time  came  we  shonld  have 
nothing  to  take.  If  we  didn't  eat  and  drink  at 
the  tommy-shop  we  should  have  no  woik.  Of 
an  evening,  we  went  to  the  tommy-shop  after 
the  drink,  and  they'd  keep  drawing  beer  for  us 
there  as  long  as  we'd  have  ai^rthlng  eosiing 
to  us  next  pay.day  (we  were  paid  every  fort- 
night, and  sometimes  every  month),  and  when 
we  had  drunk  away  all  that  would  be  coming 
to  us,  why  they'd  turn  us  out  The  contractor, 
who  keeps  these  tommy-shopa,  is  generally  a 
gentleman,  a  man  of  great  property,  who 
takes  some  four,  five,  or  seven  lengths  to  do. 
Well,  with  such  goings  on,  in  course  then 
wasnt  no  chance  in  the  world  for  us  to  save  a 
half^nny.  We  had  a  sick  ftind  among  oar- 
selves,  but  our  masters  never  eared  nothing 
about  us  farther  than  what  they  could  get  out 
of  us  at  their  tommy-shops.  They  were  never 
satisfied  if  a  man  cUdn't  spend  all  his  monej 
with  them ;  if  we  had  a  penny  to  take  at  tibe 
month's  end,  they  didnt  like  it|  and  now  the 
half  of  us  has  to  walk  about  and  starve,  or  beg, 
or  go  to  the  union.  After  I  left  the  Bmn- 
magem  Une,  I  went  on  to  the  Great  Western* 
I  went  to  work  at  Maidenhead.  There  it  was 
on  the  same  system,  and  on  the  same  rules— 
the  poor  man  being  fleeced  and  made  dmnk 
by  his  master.  Sometimes  the  contractor 
would  lot  the  work  out  to  some  sub-cantractor, 
and  he,  aftor  the  men  had  worked  for  a  month, 
would  run  away,  and  wo  should  never  see  the 
oolotir  of  his  money.  After  the  GKat  Western, 
I  went  into  Lancashire,  on  the  Manchester 
and  Oldham  branch.  I  started  there  to  woik 
at  nights,  and  there  I  worked  a  month  for  the 
contractors,  when  they  went  bankrupt,  and 
we  never  received  a  farthhsg  but  what  we  hod 
got  out  of  the  tommy-shop.  Well,  I  came 
away  from  there,  and  got  on  to  the  London 
and  Brighton,  and  I  worked  all  up  and  down 
that,  saving  the  tunnels ;  and  it  was  the  same 
there — the  tommy-shop  and  imposition  was 
wherever  we  went  Well,  flrom  there  I  went 
on  to  the  London  and  Dover.  It  was  monthly 
payments  on  that  There,  too,  I  worked  for 
a  month,  when  the  sub-contractor  runned 
away  with  all  the  men's  money — 900/.,  sir,  it 
were  calculated.  After  that  another  party 
took  it,  and  it  was  the  same  all  the  way  i^ 
and  down  —  the  tommy-shop  and  beer  as 
much  as  we  liked,  on  credit  Then  I  went  on 
to  the  London  and  Cambridge,  and  there  it 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


411 


was  the  Bame  story  over  and  over  again.  Just 
about  this  time,  railway  work  began  to  get 
slacky  and  then  farmers'  work  was  slack  too ; 
and  yoa  see  that  made  things  worse  for 
the  navvies,  for  all  came  to  look  for  employ, 
ment  on  the  railroads.  This  is  about  seven 
years  ago.  After  that  some  more  fresh  lines 
started  throughout  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire, 
and  trade  being  bad  in  tliem  parts,  all  the 
weavers  applied  for  work  on  the  railways,  and 
the  regular  navvies  had  a  hard  time  of  it  then. 
But  we  managed  to  get  on  somehow — kept  lin- 
gering on — till  about  three  years  agone,  when 
trade  got  a  little  bit  better.  That  was  about  the 
time  when  things  was  very  dear,  and  our 
wages  was  rose  to  3«.  6rf.  a-day.:  they'd  been 
only  Us.  Qd.  and  3».  before  that ;  and  we  did 
much  better  when  our  pay  was  increased,  be- 
cause  we  had  the  ready-money  then,  and  there 
was  no  tommy-sliops  that  summer,  for  the 
company  wouldn't  have  them  on  that  line.  At 
the  end  of  that  year  the  work  was  all  stopped, 
on  account  of  the  Chartist  rising,  and  then 
there  was  hundreds  of  men  walking  about 
begging  their  bread  from  door  to  door,  with 
nothing  to  do.  After  this,  (that's  two  years 
ago,  the  back  end  of  tliis  year,)  I  went  to  work 
cm  the  London  and  York.  Here  we  had  only 
2<.  9<i.  a-day.  and  we  had  only  four  days'  work 
in  the  week  to  do  besides;  and  then  there 
was  a  tomniy-shop,  where  we  were  forced  to 
get  our  victuals  and  drink :  so  you  see  wo  were 
very  bad  off  then.  I  stopped  on  this  line  (for 
work  was  very  scarce,  and  I  thought  myself 
lucky  to  have  any)  till  last  spring.  Then  all 
the  work  ou  it  stopped,  and  I  dare  say  2000 
men  were  thrown  out  of  employ  in  one  day. 
They  were  all  starving,  the  heap  of  them,  or 
next  door  to  it  I  went  away  from  there  over 
to  the  Bnmimagem  and  Beeohley  branch  line. 
But  there  I  found  things  almost  as  bad  as 
irhat  I  left  before.  Big,  strong,  able-bodied 
men  were  working  for  \$,  8rf.  a-day,  and  from 
that  to  2j».  :  that  was  tlie  top  price ;  for  wages 
had  come  down,  you  see,  about  one-half,  and 
litUe  or  no  work  to  do  at  that  price ;  and  tommy- 
shop  and  beer,  sir,  as  before,  out  of  the  little 
we  did  get.  The  great  cause  of  our  vrages 
being  cut  down  was  through  the  work  being  so 
slack  in  the  country ;  everybody  was  flocking 
to  them  parts  for  employment,  and  the  con- 
tractors, seeing  a  quantity  of  men  walking 
backwards  and  forwards,  dropped  the  wages : 
if  one  man  wouldn't  work  at  the  price,  there 
was  hundreds  ready  to  do  it  Besides,  pro- 
visions was  very  cheap,  and  the  contractors 
knew  we  could  Hve  on  less,  and  do  tiidr  work 
I  quite  as  well.  Whenever  provisions  goes  down 
I  our  wages  does,  too ;  but  when  they  goes  up, 
I  the  contractors  is  very  slow  in  rising  them. 
I  You  see,  when  they  find  so  many  men  walking 
about  without  work,  the  masters  have  got 
the  chance  of  the  poor  man.  Three  year 
agone  this  last  winter — I  think  it  was  '46 — 
provisions  was  high  and  wages  was  good ;  and 
in  the  summer  of  the  veiry  same  year,  food  got 


cheap  again,  and  our  wages  dropped  from 
8s.  M,  to  3«.  and  2«.  0<^  The  fall  in  our 
wages  took  place  immediately  the  food  got 
cheaper.  The  contractors  said,  as  we  could 
live  for  less,  we  must  do  the  work  for  less.  I 
left  the  Brummagem  and  Beechley  line,  about 
two  months  before  the  Christmas  before  last, 
and  then  I  came  to  Copenhagen-fields,  on  the 
London  and  York — the  London  end,  sir ;  and 
there  I  was  till  last  March,  when  we  were  all 
paid  off,  about  600  on  us ;  and  I  went  back  to 
Bamet,  and  there  I  worked  till  the  last  seven 
weeks,  and  had  2«.  Qd.  a-day  for  what,  four 
years  ago,  I  had  3«.  6(i.  for ;  and  I  could  only 
have  three  or  four  days'  work  in  the  week 
then.  Whilst  I  was  there,  I  hurted  my 
leg,  and  was  laid  up  a  month.  I  lived 
all  that  time  on  charity;  on  what  the 
chaps  woidd  come  and  give  me.  One  would 
give  a  shilling,  another  sixpence,  another  a 
shilling,  just  as  they  could  spare  it ;  and  poorly 
they  could  do  that,  God  knows  I  I  couldn't 
declare  on  to  the  sick  fund,  because  I  hadn't 
no  bones  broken.  Well,  when  I  come  to  look 
for  work,  and  that's  three  weeks  agone,  when 
I  could  get  about  again,  the  work  was  all 
stopped,  and  I  couldn't  get  none  to  do.  Then 
I  come  to  London,  and  I've  looked  all  about 
for  a  job,  and  I  can't  find  nothing  to  do.  I 
went  to  a  lodging-house  in  the  Borough,  and 
I  sold  all  my  things — shovel  and  grafting-tool 
and  aD,  to  have  a  meal  of  food.  When  idl  my 
things  was  gone,  I  didn't  know  where  to  go. 
One  of  my  mates  told  mo  of  this  Befuge,  and  I 
have  been  here  two  nights.  All  that  I  have 
had  to  eat  since  then  is  the  bread  night  and 
morning  they  gives  us  here.  This  will  be  the 
last  night  I  shall  have  to  stop  here,  and  after 
that  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  There's 
no  railway  work — that  is,  there's  none  to  speak 
of,  seeing  the  thousands  of  men  that's  walking 
about  with  nothing  to  do,  and  not  knowing 
where  to  lay  their  heads.  If  I  could  get  any 
interest,  I  should  like  to  go  away  as  an  emi- 
grant I  shouldn't  like  to  be  sent  out  of  my 
native  country  as  a  rogue  and  a  vagabone ;  but 
I'm  tired  of  stopping  here,  and  if  I  can't  get 
away,  why  I  must  go  home  and  go  to  the 
parish,  and  it's  hard  for  a  young  man  that's 
willing  and  able  like  me  to  work,  and  be  forced 
to  want  because  he  can't  get  it  I  know  there 
is  thousands — ^thousands,  sir,  Uke  I  am — ^I 
know  there  is,  in  the  very  same  condition  as  I 
am  at  this  moment :  yes,!  know  there  is."  [This 
he  said  with  ver>'  great  feehng  and  emphasis.] 
"  We  are  all  starving.  We  are  all  willing  to 
work,  but  it  ain't  to  be  had.  This  country  is 
getting  very  bad  for  labour ;  it's  so  overrun 
with  Irish  that  the  Englishman  haant  a 
chance  in  his  own  land  to  live.  Ever  since  I 
was  nine  years  old  I've  got  my  own  living,  but 
now  I'm  dead  beat,  though  I*m  only  twenty- 
eight  next  August" 

The  next  man  to  whom  I  spoke  was  tall 
and  hale-looking,  except  that  his  features  were 
pinched,  and  hu  eyes  had  a  dull  laok-lostre 


No.  LXXVill. 


B  ^ 


4IJ 


LOWBOS  LADOVli  AND  THE  LONDOK  POOB. 


lo<^!:,  common  t)  men  suffering  from  cold  aiid 
liuu'-^cr.  His  dress  was  ii  coftrso  jacket,  fustian 
lrou-(Ts,  and  coawe,  hard-worn  shoes.  Ho 
HiM»l.i>,  witliout  any  vei^'  provincial  accent, 

"  1  am  now  forty-eight,  and  have  been  a 
fiirni-ljtbourer  all  my  life.  I  am  a  single  man. 
Wh«n  I  was  a  bf>y  of  twolv(?,  I  wj\s  put  to  dig, 
or  see  after  the  binU,  or  birak  clods,  or  any- 
thin;;,  on  a  farm  at  Croland,  ia  Lancoshir*'. 
1  IiikI  ver}'  little  scliool  b«»f(>re  that,  and  can 
neither  read  nor  wnto.  I  was  then  living 
with  my  parents,  poor  people,  who  worked  on 
the  land  whenever  they  couM  get  a  day's 
work.  We  had  to  live  very  hard,  hut  at  Imy 
and  harvest  times  we  had  meat,  and  lived 
bettrr.  I  had  3«.  a-week  as  a  boy.  When  I 
grew  up  to  fourteen  I  left  home.  I  thought 
my  father  di»ln't  use  me  well :  perhaps  it  was 
my  owTi  fault.  I  might  have  been  a  bad  boy ; 
but  ho  was  severe  when  he  did  begin  with  me, 
though  ho  was  generally  quiet  When  his 
passion  was  up,  tliere  was  no  bearing  it.  Any- 
how, I  started  into  ilic  world  at  fourteen  to  do 
the  best  I  could  f<»r  myself — to  make  my  for- 
tUTie  if  I  cr)uld.  Since  then,  I  have  had  work 
in  all  sorts  of  counties ;  Midland  counties, 
principally.  When  a  boy,  I  got  employment 
reiulily  enough  at  bird-scaring,  or  hay-making; 
but  I  soon  grew  up,  and  took  a  man's  place 
very  early,  nn<l  I  could  then  do  any  kind  of 
fanner's  work,  except  ploughing  or  seeding. 
They  have  men  on  pui-pose  for  that.  Farm 
work  was  far  bettor  in  my  younger  days  than 
It  is  now.  For  a  week,  when  hired  by  the  day, 
I  never  get  more  than  15«.,  regular  work.  For 
tikon  work  (by  the  job),  I  have  made  as  much 
as  ii*.  in  a  week;  that  is,  in  reaping  and 
mowing,  when  I  could  drop  on  such  jobs  in  a 
ilifficult  season,  when  the  weather  was  uncer- 
tain. I  talk  of  good  times.  The  last  good 
job  I  had  was  three  years  ago,  come  next 
hunnner.  Now  I  should  be  glad  to  get  95. 
a-week,  constant  work  :  anything  but  what 
I'm  doing  now.  As  I  went  about  from  plocc 
to  place,  working  for  fiumers,  I  generally 
lodged  ot  the  shepherds'  houses,  or  at  some 
labourer's.  I  never  was  in  a  lodging-house 
when  I  was  in  work,  only  when  money  runs 
low  one  must  have  shelter.  At  some  lodging- 
houses  I've  hail  a  good  feather-bed  ;  others  of 
them  ore  bad  enough  :  the  best,  I  think,  ai*e 
in  Norfolk.  I  have  saved  a  bit  of  money 
several  times — indeeil,  year  after  year,  until 
the  last  three  or  four  years ;  but  what  I  saved 
in  the  summer,  went  in  the  winter.  In  some 
summers,  I  could  save  notfiing.  It's  how  the 
season  comes.  I  never  cared  for  drink.  I've 
done  middling  till  these  last  two  seasons. 
INIy  health  was  good,  to  be  sure ;  but  when  a 
man's  in  health  his  appetite  is  good  also ;  and 
when  I'm  at  regular  work  I  don't  eat  half  so 
much  as  when  I'm  knocking  about  idle,  and 
get  hold  of  a  meal.  I  often  have  to  make  up 
for  three  or  four  d:vvs  thru.  The  List  job  I 
had  was  six  weeks  Ix^fore  Christmas,  at  Boston, 
in  Line  ilnshij-e.    I  couldn't  make  1».  (Sd.  a-day 


on  account  of  the  irenther.    I  had  1S«.,  hew- 
ever,  to  start  with,  and  I  went  on  the  rood^ 
not  standing  for  a  straight  rood,  bat  going 
v/here  I  heard  tliero  was  a  chance  of  a  job,  up 
or  down  anywhere,  here  or  there,  but  there 
was  always  the  same  answer,  *  Nobody  wanted 
— no  work  for  their  own  oonstont  men.'    I 
was  so  beat  out  as  soon  as  my  money  was 
done — and  it  Listed  ten  days — ^that  I  ported 
with  my  things  one  by  one.    First  my  waist- 
coat, then  my  stockings  (three  pair  of  them), 
then  three  shirts.   I  got  2s.  ^r/.  ft^r  three  shirts, 
and  Or/,  a  pair  for  my  stockings.     My  clothesi 
w<Te  done,  and  I  parted  with  my  pocket-knife 
for  'id.,  and    with    my  'bacco-hox    for  l\d. 
After  I  left  Boston,  I  got  into  Leicestersliire, 
and  was  at  Cambridge,  and  Wisbeoch,  and 
Lynn,  and  Norwich;   and  I  heard  of  a  job 
among    brickmakers    at    Low    Easthrop,  in 
Suffolk,  but  it  was  no  go.    The  weather  was 
against  it,  too.    It  was  when  the  snow  set  in.. 
And  then  I  thought  I  would  come  to  London,, 
as  God  in  his  goodness  might  send  me  some- 
t  hing  to  do.    I  never  meant  anything  slinking. 
I'm  only  happy  when  I'm  at  work,  but  here  I 
am  destitute.    Some  days  as   I  walked  up 
I  had  nothing  to  eat    At  others  I  got  half- 
pennies or  pennies  from  men  like  myself  that 
I  saw  at  work.    I've  given  slnllings  away  that 
way  myself  at  times.    Sometimes  I  had  to 
take  to  the  road,  but  Fm  a  very  poor  beggar. 
When  I  got  to  I^ndon  I  was  a  stranger,  and 
lodged  here  the  first  night— that's  a  week  ago. 
A  policeman  sent  me  here.    I've  tried  every 
day  to  get  work — labouring- work  for  builders, 
or  about  manure-cails,  or  anything  like  that, 
as  there's  no  farming  in  Ix)ndon,  but  got 
none;  so  but  for  Uiis  place  I  had  starved. 
When  this  place  is  closed  I  must  tramp  inio 
the   comitry.      There  are  very  many  farui- 
hibourers  now  going  from  farm  to  farm,  and 
town  to  town,  to  seek  work,  more  than  ever  I 
saw  before.    I  don't  know  that  the  r^ular 
farm -workmen  come  so  much  to  London.    As 
I  travelled  up  from  Suffolk  I  lay  rough  often 
enough.    I  got  into  stables,  or  any  places. 
Such  places  as  this  save  many  a  man's  life. 
It's  saved  mine,  for  I  might  have  been  founJ 
dead  in  the  street,  as  I  didn't  know  wh«rc 
to  go." 

This  man  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  very 
decent  character. 

Tlic  large  number  of  Irish  found  among 
the  inmates  of  these  establishments  is  one  of 
the  pecidiar  features  of  the  Refuges.  By  the 
returns  above  given,  it  will  bo.  seen  that  they 
constitute  more  than  one-half  of  the  total 
applicants.  Such  being  tlie  fact,  I  selectiHl 
two  from  the  more  decent,  as  typos  of  tint 
better  class  of  immigrants,  and  subjoin  their 
narratives. 

One  of  these  men  had  a  half-shrewd,  half- 
stolid  look,  ond  was  clad  in  very  dirty  fustian. 
His  beard  was  some  days  old,  and  he  looked 
ill-fed  and  wretched.  His  cliildrcn — for  ha 
had  two  boys  i\-ith  him,  ten  and  twelve  years 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


413 


oM — -ivvre  Hlio<*lcr>s,  their  white  skins  being  a 
contnist  to  their  dirty  dresn,  as  the  former 
appeared  tlirongh  the  holes  in  their  jackets. 
Tliey  looked  on  Trith  a  sort  of  vacant  wonder, 
motionloss,  and  without  a  woril.  The  father 
said : — 

"  I've  been  knocking  about  in  England  these 
four  years  from  plnre  to  place.  I'm  tolling 
yon  the  tnith,  sir.  [This  he  often  repeated.]  I 
came  here  to  betther  myself,  to  knock  out 
something  betther;  but  I  wish  to  God  I'd 
been  buried  before  I  buried  my  wife  and 
children.  I  do,  indeed,  sir.  I  was  a  labourer 
in  Ireland,  working  in  fanns  and  gardens  for 
anybody.  My  wnges  wam't  much,  only  3s. 
a- week,  and  my  datal  house  (that  is,  a  house 
rent-free),  and  two  meals  of  victuals  a-day, 
sometimes  'tatics  and  milk  for  moals,  and 
sometimes  "tatios  and  fish,  and  sometimes — 
aye,  often — 'taties  nnd  nothing.  My  wife  and 
me,  and  four  children,  came  from  Cork — it 
was  in  the  county  Cork  I  lived^to  Wales. 
I  dou*t  know  the  name  of  the  pail ;  they've 
such  queer  names  there ;  sure,  then,  they  have, 
sir.  It  cost  me  hall'-a-crown  a-piece  for  the 
six  of  us.  I  raised  the  money  partly  by 
digging  up  a  garden  I  had,  and  selling  what 
stuff  there  was,  and  the  rest  was  made  up  by 
the  farmers  in  the  neighbourhood  giving  their 
.')(/.  or  0</.  a-piece  to  uie,  so  that  I  might  lave. 
I  wasn't  on  the  xioor-law  rate,  but  I  soon  might 
When  I  got  to  Wides,  I  had  only  Crf.  left.  I 
went  to  the  workhouse  for  a  night's  lodging,  to 
be  sure — what  else  ?  I  started  next  day  for 
London  with  my  wife  and  children,  begging  as 
we^came,  and  going  from  workhouse  to  work- 
house; and  very  badly  we  flot  along.  It 
finished  u  fcirt night  to  get  t)  London.  When 
v.i3  got  to  London  (that's  about  four  years 
agone)  we  got  work  at  peas-picking,  my 
wile  and  me,  in  the  gardens  about  That 
is  for  the  summer.  In  the  winter  we  sohl 
oranges  in  the  sticet.s  while  she  lived,  and 
we  hnd  nothing  from  the  parishos.  I  can't 
complain  of  the  living  till  this  time,  sir;  it 
was  l>ettor  tlum  I  knew  in  Ireland.  I  don't 
know  what  we  got,  she  managed  all.  Last 
autumn  we  went  into  the  hop  county,  to  Ellis's 
farm.  I  don't  know  the  town  nearest;  and 
there  my  wife  and  two  children  died  of  the 
cholera  at  the  farm.  The  three  of  them 
wem't  a  week  ill.  The  parish  kept  them  and 
buried  them.  Since  that  I've  been  worse  oft' 
tlian  ever,  and  will  id  ways  bo  worse  off  than 
ever,  for  I've  lost  a  good  wife.  Since  her 
deatli  I  jobbed  about  in  the  country,  living 
veiy  bare,  me  and  the  children,  till  the  frost 
came,  and  then  we  come  to  London.  I  was 
knocking  about  for  a  fortnight,  and  begged  a 
little ;  but  sorrow  a  much  I  got  by  that  How 
did  I  know  of  this  place*/  Mu.sha,  all  the 
neij^hbours  know  about  it* 

The  younger  man,  who  was  tall  and 
gaunt,  more  intelligent  than  the  other,  and 
less  squalid  in  his  appearance,  said:-— 
**  I    have    been    in    England  two  years  in 


AugiLst.  I  came  to  better  my  living.  I 
tilled  a  portion  of  land  in  Ireland.  It  was 
30/.  a-year  rent,  and  forty  acres.  That  w:is  in 
the  county  Cork,  parish  of  Kilmeen.  I  rented 
the  land  of  a  middleman,  and  he  was  very 
severe.  My  family  and  I  couldn't  live  under 
him.  I  had  a  wife  and  three  children.  We 
all  came  to  England,  from  Cork  to  Bristol.  I 
kept  a  little  substance  back  to  pay  my  way  to 
England.  The  voyage  cost  Su*.  From  Bristol 
I  went  to  Cardiff,  as  I  got  no  work  at  Bristol. 
At  Cardiff  I  worked  on  the  railway  at  2a.  0//. 
a-day.  I  did  well  for  a  couple  of  months.  I 
would  like  to  continue  at  that,  or  at  \s.  a-day 
here,  better  than  in  Ireland  these  times.  I 
worked  in  Cardiff  town  with  a  briclJayer, 
after  I'd  done  on  the  railway,  at  12^.  awetk. 
I  next  year  had  a  twelvemonth's  work,  on  nnd 
off,  'with  a  farmer  near  Bristol,  at  10s.  a-wcck, 
and  was  still  plenty  comfortable.  I  made  for 
London  at  the  hay-han'est  I  had  a  little 
money  to  start  with,  but  I  got  no  hay-work, 
only  a  trifle  of  work  at  the  Do<;ks.  In  corn- 
harvest,  near  Brighton,  I  worked  for  six  weeks, 
making  10s.  an  acre  for  cutting  wheat  by  piece- 
work, and  7s.  for  oats,  and  iis.  for  any  day's 
work.  I  made  4/.  altogether.  I  got  back  to 
London  with  40s.  I  could  got  no  work  at  all, 
but  five  days'  work  at  a  stone-yard,  at  Is.  a-day. 
I  sold  a  few  things  in  the  streets,  oranges  and 
apples;  so  did  my  wife.  It  helpetl  to  keep 
us.  All  was  gone  at  last,  so  I  got  in  here  with 
one  child  (a  fine  boy).  My  wife's  got  thive 
with  her.  She's  in  a  lo<lging  in  Oray's-inn- 
lane.  She's  stai*\ing,  I'm  afraid;  but  she 
wished  mo  to  come  in  here  with  the  child,  as 
I  could  do  nothing  at  night-time.  I  don't 
know  how  many  came  over  about  the  time  I 
did.  The  gentry  give  poor  men  money,  or  did 
give  it  to  them,  to  sentl  them  over  heiv,  to  ftee 
the  land  from  its  expenses.'* 

To  complete  the  ])ictnre  of  this  Irish  desti- 
tution, I  add  the  following. 

One  wTetched  creature  had  come  to  tho 
Refuge  with  her  four  children.  She  herself 
was  habited  in  a  largo  blue  cloth  cloak,  her 
toes  were  through  the  end  of  her  shoes,  and 
her  gown  clnng  tight  to  her  limbs,  telling  that 
she  was  utterly  destitute  of  under  clothing. 
In  her  arms  she  carried  an  infant,  round 
which  were  wound  some  old  woolbni  rags.  As 
the  little  thing  sucked  at  its  mother's  breast 
it  breathed  so  hard  that  it  needed  no  wonls  to 
UA\  of  its  long  exposure  to  the  cold.  Though 
the  mother  was  hjdf-clad,  still  there  was  the 
Uttle  bit  of  clean  net  inside  tlie  old  nisty  straw 
l>onnet.  The  children  were  respectively  elev«'n, 
six,  and  three  years  old.  Tho  eldest  (a  gootl- 
looking  grey-eyed  girl,  who  atoo<l  with  her 
forefinger  in  her  mouth,  half  simple)  was 
covered  vnih  a  tattered  plaid  shawl.  This,  at 
her  mother's  bidding,  she  drew  from  h.  r 
shoulder  witli  an  ostentation  of  poveiiy,  to 
show  that  what  had  before  appeared  a  gown 
beneath  was  nothing  mon>  than  a  bombazine 
pettic4>at    On  her  feet  were  a  piur  of  women'g 


lU 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS, 


old  fashionable  shoes,  tied  on  with  string. 
These  had  been  given  in  charity  to  her  by  a 
servant  a  week  back.  The  next  child — a  boy 
—laughed  as  I  looked  at  him,  and  seemed, 
though  only  six  years  old,  to  have  been  made 
prematurely  "knowing"  by  his  early  street 
education.  He  put  out  his  foot  as  he  saw  my 
eye  glance  downward  to  his  shoes,  to  show  me 
that  he  had  one  boot  and  one  shoe  on.  He 
was  clad  in  all  kinds  of  rags,  and  held  in  his 
hand  a  faded  velvet  cap.  The  youngest  boy 
was  almost  a  dwarf.  He  was  three  years  old, 
but  so  stunted  that  he  seemed  scarce  half  that 
age. 

"I  come  from  the  county  of  Corruk,  the 
worst  and  the  poorest  part  of  it — yos,  indeed, 
sir,  it  is,"  saiil  the  woman ;  *•  and  the  gintle- 
men  know  that  I  do.  When  I  had  it  to  do,  I 
manufactured  at  flax  and  wool.  I  knit  and 
sewed,  to  be  sure  I  did ;  but  God  Almighty 
was  plazod  io  deprive  me  of  it.  It  was  there 
I  was  married.  My  husband  was  a  miner. 
Distress  and  want,  and  hunger  and  poverty  — 
nothing  else  —  druv  us  to  this  counthry.  It 
was  the  will  of  God — glory  be  to  his  holy 
and  blessed  name!  — to  fail  Uie  'taties.  To 
be  sun;,  I  couldn't  dig  one  out  of  the  ground 
not  fit  to  ate.  We  lived  on  'taties,  and 
milk,  and  fish,  and  eggs.  We  used  to  have 
bins  then.  And  the  mining  failed,  too; 
and  the  captains  came  over  here.  Yes,  to 
be  sure;  for  hero  they  lived,  sir.  Yes,  sir, 
indeed  ;  and  I  could  teU  you  that  I  used  to  be 
eight  days — yes,  that  I  did — before  I  could 
get  one  ha*porth  to  ate  — barring  the  wather  I 
boiled  and  drank  to  keep  tjae  life  in  myself 
and  children.  It  was  DoctJTr  O'Donovan  that 
paid  for  our  passage.  When  he  see  all  the 
hunger,  and  distress,  and  want  ^  yes,  indeed, 
sir — that  I  went  through,  he  gave  a  letther  to 
the  stame-packct  ofiice,  and  then  they  brought 
me  and  my  three  childer  over.  It  was  here 
that  this  baby  was  borrun.  My  husband  was 
hero  before  me,  ho  was,  about  seven  or  eight 
months.  He  hadn't  sent  mo  any  money,  for 
he  couldn't  a  penny.  He  wrote  home  to  see 
if  I  lived,  for  he  didn't  think  I  lived ;  and  then 
I  sliowed  tlie  letther  to  Dr.  O'Donovan.  My 
husband  nivcr  got  a  day's  work  since  he  came 
over ;  indeed,  he  couldn't  give  the  childer  their 
lireakfast  the  next  morning  after  they  came. 
I  came  to  London-bridge,  and  met  my  husband 
there.  Well,  indeed,  that  is  nearly  three  years 
ogone.  Oh,  thin,  I  had  nothing  to  do  since 
hut  what  little  we  done  at  the  harvest.  It  was 
tin  weeks  before  Christmas  that  I  came  over, 
and  I  don't  know  what  month  it  was,  for  I 
don't  read  or  write,  you  know.  Oh,  thin,  in- 
deed, we  had  to  live  by  begging  from  that  up 
to  harvest  time.  I  had  to  beg  for  him  sooner 
than  let  him  die  with  the  hunger.  He  didn't 
do  any  work,  but  he'd  be  glad  of  a  sixpence 
he'd  earn.  He'd  rather  have  it  that  way  than 
if  he'd  begged  tin  pound  —  it  would  be  more 
plisure.  Never  a  day's  work  could  he  get; 
and  mfiny  boside   him.     Oh,  Lord,  thoro   is? 


many,  sir.  He  never  does  anything  but  at  the 
harvest-time,  and  then  he  works  at  raping  the 
corrun.  I  know  nothing  else  that  he  does; 
and  I  bind  the  shaves  sUtkBT  him.  Why,  in- 
deed, we  get  work  then  for  about  a  fortnight 
or  three  weeks — it  don't  howld  a  month.  Oh 
no,  sir,  no ;  how  could  my  children  do  any- 
thing, but  as  fast  as  we'd  earn  it  to  ate  it  ?  I 
declare  I  don't  know  how  much  we'd  make  a- 
week  then.  They  got  only  eight  shillings  an 
acre  last  year  for  it.  I  declare  I  don't  know 
what  we  made;  but  whatever  we  had,  we 
hadn't  two  shillings  laving  it.  Ah,  indeed,  I 
had  to  bog  oil  the  rest  of  my  time.  My  bus- 
band  doesn't  beg — I'll  tell  you  the  thmth. 
The  thruth  is  the  best.  When  he  has  e'er  a 
penny,  he  tries  to  sell  a  handfol  of  oranges ; 
and,  indeed,  ho  had  to  lave  off  silling,  for  he 
couldn't  buy  half  a  hundred  of  'em  to  sill 
back.  He  done  pritty  well  when  the  onions 
were  in  season,  he  did,  sir;  but  there's  so 
many  silling  oranges,  he  can't  sill  one  of  'em. 
Now  he  does  nothing,  for  he  has  nothing  to 
reach  half  a  hundred  of  limons  with,  and  that 
isn't  much.  When  I  gets  a  pinny  to  pay  for 
the  lodgings,  then  we  lodges  and  sleeps  toge- 
ther ;  but  when  I  can't,  I  must  go  about  this 
way  with  my  children.  When  I  go  out  beg- 
ging, he 'remains  at  home  in  the  lodging- 
house  ;  he  has  nothing  else  to  do,  sir.  I  ^• 
ways  go  out  with  my  childer ;  sure  I  couldn't 
look  at  'em  die  with  hunger.  Where's  the  use 
of  laving  them  with  the  husband ;  what  has 
he  to  give  them  7  Indeed,  if  I  had  left  them 
last  night  with  him,  he  couldn't  have  give  them 
as  much  as  they'd  put  in  their  mouths  onced. 
Indeed,  I  take  them  out  in  the  cowld  to  6ig 
with  me  to  get  a  bit  of  victuals  for  'em.  Sure 
God  knows  I  can't  hilp  it — ^he  knows  I  can't 
— glory  be  to  his  holy  name !  Indeed,  I  have 
a  part  of  the  brid  I  got  here  last  night  to 
carry  to  my  poor  husband,  for  I  know  he 
wanted  it  Oh,  if  I'm  to  go  to  the  gallows, 
I'm  telling  you  tlio  thruth.  Oh,  to  be  sure, 
yes,  sir ;  there's  many  a  one  would  give  a  bit 
to  the  childer  when  they  wouldn't  to  me— 
sure  the  world  knows  tliat ;  and  maybe  the 
childer  will  get  ha'pence,  and  that  wiU  pay  my 
lodging  or  buy  a  loaf  of  brid  for  'em.  Oh,  sir, 
to  be  sure,  you  know  I'd  get  more  with  all  my 
little  childer  out  than  I  would  with  one,  and 
that's  the  rason  indeed.  Yes,  indeed,  that's 
why  I  take  them  out !  Oh,  then,  that's  what 
you  want  to  know !  Why,  there's  some  people 
wouldn't  believe  I'd  have  so  many.  Maybe, 
some  days  I  wouldn't  get  a  pinny,  and  maybe 
I'd  git  a  shilling.  I  met  a  gintleman  the  other 
day  that  gave  me  a  shilling  together.  I'd  all 
my  childer  out  i^th  me  then.  The  sister  car- 
ries the  little  fellow  on  her  back,  no  more 
would  he  stop  afbher  me  nayther.  Only  twice 
I've  left  him  at  home.  Oh  thin,  indeed,  he  do 
cry  with  the  cowld,  and  often  again  with  the 
hunger ;  and  some  of  the  people  says  to  me 
it's  myself  that  makes  him  cry ;  but  thin,  in- 
deed,  it  ain't.   Maybe  I've  no  home  to  give  my 


LONDON  LABOXm  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


415 


husband,  maybe  it's  at  some  union  he  slept 
last  night.  My  husband  niver  goes  bigging, 
he  didn't,  sir — ^I  won't  tell  a  lie— he  didn't,  in- 
deed; bat  he  sinds  me  out  in  the  cowld,  and 
in  the  wit,  and  in  the  hate,  too :  but  thin  he 
can't  help  it.  He's  the  best  man  that  iyer 
put  a  hat  on  his  hid,  and  the  kindest." 

She  persisted  in  asseverating  this,  being 
apparently  totally  incapable  of  perceiving  the 
inhimianity  of  her  husband's  conduct. 

"  He  don't  force  me — he  don't,  indeed — ^but 
ho  sits  idle  at  home  while  I  go  out  Ah,  if 
you  knew  what  I  suffers !  Oh,  yes,  he'd  rather 
work,  if  I'd  got  a  guinea  in  gowld  for  him  to- 
night; and  yesterday  morning  he  prayed  to 
God  Almighty  to  put  something  in  Ms  way  to 
give  him  a  day's  work.  I  was  in  prison  onced 
for  bigging.  My  children  was  taken  away 
from  mo,  and  sint  to  some  union.  I  don't 
know  the  name  of  it.  That  was  the  time  my 
husband  was  siUiug  the  limons.  He  niver 
came  to  spake  for  me  when  I  was  going  to 
prison,  and  he  doesn't  know  whether  I'm  in 
prisin  to-night  Ah,  I  beg  your  honour's  par- 
don, he  would  care,  but  he  cant  help  me.  I 
thought  rd  ind  my  life  in  the  prisin,  for  I 
wouldn't  be  allowed  to  spake  a  word.  The 
poor  man,  my  husband,  can't  help  it.  He  was 
niver  counted  lazy  in  his  counthry ;  but  God 
Almighty  plazed  to  -deprive  him  of  his  work, 
and  what  can  he  do  ?" 

The  next  was  a  rather  tall  and  weU-spoken 
woman  of  fifty-eight. 

"  When  I  was  young,"  she  said,  **  I  used  to 
go  out  to  day's  works,  or  charing,  and  some- 
times as  a  laundress.  I  went  charing  till  five 
years  ago,  sometimes  doing  middling,  often 
very  badly,  when  I  burst  a  blood-vessel  in 
lifting  a  weight— ft  pail  of  water  to  fill  a  cop- 
per. I  feU  down  all  at  once,  and  bled  at  the 
ears  and  nose.  I  was  taken  to  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's, and  was  there  four  months.  When  I 
came  out,  I  took  to  sell  things  in  the  street.  I 
could  do  nothing  else.  I  have  no  friends  in 
London — none  in  the  world.  Sometimes  I 
picked  up  a  living  by  seUing  laces,  and  iron- 
holders,  and  memorandum -books,  in  the  City. 
I  made  the  memorandum-books  myself — 
]>enuy  books.  The  pincushions  I  made  my- 
self. I  never  had  anything  finom  my  parish, 
or  ratlier  my  husband's — tiiat's  Bristol.  He 
was  a  bricklayer,  but  I  chared  when  he  was 
out  of  work.  He  died  eighteen  years  ago.  I 
was  known  by  ladies  and  others  in  the  City, 
who  would  sometimes  give  me  a  sixpence  for 
a  lace.  I  was  working  two  months  back — it 
was  the  general  thanksgiving-day — when  I  was 
working  at  a  fishmonger's  in  Gresham-street, 
and  fell  down  the  ceflar  stairs  and  broke  my 
arm.  I  was  again  three  weeks  in  Bartholo- 
mew's hospitaL  I  have  been  destitute  ever 
since.  I  have  made  away  with  eveiything.  A 
little  quilt  is  all  I  have  left,  and  that  would 
have  gone  last  night  if  I  hadnt  got  in  here." 

The  i>oor  woman  whom  I  next  accosted  was 
a  widow  (her  husband  having  died  only  a  few 


months  before).  She  had  altogether  what  I 
may  call  a  faded  look ;  even  her  widow's  cap 
was  limp  and  flat,  and  her  look  was  miserably 
subdued.    She  said: — 

*<  My  husband  was  a  journeyman  shoemaker. 
Sometimes  he  would  earn  SOt.  a-week ;  but  we 
were  badly  off,  for  he  drank ;  but  he  did  not 
ill-use  me--not  much.  During  his  last  illness 
we  raised  0^.  on  a  raffle  for  a  sUk  handkerchief 
among  the  shoemakers,  and  IO5.  fh>m  the 
Mendicity  Society,  and  a  few  shillings  from 
the  der^nninan  of  the  parish.  The  trade 
buried  hun.  I  didnt  get  It.  as  his  widow — 
only  6/.  to  bury  him ;  but  there  was  arrears 
of  rent  to  pay,  and  about  a  month  after  his 
death  I  hadn't  a  farthing,  and  I  took  the 
cholera,  and  was  eight  days  in  St.  Bartho- 
lomew's, the  parish  officers  sending  me  there 
in  a  cab.  I  Uved  in  fhmished  lodgings  before 
that,  and  had  nothing  to  call  my  own,  when  I 
had  pawned  my  black  for  my  husband.  When 
I  got  out  I  helped  a  neighbour  at  shoe-binding. 
One  time  I  have  earned  155.  a-week  at  shoe^ 

binding  for ,  Begent-street    Now  I  can 

only  earn  A«.  with  f^iU  work.  I  have  seldom 
earned  3«.  of  late  weeks.  I  had  to  leave  my 
neighbour,  because  I  felt  that  I  was  a  burden, 
and  was  imposing  upon  her.  I  then  had  a 
shelter  with  a  young  woman  I  once  lodged 
with,  but  I  coiddn't  stay  there  any  longer. 
She  was  poor,  and  had  nothing  for  me  to  do. 
So,  on  Saturday  last,  I  had  no  work,  no  money, 
no  friends,  and  I  thought  I  would  trj  and  get 
in  here,  as  another  poor  woman  had  done. 
Here  I've  had  a  shelter." 

A  pretty,  pleasant -spoken  young  woman, 
very  tidy  in  her  poor  attire,  which  was  an  old 
doak  wrapped  <dose  round  her,  to  cover  her 
scanty  dr^s,  gave  me  the  following  statement 
very  modestly : — 

"I  am  twenty-two;  my  mother  died  six 
years  ago ;  my  father  I  never  knew,  for  Tm 
an  unlawftil  child.  My  mother  had  a  small 
income  f^m  my  father,  and  kept  me  at  school. 
I  can't  even  guess  who  my  father  was.  I  am 
an  only  child.  I  was  tfdien  from  school  to 
wait  upon  my  mother ;  veiy  kind  indeed  she 
was  to  me,  but  she  died  in  three  weeks  after 
I  came  fh>m  school.  She'd  been  in  a  con- 
sumption for  six  years;  she  fVetted  sadly 
about  me.  She  never  told  me  I  was  an  un- 
lawful child.  My  aunt,  my  mother's  sister, 
told  me  one  day  afterwards.  My  mother 
always  said  my  father  Uved  in  the  countzy.  I 
loved  my  mother,  so  I  seldom  spoke  of  my 
father,  for  she  would  say, '  I  dont  wish  to  hear 
about  him.'  There  was  nothing  for  me  at  my 
mother's  death,  so  I  put  myself  to  learn  fancy- 
box -making  for  grocers  and  pastrycooks,  for 
their  sweetmeats,  and  for  scents.  My  aunt 
assisted  me.  She  is  now  poor,  and  a  widow. 
I  could  never  earn  more  than  St.  or  4$.  a-week 
at  box-making,  the  pay  is  so  bad.  I  lived  this 
way  for  four  or  five  years,  lodging  with  my 
aunt,  and  giving  her  all  I  earned,  and  she 
kept  me  for  it     I  then  went  to  learn  the 


410 


LOKDOy  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS, 


Mvint'rsh  cnat-maldntf.  I  went  into  lodgings, ' 
my  iiunt  beinp:  nniibh*  to  help  me  any  longer,  us  i 
at  my  tincIe'H  death  Hhe  could  only  keep  a  room 
for  her.t'rlf  und  childivii.      She  makes   pill- 1 
lutxtm.    I  rould  earn  at  the  Macintoshes  only  I 
4m.  aweek  and  ray  tea,  wh^'n  in  full  work,  and  ' 
wlieri  work  wait  )>ad,  I  earned  only  2.f.  Gd.    It 
w»M  Hd.  aday  and  my  t<.*a.     I  parted  with  a  j 
K^KA  \t4ix  of  clothes  to  keep  iu,vself ;  first  one 
bit  of  dn.'ss  went,  and  another.    I  was  exposed  | 
to  many  a  temptati(/n,  hut  I  have  kt'pt  my  | 
ctiaructcr,  I  am  happy  to  say.     On  Monday 
ni^ht  I  WRH  in  the  Htn-etM  all  ni«;ht — 1  hardly 
knew  in  what  part,  I  was  so  miserable — having 
no  place  to  put  my  head  in,  and  frif^humad  to 
death  nliiKifit.    I  couldn't  pay  my  lodf^ings,  and 
MO  lost  them — I  was  locked  out     I  went  to  the 
Htation -house,  and  asked  to  sit  there  for  a 
ahelter,  but  the  imliceman  said  it  wns  no  place 
for  me,  as  1  was  not  guilty  of  any  offfuce ; 
they  could  do  nothing  for  me :  they  were  all 
v<Ty  civil.     I  WfUked  the  streets  all  that  cold 
night;  1  feel  the  cold  of  that  night  in   my 
limbs  still.     1  thought  it  never  would  Im;  ovor. 

I  wasn't  expose<l  to  any  insults.  I  ha<l  to 
walk  alK)Ut  all  Tuesjlay,  without  a  bite  either 
Monday  or  Tuesday.  On  Tuesday  evening  1 
got  admitUid  into  this  place,  and  was  very 
thankful.  Next  (Uiy  I  tried  for  work,  but  got 
none.  I  had  a  cup  of  tea  iVom  my  aunt  to  live 
on  that  day." 

This  girl  wished  to  get  into  tlio  parish,  in 
order  to  bo  sent  out  as  an  emigrant,  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind ;  but  her  illegitimacy  was  a 
bar,  as  no  settlomcnt  could  bo  proved. 

It  was  not  ditHcult  to  sec,  by  the  looks  of 
the  i»oor  woman  whom  I  next  adtlressed, 
the  distress  and  privation  she  had  endured. 

II  (>r  eyes  wtTo  full  of  Umu-s,  and  there  was  a 
idiiintivencss  in  Iut  voico  that  was  most 
ttmching.  She  was  clad  in  rusty  black,  and  hod 
on  a  bla<!k  straw  bonnet  with  a  few  old  crai>e 
flowers  in  it ;  but  still,  in  all  her  poverty,  there 
was  a  neatness  in  her  appearance  that  told 
she  was  much  unused  to  such  abject  miser}* 
OS  hml  now  come  upon  her.  Hers  was,  in- 
deiMl,  a  wretclud  storj'— the  victim  of  her 
husband's  ill-treatment  and  neglect: — *' I 
have  b«»en  working  at  needlework  ever  since 
the  end  of  August  My  husband  is  living ; 
but  he  has  deserted  m«',  and  I  don't  know 
where  he  is  at  present.  He  had  been  a  gen- 
tleman's servant,  but  ho  could  attend  to  a 
garden,  and  of  late  years  ho  had  done  so.  1 
have  been  niariied  nine  years  next  April.  1 
nover  did  live  happily  with  him.  He  drank 
a  very  gnmt  deal,  and  when  tipsy  ho  used 
to  b*»«t  mo  sorely.  He  had  been  out  of  work 
for  a  long  time  before  h«;  got  his  last  situa- 
tion,  and  thon»  he  had  iKs.  a-week.  Ho  lost 
his  place  before  tliat  through  drink.  Oh, 
sir,  perhaps  he'd  give  me  oil  his  money  at 
the  *«nd  of  the  week  within  three  shillings ; 
but  then  he'd  have  more  than  half  t»f  it  back 
ngoin  —  not  every  week  olike,  of  course,  but 
that  was  mostly  llie  case— and  in  particular. 


for  the  last  year  and  a  haU^  for  nnoe  then 
he  had  be<.>n  worse.  'Wliile  he  was  with  me 
I  have  gone  oat  for  a  day'^  charing  occasion- 
ally, but  then  I  found  I  was  no  foi'arder  at  the 
week's  end,  and  so  I  didn't  strive  so  macb  as 
I  might  liave  done,  for  if  I  earned  two  shillings 
he'd  be  sure  to  have  it  from  me.  I  was  a  ser- 
vant, before  he  manied  me,  in  a  respectable 
tradesman's  family.  I  lived  three  years  and 
a  half  at  my  master's  house  out  of  town,  and 
that  was  where  I  fell  in  with  my  hu.sband. 
He  was  a  shopman  then.  I  lived  with  him 
more  than  eight  years,  and  always  acted  a 
lA-ife's  part  to  him.  I  never  drank  myself, 
and  was  never  untrue  to  him ;  bat  he  has 
been  too  untrue  to  me,  and  1  have  had  to 
suflfer  for  it  I  bore  all  las  unkindness  until 
August  last,  when  he  treated  me  so  badly. 
I  cannot  mention  to  you  how — but  he  de- 
ceived me  and  iivjured  me  in  the  worst  pos- 
sible manner.  I  have  one  child,  a  boy, 
seven  years  old  last  September;  but  thi.s 
boy  is  with  him,  and  I  don't  know  where.  I 
have  striven  to  find  him  out,  but  cannot 
When  I  found  out  how  he  had  deceived  me 
we  had  words,  and  he  then  swore  he  wouldn't 
come  home  any  more  to  me,  and  he  has  kept 
to  his  oath,  for  I  haven't  set  eyes  on  him  since. 
My  boy  was  down  at  a  friend's  house  at  Cam* 
bridge,  and  they  gave  him  up  to  the  father 
without  my  knowledge.  When  he  went  awiyr 
I  had  no  money  in  the  house.  Nothing  but 
a  few  things — tables,  and  chairs,  and  a  bed 
in  a  room.  I  kept  them  as  long  as  I  couU, 
but  at  last  they  went  to  find  me  in  food. 
After  he  had  gone  I  got  a  bit  of  ueedLe>work. 
I  worked  at  the  dress-making  and  several 
different  kinds  of  work  since  he  left  me.  Then 
I  used  to  earn  about  five  shillings  a-week; 
sometimes  not  so  much.  Sometimes  I  have 
mado  only  two  sliillings,  and  lutolyr— that 
is,  within  the  last  six  weeks — I  have  earned 
scarcely  anything.  About  October  last  I  was 
obliged  to  sell  my  things  to  pay  oif  my  rent 
and  get  myself  something  to  eat  Alter  that 
I  went  to  lodge  with  a  person,  and  there 
I  stopped  till  very  lately,  when  I  had  scarce 
nothing,  and  couldn't  afford  to  pay  pay  rent 
Then  I  was  turned  out  of  there,  and  I  went 
and  made  shift  with  a  friend  by  lying  down 
on  the  boards,  beside  her  children.  I  lay 
down  witli  my  clotlies  on.  1  had  nothing 
to  cover  me,  and  no  bed  under  me.  They 
was  very  poor  people.  At  last  my  friend 
and  her  husband  didn't  like  to  have  people 
about  in  the  room  where  they  slept;  and 
besides,  I  was  so  poor  I  was  obliged  to  beg  a 
bit  of  what  th^  had,  and  they  was  so  po^r 
tliey  couldn't  afibrd  to  spare  it  to  me.  l*hey 
were  very  good  and  kind  to  me  so  long  as  th*ry 
could  hold  out  anyhow,  but  at  last  I  was 
obliged  to  leave,  and  walk  about  the  streets. 
This  I  did  for  two  whole  nights — ^last  Sunday 
and  Monday  nights.  It  was  bitter  coltU  and 
freezing  sharp.  I  did  go  and  sit  on  the  stairs 
of  a  lodging-house  on  Monday  night,  till  I  «»3 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


417 


that  cold  I  could  scarcely  move  a  limb.  On 
Tuesday  night  I  slept  in  the  Borough.  A  lady 
in  the  street  gave  me  threepence.  I  asked 
her  if  she  could  give  me  a  ticket  to  go  any- 
where. I  told  her  I  was  in  the  deepest  dis- 
tress, and  she  gave  me  all  the  halfpence  she 
had,  and  I  thought  I  would  go  and  have  a 
night's  lodging  with  the  money.  All  these 
three  days  and  nights  I  had  only  a  piece  of 
bread  to  Jceep  down  my  hunger.  Yesterday  I 
was  walking  about  these  ports,  and  I  see  a 
lot  of  people  standing  about  here,  and  I  asked 
them  if  there  was  anything  being  given  away. 
They  told  me  it  was  the  Refuge,  or  else  I 
Hhouldn't  have  known  there  was  such  a  place. 
Had  I  been  aware  of  it,  I  shouldn't  have  been 
out  in  the  streets  all  night  as  I  was  on  Sunday 
and  Monday.  When  I  leave  here  (and  tlieyll 
only  keep  me  for  three  nights)  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do,  for  I  have  so  parted  with  my 
things  that  I  ain't  respectable  enough  to  go 
after  needlework,  and  they  do  look  at  you  so. 
My  clothes  are  all  gone  to  live  upon.  If  I 
could  make  myself  look  a  little  decent,  I  might 
perhaps  ^et  some  work.  I  wish  I  could  get 
into  service  again.  I  wish  I'd  never  left  it, 
indeed :  but  I  want  things.  If  I  can't  get  any 
things,  I  must  try  in  such  as  I  have  got  on : 
and  ]f  I  can't  get  work,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  see 
if  the  parish  will  do  anything  for  me ;  but  I'm 
afhiid  they  won't  I  am  thirty-three  years  old, 
and  very  miserable  indeed." 

From  the  opening  of  the  Refuges  for  the 
Houseless  in  1820,  until  1852,  as  many  as 
189,223  homeless  individuals  received  "nightly 
shelter "  there,  being  an  average  of  upworciU 
of  COOO  a-year.  Some  of  these  have  remained 
three  or  four  nights  in  the  same  establishment; 
so  that,  altogether,  no  less  than  1,141,558 
nights'  lodgings  were  afforded  to  the  very  poor, 
and  2,778,153  lbs.,  or  nearly  25,000  cwt.  of 
bread  distributed  among  them. 

Asylum  for  the  Houseless  Poob. 

There  is  a  world  of  wisdom  to  be  learnt 
at  the  Asylum  for  the  Houseless  Poor.  Those 
who  wish  to  be  taught  in  this,  the  severest 
school  of  all,  should  pay  a  ^dsit  to  Playhouse- 
yard,  and  sec  the  homeless  crowds  gathered 
about  the  Asylum,  waiting  for  the  first  opening 
of  the  doors,  with  their  bare  feet,  blue  and 
idcerous  with  the  cold,  resting  for  hours  on 
the  ice  and  snow  in  the  streets,  and  the  bleak 
stinging  wind  blowing  through  tlieir  rags.  To 
hear  the  cries  of  the  hungry,  shivering  chil- 
dren, and  the  wrangling  of  the  greedy  men, 
scrambling  for  a  bed  and  a  pound  of  dry  bread, 
is  a  thing  to  haunt  one  for  life.  There  are 
400  and  odd  creatures  utterly  destitute — 
mothers  with  infimts  at  their  breasts — fathers 
with  boys  lioldiug  by  their  side — the  friendless 
— the  penniless — the  shirtless,  shoeless,  bread- 
less,  homeless ;  in  a  word,  the  very  poorest  of 
this  the  very  richest  city  in  the  world. 
The  iVsylum  for  the  Houseless  is  the  con- 


fluence of  the  many  tides  of  poverty  that,  at 
this  period  of  the  year,  flow  towards  the  me- 
tropolis. It  should  be  remembered  that  there 
are  certain  callings,  which  yield  a  subsistence 
to  those  who  pursue  them  only  at  particular 
seasons.  Brickmakers,  agricultural  labourers, 
garden,  women,  and  itiany  such  vocations,  are 
labours  that  admit  of  being  performed  only  in 
the  summer,  when,  indeed,  the  labourer  has 
the  fewest  wants  to  satisfy.  The  privations  of 
such  classes,  then,  come  at  a  period  when 
even  the  elements  conspire  to  make  Uieir 
destitution  more  terrible.  Hence,  restless  with 
want,  they  wander  in  hordes  across  the  land, 
making,  in  vain  hope,  for  London,  as  the  great 
emporium  of  wealth  —  the  market  of  the 
world.  But  London  is  as  overstocked  with 
hands  as  every  other  nook  and  comer  of  the 
country.  And  then  the  poor  creatures,  far 
away  from  home  and  friends,  find  at  last  to 
their  cost,  that  the  very  privations  they  were 
flying  from  pursue  thcra  here  with  a  tenfold 
severity.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  tliat  all 
found  within  the  walls  of  these  asylums  are 
such  as  I  have  described;  many,  I  know, 
trade  upon  the  sympathy  of  those  who  woidd 
ease  the  sufforings  of  the  destitute  labourers, 
and  they  make  their  appearance  in  the  metro- 
polis at  this  especial  season.  Winter  is  the 
beggar's  harvest  That  there  ore  hunrlreds 
of  professional  vagabonds  drawn  to  London  at 
such  a  time,  I  am  well  aware ;  but  with  tliem 
come  the  unemployed  workmen.  "We  must 
not,  therefore,  confound  one  with  the  other, 
nor  let  our  indignation  at  the  vagabond  who 
will  not  work,  check  our  commiseration  for 
the  labourer  or  artisan  who  cannot  get  work 
to  do. 

The  table  on  the  following  page,  which  has 
been  made  up  with  considerable  care  and  no 
little  trouble,  shows  the  number  of  persons 
from  different  counties  sheltered  at  the  Asylum 
for  the  Houseless  Poor  in  the  Metropolis  for 
fourteen  years. 

A  homeless  painter  gave  me  the  following 
statement.  His  appearance  presented  nothing 
remarkable.  It  was  merely  that  of  the  poor 
artisan.  There  was  nothing  dirty  or  squalid 
about  him  :^ 

"  I  was  brought  up  a  painter,"  ho  sidd, 
"  and  I  am  now  27.  I  served  my  apprentice- 
ship in  Yorkshire,  and  stayed  two  years  after 
my  term  was  out  with  the  same  master.  I 
then  worked  in  Liverpool,  earning  but  little 
through  illness,  and  working  on  and  off  as  my 
health  permitted.  I  got  married  in  Liverpool, 
and  went  with  my  wife  to  Londonderry,  in 
Ireland,  of  which  place  she  was  a  native. 
There  she  died  of  the  cholera  in  1847.  I 
was  very  ill  with  diarrhoea  myself.  We  lived 
with  her  friends,  but  I  got  work,  though 
wages  are  very  low  there.  I  never  earned 
more  than  2*.  M.  a-day  there.  I  have  earned 
5«.  Otf.  a-day  in  Liverpool,  but  in  Londonderry 
provisions  are  very  cheap— the  best  meat  at 
4<^.  a-pound.   It  was  an  advantage  to.  me  being 


41b 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOP, 


to 


to 


in  I  to  {  to 

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^4 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


419 


an  Eziglishman.  .  Englinh  w(»rkmen  seem  to 
be  preferred  in  Irelaad,  so  far  as  1  oiiu  toll, 
and  I  have  worked  in  Belfast  aud  Coleroiue, 
and  a  sboi-t  time  iu  Dublin,  fis  well  as  in 
Londonderry.    I  conie  back  to  Liveipool  early 
in  1848,  and  got  work,  but  was  again  greatly 
distressed  tbix)Ugh  fdokness.    I  Uien  had  to 
travel  the  country  again,  getting  a  little  em- 
ployment   at    Hcniel    Hempstead,    and    St. 
Alban's,  and  other  places  about,  for  I  aimed 
nt  London,  and  at  last  I  got  to  London.    That 
was  in  November,  1848.    When  in  the  country 
I  wag  forced  to  part  with  my  clothes.    I  had 
a  beautiful  suit  of  black  among  them.    I  very 
seldom  got  even  a  tride  from  the  painters  in 
the  country  towns ;  sometimes  2d.  or  dd.  from 
a  master.    In  London  I  could  get  no  work, 
and  my  shirts  and  my  flannel-shirts  went  to 
keep  me.    I  stayed  about  a  month,  and  having 
nothing  left,  was  r>bliged  to  start    for    the 
country.    I  got  a  job  at  Luton,  and  at  a  few 
other  places.    Wages   are  very  low.    I  was 
always  a  temperate  man.     Many  a  time  I 
have  never  tasted  drink  for  a  week  together, 
and  this  when  I  had  money  in  my  pocket,  for 
I  had  30/.  when  I  got  married.    I  have,  too, 
the  character  of  being  a  good  workman.    I 
returned  to  Loudon  again  three  weeks  back, 
but  could  And  no  work.    I  had  again  to  part 
with  any  odd  things  I  had.    The  last  I  parted 
with  was  my  stopping-knife  and  diamond,  for 
I  can  work  as  a  glazier  and  plumber ;  country 
painters  often  can — I  mean  those  apprenticed 
in  the  cauntiy.    I  have  no  clothes  but  what  I 
have  on.     For  the   last  ten  days,  I  declare 
solemnly,  1  have  had  nothing  but  what  I 
picked  up  in  the  streets.    I  picked  up  crusts 
that  I  saw  iu  the  streets,  put  out  on  the  steps 
by  the  misti-esses  of  the  houses  for  the  poor 
like  myself.     I  got  so  weak  and  ill  that  I  had 
to  go  to  Kings  College  Hospital,  and  they 
gave  me   medicine  wluch  did  me  good.     I 
often  had  to  walk  the  streets  all  night    I  was 
so  perished  I  could  hardly  move  my  limbs.    I 
never  asked  charity,  I  can't ;  but  I  could  have 
eaten  anything.    I  longed  for  the  fried  fish  I 
saw ;  yes,  1  was  ravenous  for  that,  and  such- 
like, Uiough  I  couldn't  have  touched  it  when 
I  had  money,  and  was    middling  well   off. 
Things  are  so  different  in  the  country  that  I 
coulchi't  fancy  such  meat    I  was  brought  to 
that  pitch,  I  had  the  greatest  mind  to  steal 
something  to  get  into  prison,  where,  at  any 
rate,  I  said  to  myself,  I  shall  have  some  food 
and  shelter.    I  didn't — I  thought  better  of  it 
I  hoped  something  might  turn  up  next  day ; 
besides,  it  might  hare  got  into  the  papers, 
and  my  friends  might  have  seen  it,  and  I 
should  have  felt  I  disgraced  them,  or  that 
they  would  think  so,  because  they  couldn't 
know  my    temptations    and    my   sufferings. 
When  out  all  night,  I  used  to  get  shelter,  if  I 
could,  about  Hungerford  Market,  among  the 
straw.    The  cold  made  me  almost  dead  with 
sleep ;  and  when  obliged  to  move,  I  couldn't 
walk  at  firsts  T  could  only  crawl  along.     One 


night  I  had  a  i)enny  given  me,  all  I  had  gotten 
in  five  bitt**r  nights  in  the  streets.  For  that 
penny  I  got  half  a  pint  of  coffee ;  it  made  me 
sick,  my  stomach  was  so  weak.  On  Tuesdd^ 
I  asked  a  policeman  if  he  couldn't  recommend 
me  to  some  workhouse,  and  he  told  me  to 
come  here,  and  I  was  admitted,  and  was  very 
thankful  to  get  under  shelter." 

The  next  was  a  carpenter,  a  tall,  ffne-built 
man,  with  a  pleasing  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. He  was  dressed  in  a  flannel  jacket 
and  fustian  trousers,  with  the  peculiar  little 
side-pocket  for  his  foot-rule,  that  told  you  of  his 
calling.  He  was  about  40  years  of  age,  and 
had  the  appearance,  even  in  his  destitution,  of 
a  most  respectable  mechanic.  It  is  astonish- 
ing to  mark  the  difference  between  the  poor 
artisan  and  the  labourer.  The  one  seems 
alive  to  his  poverty,  and  to  feel  it  more  acutely 
than  the  other.  The  labourer  is  more  accus- 
tomed to  **  rough  it,"  as  it  is  called  ;  but  tlie 
artisan,  earning  better  wages,  and  used  to 
better  ways,  appears  among  the  houseless 
poor  as  a  really  pitiable  character.  Carpen- 
ters are  among  the  classes  of  mechanics  in 
which  Uiere  appears  to  bo  the  greatest  amount 
of  destitution,  and  I  selected  this  man  as  a 
fair  average  specimen  of  the  body.   He  said, — 

"  I  have  been  out  of  work  nearly  three 
months.  I  have  had  some  little  work  in  the 
mean  time,  an  odd  job  or  two  at  intervals,  but 
nothing  regular.  When  I  am  in  full  work, 
on  day  work,  I  can  make  5«.  a-day  in  London; 
but  the  masters  very  generally  wishes  the  men 
to  take  piece-work,  and  that  is  the  cause  of 
men's  work  being  cut  down  as  it  is,  because 
men  is  obliged  to  take  the  work  as  tliey  offers. 
I  could  get  about  30«.  a-week  when  I  had  good 
employment.  I  had  no  one  but  myself  to 
keep  out  of  my  earnings.  1  have  saved  some- 
thing when  I  have  been  on  day- work ;  but 
then  it  went  again  as  soon  as  I  got  to  piece- 
work. This  is  generally  the  case  with  the 
carpenters.  The  last  job  I  had  was  at  Cobham, 
in  Surrey,  doing  joiners'  work,  and  business 
with  my  master  got  slack,  and  I  was  dis- 
charged. Then  I  made  my  way  to  London, 
and  have  been  about  from  place  to  place  since 
then,  endeavouring  to  get  work  from  every 
one  that  I  knew  or  could  get  recommended  to. 
But  I  have  not  met  with  any  success.  Well, 
sir,  I  have  been  obliged  to  part  with  all  I  had, 
even  to  my  tools ;  though  they're  not  left  for 
much.  My  tools  are  pawned  for  13«.,  and  my 
clothes  are  all  gone.  The  last  I  had  to  part 
with  was  my  rule  and  chalk-line,  and  them  I 
left  for  a  night's  lodging.  I  have  no  other 
clothes  but  what  you  see  me  in  at  present 
There  are  a  vast  many  carpenters  out  of  work, 
and  hke  me.  It  is  now  three  weeks  since  the 
last  of  my  things  went,  and  after  that  I  have 
been  about  the  streets,  and  gone  into  bakers' 
shops,  and  asked  for  a  crust  Sometimes  I 
have  got  a  penny  out  of  the  tap-room  of  u 
public- house.  It's  now  more  than  a  fortnight 
since  I  quitted  my  lodgings.    I  have  been  in 


4J0 


LOS  DOS  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


111';  Asylum  citrlit  iii;ilit-».  Befor«  that,  I  was  j 
(*\\\.  ill  tlu;  .stre*tH  \i*r  Tr.n  ni^'hts  toyetln-r.  i 
'rii«v  wrn:  v»ry  coM  iiiif]i»>» ;  yr  s,  vrry:'  [The  | 
in.'ifi  Hhivcn-d  jit  th«:  riM'oIl»-'-tion.]  "  I  walked 
lip  rmo  Htrt;«'t,  nnrl  (I'f.vii  unoiht'i*.  I  Himietinies 
K«»t  imdrr  n  «lf)orw«y,  Imt  it  wns  impossible  to 
hi  and  htill  long,  it  him  s)  cruel  cold.  The 
sit.ft  wiiH  coming  down  ono  night,  and  frecze<l 
(Ml  my  clothirM  08  it  fell.  The  cold  mode  me 
htiffmorc  tliiin  Nh-c-py.  It  wan  next  day  that 
I  fidt  tir*'d ;  and  tht.n,  it'  I  cnmc  to  sit  down 
ht  n  tirehiilr,  I  HhouM  drop  nshrcp  in  a  minute. 
1  trird,  when  I  whs  d(;ad-lie(it,  to  get  into 
St,  CiihsH  union,  liut  thoy  wouldn't  admit 
me.  Then  the  polico  hent  me  up  to 
unotluir  union:  I  for;;ct  tiM;  name,  hut 
tlicy  refused  mo.  I  trie<l  at  liiimbetli,  and 
there  I  WHS  rct'UKod.  1  don't  think  I  went  a 
dny  without  some  small  hit  of  bread.  I  begged 
for  it.  l>ut  wlien  1  walkc<l  fmm  St  Albon's  to 
liondoii,  I  waHtwo  dayn  without  a  hit  to  put  in 
iiiy  m(mth.  I  never  Ht<de,  not  a  particle,  from 
any  person,  in  all  my  triidM.  I  wos  brought 
up  honest.,  ufid,  thank  (lod,  I  have  kept  ro  all 
my  lil'o.  1  would  M'rirk  willingly,  and  am 
quite  capable :  yes,  and  I  woidd  du  my  work 
with  uU  my  heart,  but  it's  not  to  Ikj  got  at." 

This  the  poor  fellow  said  with  deep  emotion ; 
and.  indeed,  his  wholo  8tatemcnt  appeared  in 
every  way  w«>rthy  of  credit,  1  heard  aftei-words 
that  he  had  otlVred  to  '*put  up  the  stairs  of 
two  houses"  at  some  man's  o\ni  terms,  rather 
than  remain  um-mployed.  lie  had  told  the 
master  that  his  tools  were  in  pawn,  and  pro- 
inised.  if  they  wito  taken  out  of  pledge  for 
him,  to  work  for  his  bare  food.  He  was  a 
nativ(4  (if  Somerset,  and  his  father  and  mother 
weri»  both  dead. 

1  then  t(Hik  the  statxnnent  of  u  seaman,  but 
one  who,  from  destitution,  had  lost  all  tlie  dis- 
tinguishing characteristics  of  a  sailor's  dn*ss 
of  the  better  <lescription.  He  w<»ro  a  jacket, 
Huch  04  seami;n  somniuies  wttrk  in,  too  little 
ior  him.  nnd  vrry  thin  and  worn  ;  a  waistcoat, 
i.nce  bl:u*k ;  a  cotton  shirt;  and  a  pair  of 
canvas  trouseis.  He  Inul  an  intelli;^i'nt  look 
enough,  nud  s]>oke  in  a  straightforward  man- 
ner. He  stated  : — '*  1  am  now  thirty. five,  and 
have  been  a  seaman  all  my  lite.  I  lirst  went  to 
sea,  as  a  <*abin-boy,  at  Tortsmouth.  1  was 
left  an  oqdnni  at  fouileen  months,  and  don't 
know  that  1  have  a  single  i-elation  but  njyself. 
I  dtai't  know  what  my  father  was.  I  was 
hrouv;ht  up  at  the  Portsea  workhouse.  1  was 
t.iujjht  to  i-ead  and  write.  1  went  to  sea  in 
iMii.  I  have  continued  a  seaman  ever 
since  —  Sometimes  doing  jjretty  well.  The 
l.u-gest  sum  I  ever  had  in  my  possession 
Mas  .'IW.  wliea  l  was  in  the  Portuguese 
sen  ice,  umler  Ailmind  Siuiorius,  in  the 
•  Donna  Maiia'  frigate.  He  hatln't  his  llag 
aKvinl,  but  be  counnandod  the  licet,  such  as 
it.  was  :  but  ibm't  call  it  a  tleet,  say  a  sqiia- 
ilron.  I'aptaii)  Henrk*  was  my  last  captain 
tlire;  ami  after  him  I  sened  mider  Admiral 
^Mpii-r;  ho  wa!^  a.lmir.d  i:ut   llnTc,  with  his 


flag  in  the  'Kcal,*  until  Don  Migtiers  ships 
were  taken.  The  frigate  I  was  in,  (the  *  Donna 
Mana,')  took  the  *  l*rincessa  Ueal;'  she  was 
a  44 -gun  shij),  and  ours  was  a  3().  It  vcv.s 
a  stifljsh  tiling  while  it  lasted,  was  the  fight ; 
hut  we  boarded  and  carried  the  '  I^rincessa.' 
I  never  got  all  my  prufte-money.  I  8toppe<l  in 
Lisbon  some  time  after  the  fight ;  and  then, 
AS  I  couldn't  meet  with  a  passage  to  Kngland, 
I  took  service  on  boord  the  *  Donegal,'  74  guns. 
Captain  Fanshawe.  I  liked  Lisbon  pretty 
well;  they're  not  %  vcxy  tidy  people  — 
treacherous,  too,  but  not  all  of  them.  I 
pickrnl  up  a  very  little  Portuguese.  Host  of 
my  thirty-eight  pounds  went  in  Lisbon.  The 
*  Donegal '  brought  Don  Corioa  over,  and  wo 
were  paid  oif  in  Plymouth;  that  was  in  )8:U. 
Since  Uien  I  have  been  in  the  merchant 
service.  I  like  that  best  Ikly  last  voyage 
was  in  the  *  lUchard  Cobden,'  a  barque  of 
:)80  tons,  belonging  to  Dundee ;  but  she  sailed 
from  Gloucester  for  Ardiangel,  and  back  from 
Archangel  to  Dimdee,  with  a  cargo  of  hemp 
and  codilla.  We  were  paid  off  in  Dundee,  and 
I  received  4/.  H».  on  the  13th  of  October."  [He 
showed  mo  his  discharge  from  the  '  Bichanl 
(.'obden,*  and  his  register  ticket]  "  I  went  to 
Glasgow  and  got  a  vessel  there,  an  American, 
the  *■  Union ; '  and  before  that  I  stiq^  at  a 
lodging-house  in  Dundee  that  sailors  frequent 
There  was  a  shipmate  of  mine  there,  a  car- 
penter, and  I  Iclt  my  things  in  his  cbargi*, 
and  I  went  on  board  the  *  Union'  at  Glasgow, 
and  staj'ed  working  on  board  eighteen  days ; 
she  was  short  of  men.  The  agreement  be- 
tween  m<?  and  my  old  shipmate  wafl»  that  he 
should  send  my  things  when  I  required 
them.  My  clothes  were  worth  to  me  more 
than  5/.  The  ship  was  to  sail  on  Fkiday,  ths 
15th  of  November.  Sailors  dont  mind  getdag 
under  weigh  on  a  Friday  now ;  and  I  got  l(b. 
from  th(*  skipper  to  take  me  to  Dundee  on 
Thursday,  the  14th;  but  when  I  got  to  Dundee 
for  my  clothes.  I  found  that  the  eupent^r 
had  left  a  fortnight  before,  taking  idl  my 
things  with  him.  I  couldnt  learn  anytluDg 
OS  to  M'here  he  had  gone.  One  man  told  ne 
he  thouglit  he  had  gone  to  Derry,  where  some 
sai<l  he  had  a  wife.  Tho  skipper  paid  me  for 
what  days  I  had  been  employed,  and  offered 
to  let  me  work  a  passage  to  New  York,  bat 
not  on  wages ;  because  I  had  no  dothes,  K' 
conl<ln't  take  me.  I  trieil  eveiy  ship  in  the 
Broomilaw,  but  couldnt  get  a  job,  nor  a  pas- 
sage to  rx)ndon ;  so  me  and  two  other  seamen 
set  off  to  walk  to  London.  I  started  with  St. 
One  seaman  left  us  at  Carlisle.  We  dida't 
live  on  the  way  —  wo  stan-ed.  It  took  u>  i 
month  to  get  to  London.  We  slept  sometimes 
at  the  unions;  some  wouldn't  admit  us.  I 
was  verj-  lame  at  last.  We  reached  I/»n'l« 
a  month  ago.  I  got  throe  days'  work  as  a 
rigger,  at  *is,  6rf.  a-day,  ond  a  w^sek's  shtli^r 
in  the  Sailors*  Asyhmi.  I  had  five  days'  w  r^ 
also  on  stevedore's  work  in  tJ»c»  'Marrrj*; 
West,'  g(»ne  to  liata>i:i.   That  brought  mi  Vlu 


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QQ 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


421 


those  five  days*  work.  Since  that  IVe  done 
nothing,  and  was  so  heat  out  that  I  had  to 
pass  two  days  and  nights  in  the  streets.  One 
of  those  days  I  had  a  hit  of  bread  and  meat 
from  on  old  mate.  I  had  far  rather  be  out  in 
ft  gale  of  wind  at  sea,  or  face  the  worst  storm, 
than  be  out  two  such  nights  again  in  such 
weather,  and  with  an  empty  belly.  My  mate 
and  I  kept  on  trying  to  get  a  ship,  but  my  old 
jacket  was  all  against  me.  They  look  at  a  man's 
clothes  now.  I  passed  these  two  nights  walk, 
ing  about  Tower-hill,  and  to  London-bridge 
and  back,  half  dead,  and  half  asleep,  with 
cold  and  hunger.  I  thought  of  doing  some- 
thing to  get  locked  up,  but  I  then  thought 
that  would  be  no  use,  and  a  disgrace  to  a 
man,  so  I  determined  to  bear  it  like  a  man, 
and  try  to  get  a  ship.  The  man  who  left  us 
at  CarUsle  £d  no  better  than  me,  for  he's  here 
too,  beat  out  like  me,  and  he  told  me  of  this 
Asylum.  The  other  man  got  a  ship.  I'm  not 
a  drinking  man,  though  I  may  have  had  a 
spree  or  two,  bnt  that's  all  over.  I  could  soon 
get  a  ship  if  1  had  some  decent  clothes.  I 
bought  these  trousers  out  of  what  I  earned  in 
London.  I  spun  out  my  money  as  line  as  any 
man  could." 

The  poor  fellow  who  gave  me  the  following 
narrative  was  a  coloured  man,  with  the  regular 
negro  physiognomy,  but  with  nothing  of  the 
lightheart«d  look  they  sometimes  present. 
His  only  attire  was  a  sadly  soiled  shirt  of 
coarse  striped  cotton,  an  old  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  old  canvas  trousers,  and  shoes. 
♦'I  am  twenty,"  he  said,  in  good  English, 
"  and  was  bom  in  New  York.  My  father  was 
a  very  dark  negro,  but  my  mother  was  white. 
I  was  sent  to  school,  and  can  read  a  little,  but 
can't  writ«.  My  father  was  coachman  to  a 
gentleman.  My  mother  spoke  Dutch  chiefly ; 
she  taught  it  to  my  father.  She  could  speak 
English,  and  always  did  to  me.  I  worked  in 
a  gentleman's  house  in  New  York,  cleaning 
knives  and  going  errands.  I  was  always  well 
treated  in  New  York,  and  by  all  sorts  of  people. 
Some  of  the  *  rough -uns'  in  the  streets  would 
shout  after  mo  as  1  was  going  to  church  on  a 
Sunday  night.  At  church  I  couldn't  sit  with 
the  white  people.  I  didn't  think  that  any 
hardship.  I  saved  seven  dollars  by  the  time 
I  was  sixteen,  and  then  I  went  to  sea  as  a 
cabin-boy  on  board  the*  Elizabeth,'  a  brigantine. 
My  first  voyage  was  to  St.  John's,  New  Bruns- 
wick, with  a  cargo  of  com  and  provisions.  My 
second  voyage  was  to  Boston.  After  that  I 
was  raised  to  be  cook.  I  hod  a  notion  I  could 
cook  well.  I  had  cooked  on  shore  before,  in  a 
gentleman's  house,  where  I  was  shown  cooking. 
Pretty  many  of  the  cooks  in  New  York  are 
coloured  people — the  men  more  than  the 
women.  The  women  are  chiefly  chamber- 
maids. There  was  a  vacancy,  I  was  still  in 
the  '  Elizabeth,'  when  the  cook  ran  away.  He 
was  in  a  bother  with  the  captain  about  wasting 
tea  and  sugar.  We  went  some  more  voyages, 
and  I  then  got  engaged  as  cook  on  board  a 


new  British  ship,  just  off  the  stocks,  at  St. 
John's,  New  Brunswick,  the  *  Jessica.'  About 
four  months  ago  I  came  in  her  to  Liverpool, 
where  we  were  all  paid  off.  We  were  only 
engaged  for  the  run.  I  received  5/.  J  paid 
2/.  10«.  to  my  boarding  mistress  for  twa 
months'  board.  It  was  5s.  and  extras  a- week. 
I  laid  out  the  rest  in  clothes.  I  had  a  job  in 
Idveipool,  in  loading  hay.  I  was  told  I  had  a 
better  chance  for  a  ship  in  London.  I  tramped 
it  all  the  way,  selling  some  of  my  clothes  to 
start  me.  I  had  6s.  to  start  with,  and  got  to 
London  with  hardly  any  clothes,  and  no 
money.  That's  two  months  back,  or  nearly  so. 
I  couldn't  find  a  ship.  I  never  begged,  but  I 
stood  on  the  highways,  and  some  persons  gave 
me  twopences  and  pennies.  I  was  often  out 
all  night,  perishing.  Sometimes  I  slept  imder 
the  butchers'  stalls  in  Whitechapel.  I  felt  the 
cold  very  bitter,  as  I  was  used  to  a  hot  climate 
chiefly.  Sometimes  I  couldn't  feel  my  feet. 
A  policeman  told  me  to  come  here,  and  I  was 
admitted.  I  want  to  get  a  ship.  I  have  a 
good  character  as  a  cook;  my  dishes  were 
always  relished;  my  pea-soup  was  capital, 
and  so  was  my  dough  and  pudding.  I  often 
wished  for  them  when  I  was  stai-ving.*'  [He 
showed  his  white  teeth,  smiling  as  he  spoke.] 
"  Often  under  the  Whitechapel  stalls  I  was  so 
frozen  up  I  could  hardly  stir  in  the  morning. 
I  was  out  all  the  night  before  Christmas  that 
it  snowed.  That  was  my  worst  night,  I  think, 
and  it  was  my  first.  I  couldn't  walk,  and 
hardly  stand,  when  the  morning  came.  I  have, 
no  home  to  go  to." 

The  next  was  a  brickmaker,  a  man  scarce 
thirty,  a  stout,  big-boned  man,  but  a  little  pale, 
evidently  ft-om  cold  and  exhaustion.  His  dress 
was  a  short  smockfrock,  yellow  with  dry  clay, 
and  fustian  trousers  of  the  same  colour,  &om 
the  same  cause.  His  stAtement  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

*•  I  have  been  out  of  work  now  about  seven 
weeks.  Last  work  I  done  was  on  the  Middle 
Level  Draipage,  m  Cambridgeshire.  Brick- 
making  generally  begins  (if  the  weather's  fine) 
about  February,  or  the  beginning  of  March, 
and  it  ends  about  September,  and  sometimes 
the  latter  end  of  November.  If  the  weather's 
fix)8ty,  they  can't  keep  on  so  long.  I  was  at 
work  up  to  about  the  midiUe  of  "November 
last,  making  bricks  at  Northfleet,  in  Kent  I 
was  with  the  same  party  for  three  years  before. 
After  that,  brickmaking  was  done  for  the 
season,  and  I  was  discharged  with  *  five  stools' 
of  us  beside.  Each  stool  would  require  about 
six  people  to  work  it ;  so  that  altogether  thirty 
hands  were  thrown  out  of  work.  After  that  I 
went  to  look  for  work  among  the  *  slop '  brick* 
makers.  They  makes  bricks  *  slop- way'  right 
through  the  winter,  for  they're  dried  by  flues. 
I  am  by  rights  a  sand-stock  brickmaker.  How- 
somever,  I  couldn't  get  a  job  at  brickmaking 
slop-way,  so  I  went  down  on  the  Middle  Level, 
and  there  I  got  a  job  at  river-cutting ;  but 
the  wet  weather  came,  and  the  water  was  so 


422 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


Btitmg  upon  1111  that  we  got  drownded  out. 
That's  the  laHt  job  I've  had.  At  brickmakiDg 
I  hod  3«.  10</.  a  thouAand,  this  last  summer. 
I  have  had  mj  4j.  (^d.  for  the  very  same  work. 
Two  years  ago  I  had  that  Six  of  us  could 
make  al>out  35,000  in  a-week,  if  it  was  fine. 
On  an  average,  we  should  make,  I  dare  say, 
each  of  us  about  1^.  a-week,  and  not  more, 
because  if  it  was  a  showery  day  we  couldn't 
do  nothing  at  all.  We  used  to  join  one  among 
another  in  the  yard  to  keep  our  own  sick. 
l¥e  mostly  made  tlie  money  up  to  \A».  a-week 
when  any  mate  was  bad.  I  did  save  a  few 
■hillings,  but  it  was  soon  gone  when  I  was 
out  of  .work.  Not  many  of  the  brickmakers 
save.  They  work  ft-om  seventeen  to  eighteen 
hours  every  day  when  it's  fine,  and  that  re- 
quires a  good  bit  to  eat  and  drink.  The  brick- 
makers  most  of  them  drink  hard.  After  I 
got  out  of  work  last  November,  I  went  away 
to  PetcrborDUgh  to  look  for  employment.  1 
thought  I  might  get  a  job  on  the  London  and 
York  ilailwfty,  but  I  couldn't  find  none.  From 
there  I  tramped  it  to  Grimsby:  *  perhaps,'  1 
said,  *  I  may  get  a  job  at  the  docks ;'  but  I  could 

g$t  nothing  to  do  there,  so  I  came  away  to 
rantlium,  and  from  there  back  to  Peter- 
borough Qgnin,  and  after  that  to  Northampton, 
and  tlien  1  mxulc  my  way  to  London.  All 
this  time  1  had  laid  either  in  bams  at  night- 
timoH,  or  Klopt  in  the  casual  wards  of  the 
unions — that  is,  where  they  would  have  me. 
Often  I  didn't  get  nothing  to  eat  for  two  or 
three  days  together,  and  often  I  have  had  to 
1)eg  a  bit  to  kt^cp  body  and  soul  together.  I 
hnd  no  other  means  of  living  binco  November 
last  but  begging.  When  I  came  to  town  I 
applied  at  a  largo  builder's  ofHce  for  work.  I 
heard  he  had  something  to  do  at  the  Isle  of 
Dogs,  but  it  was  the  old  story — they  were  Ml, 
and  had  plenty  of  hands  till  the  days  got  out 
longer.  Then  I  made  awoy  to  Portsmouth. 
1  knew  a  man  there  who  had  some  work,  but 
when  I  got  there  ho  had  none  to  give  me  at 
the  present  time.  From  there  I  went  along 
the  coast,  begging  my  way  still,  to  Hastings, 
in  hope  of  getting  work  at  the  railway ;  but  all 
to  no  good.  They  had  none,  too,  till  the  days 
got  longer.  After  that  1  came  round  to 
I/ondon  ogain,  and  I  have  been  here  a  fort- 
night come  next  Monday.  I  have  done  no 
work.  I  have  wandered  about  the  streets  any 
way.  I  went  to  the  London  Docks  to  see  for 
a  job,  and  there  I  mot  with  a  man  as  I 
knowed,  and  he  paid  for  my  lodging  for  one  or 
two  nights.  I  walked  the  streets  for  two 
whole  nights  before  I  came  here.  It  was 
bitter  cold,  lh>exing  sharp,  indet'tl,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  eat  all  tlie  time.  I  didn't  know 
there  was  such  a  place  as  this  till  a  policeman 
told  me.  A  gentleman  ffave  me  6</.,  and  that's 
all  I've  had  since  I've  been  in  this  town.  I 
have  been  for  the  last  three  nights  at  the 
Asylum.  I  dtui't  suppose  tlieyll  take  my 
ticket  away  till  after  t>-niorrow  night,  and 
thv^n  I  thought  of  uu^king  my  way  down  home 


till  my  woric  starts  again.  I  have  sought  for 
work  all  over  the  coimtiy,  and  can*t  get  sny. 
All  the  brickmakers  are  in  the  same  stmte  as 
myself.  They  none  of  them  save,  and  must 
either  starve  or  beg  in  the  winter.  Most 
times  we  can  get  a  job  in  the  cold  weather, 
but  this  year,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  bnt  I 
can't  get  a  job  at  all.  Former  years  I  got 
railway  woric  to  do,  but  now  there's  nothing 
doing,  and  we're  all  starving.  When  I  get 
down  home  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  into  the 
union,  and  that's  hard  for  a  young  man  Uke 
me,  able  to  work,  and  willing;  but  it  ain't  to 
be  had,  it  ain't  to  be  had." 

Then  came  a  tailor,  a  yotmg  man  only 
twenty-one  years  old,  habited  in  a  black  fh>ck- 
coat,  with  a  plaid  shawl  twisted  round  his 
nock.  His  eyes  were  ftell  and  expressive,  and 
he  had  a  look  of  intelligence  superior  to  any 
that  I  had  yet  seen.  He  told  a  story  which 
my  inquiries  into  the  "  slop  trade  "  taught  me 
was  "  ower  true." 

*'  I  have  been  knocking  about  for  near  upon 
six  weeks,"  he  replied,  in  answer  to  my  in- 
quiries. *'  I  was  working  at  the  slop-trade  at 
Uie  West-end.  I  am  a  native  of  Scotland.  I 
was  living  with  a  sweater.  I  used  to  board 
and  lodge  with  him  entirelv.  At  the  week's 
end  I  was  almost  always  in  debt  with  him — at 
least  he  made  it  out  so.  I  had  veiy  often  to 
work  all  night,  but  let  me  slave  as  hard  as  I 
might  I  never  could  get  out  of  debt  with  the 
sweater.  There  were  often  as  many  as  six  of 
us  Uiere,  and  we  slept  two  together  in  each 
bed.  The  work  had  been  slack  for  some  time, 
and  he  gave  me  employment  till  I  worked 
myself  out  of  his  debt,  and  then  he  tamed 
me  into  the  streets.  I  had  a  few  clothes  re- 
maining, and  these  soon  were  sold  to  get  food 
and  lodging.  I  lived  on  my  other  coat  and 
shirts  for  a  week  or  two,  and  at  last  all  was 
gone,  and  I  was  left  entirely  destitute.  Then  I 
had  to  pace  the  streets  oil  doy  and  night  The 
two  nights  before  I  came  here  I  never  tasted  food 
nor  lay  down  to  rest.  I  had  been  in  a  four- 
penny  lodging  before  then,  but  I  couldn't 
raise  even  that ;  and  I  knew  it  was  no  good 
going  there  without  the  money.  You  roust 
pi^  before  you  go  to  bed  at  thoso  places. 
Several  times  I  got  into  a  doorway,  to  shelter 
from  the  wind  and  cold,  and  twice  I  was 
roused  bv  tJie  policeman,  for  I  was  so  tired 
that  I  fell  asleep  standing  against  a  shop  near 
the  Bank.  What  with  hunger  and  cold,  I  was 
in  a  half-stupid  state.  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do :  I  was  far  from  home  and  my  mother.  I 
have  not  liked  to  let  her  know  how  badly  I  vas 
off."  [The  poor  lad's  eyes  flooded  with  tears 
at  the  recollection  of  his  parent]  **  I  thought 
I  had  better  steal  something,  and  then  at  least 
I  should  have  a  roof  over  my  head.  Then  I 
thought  I'd  make  away  with  mys^  I  cant 
say  how ;  it  was  a  sort  of  desperation ;  and  I 
was  so  stupid  with  cold  and  want,  thtU  I  can 
hardly  remember  what  I  thought  All  I 
wanted  was  to  be  allowed  to  sit  down  en  some 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOH, 


498 


dooTiitep  and  die ;  but  the  police  did  not  allow 
this.  In  the  daytime  I  went  up  and  lay  about 
the  parks  most  part  of  the  day,  but  I  couldn't 
sleep  then ;  I  hardly  know  why,  but  I'd  been  so 
\on\i  without  food,  that  I  coulchii't  rest  I  have 
purposely  kept  fix>m  writing  to  my  mother. 
It  would  break  her  heart  to  know  my  suffer- 
ings. She  has  been  a  widow  this  ten  years 
past  She  keeps  a  lodging-house  xq.  Leith, 
and  has  two  children  to  support.  I  have  been 
away  eight  months  fix>m  her.  I  came  to  Lon- 
don from  a  desire  to  see  the  place,  and  thinking 
I  could  better  my  situation.  In  Edinburgh,  I 
had  made  my  IL  a- week  regularly;  often 
more,  and  seldom  less.  When  I  came  to 
London,  a  woman  met  me  in  the  street,  and 
asked  me  if  I  wasn't  a  tailor  ?  On  my  replying 
in  the  affirmative,  she  infoimed  me  if  I  would 
come  and  work  for  her  husband,  I  should  have 
good  wages,  and  live  wiUi  her  and  her  husband, 
and  they  would  make  me  quite  comfortable. 
I  didn't  know  she  was  the  wife  of  a  sweater 
at  that  time.  It  was  a  thing  I  had  never  heard 
of  in  Edinburgh.  After  that  time,  I  kept 
getting  worse  and  worse  off,  working  day  and 
night,  and  all  Sunday,  and  still  always  being 
in  debt  to  them  I  worked  for.  Indeed,  I 
wish  I  had  never  left  home.  If  I  could  get 
bock,  I'd  go  in  a  moment  I  have  worked 
early  and  late,  in  the  hope  of  accumulating 
money  enough  to  take  me  home  again,  but  I 
could  not  even  got  out  of  debt,  much  more 
save,  work  as  hard  as  I  would." 

I  asked  if  he  would  allow  me  to  see  some 
letters  of  his  mother's,  as  vouchers  for  the 
truth  of  his  story,  and  he  produced  a  small 
packet,  from  which,  with  his  permission,  I 
copied  the  following  :— 

"  My  dear  Son, — ^I  have  this  moment  re- 
ceived your  letter.  I  was  happy  to  hear  from 
you,  and  trust  you  are  well.  Think  of  tliat 
God  who  has  cni-ried  you  in  safety  over  the 
mighty  deep.  We  oi-e  all  much  as  you  left  us. 
I  hope  you  will  soon  write.  Ever  believe  me, 
"  Ybur  affectionate  mother, 

This  was  the  first  letter  written  after  his 
absence  from  home.  Since  then  his  mother, 
who  is  aged  and  rheumatic  (his  letters  vouched 
for  this),  had  been  unable  to  write  a  line.  His 
brother,  a  lad  of  16,  says,  in  one  of  his 
letters, — 

"  I  am  getting  on  with  my  Greek,  Hebrew, 
Latin,  and  French,  only  I  am  terribly  ill  off 
for  want  of  books.  My  mother  was  saying 
tliat  yon  would  be  bringing  me  a  first-rate 
present  firom  London.  I  think  the  most  ap- 
propriate  present  you  can  bring  me  will  be  a 
Greek  and  English,  or  a  Hebrew  and  English 
Lexicon;  or  some  Hebrew,  Greek,  or  Latin 
book." 

A  letter  from  his  sister,  a  girl  of  18,  ran  as 
follows : — 


"  My  dear  brother,— I  take  this  opportunity 
of  writing  you,  as  you -wrote  tliat  you  woidd 
like  to  have  a  letter  from  me.  I  am  very  sorry 
you  have  been  ill,  but  I  hope  you  are  keeping 
better.  I  trust  also  that  afiiiction  will  be  the 
means  of  leading  you  only  more  closely  to  the 
only  true  source  of  happiness.  Oh,  my  dear 
brother,  yon  are  still  young,  and  God  has  told 
us  in  His  word,  that  those  who  seek  Him 
early  shall  find  Him.  My  dear  brother,  we 
get  many  a  sad  and  solemn  warning  to  prepare 
to  meet  our  God :  and  oh !  my  dear  brother, 
'  what  is  a  man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the 
whole  world,  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?' " 

The  last  letter  was  dated  the  5th  of  Decem- 
ber last,  and  from  his  brother  :— 

"We  received  your  kind  letter,"  it  ran, 
'*  this  instant,  and  we  hasten  to  answer  it 
It  has  given  my  mother  and  me  great  relief  to 
hear  fi*om  you,  as  my  mother  and  I  were  very 
miserable  about  you,  thinking  you  were  ^11. 
We  trust  you  will  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
not  get  any  more  cold.  We  hope  you  will  be 
able  to  write  on  receipt  of  tliis,  and  let  us 
know  how  you  are,  and  when  we  may  expect 
you  home,  as  we  have  daily  expected  you  .since 
the  month  of  October." 

These  letters  were  shown  to  me  at  my  re- 
quest, and  not  produced  by  the  young  man 
himself,  so  that  it  was  evident  they  were  kept 
by  the  youth  with  no  view  of  being  used  by 
him  as  a  means  of  inducing  charity ;  indeed, 
the  whole  manner  of  the  young  man  was  such 
as  entirely  precluded  suspicion.  On  my  asking 
whether  he  had  any  other  credentials  as  to. 
character,  he  showed  mo  a  letter  from  a  Scotch 
minister,  stating  that "  he  had  been  under  his 
charge,  and  that  ft'om  his  conduct  he  had 
been  led  to  form  a  favourable  opinion  of  his 
talents  and  moral  character ;  and  that  he  be- 
lieved him  to  be  a  desening,  industrious 
young  man." 

Of  the  class  of  distressed  tradesmen  seeking 
shelter  at  this  asylum,  the  two  following  may 
be  taken  as  fair  types.  One  was  a  bankrupt 
lineudraper,  and  appeared  in  a  most  destitute 
state.  When  he  spoke  of  his  children,  his 
eyes  flooded  with  tears : — 

*'I  have  been  in  business  in  the  linen- 
drapery  line — that's  five  years  ago.  I  had 
about  600/.  worth  of  stodc  at  first  starting,  and 
used  to  take  about  65/.  every  week.  My  esta- 
blishment was  in  a  country  village  in  Essex. 
I  went  on  medium  well  for  the  first  two  or 
three  years,  but  the  alteration  of  the  poor- 
laws  and  the  reduction  of  the  agricultural 
labourers'  wages  destroyed  my  business.  My 
customers  were  almost  all  among  the  working 
classes.  I  had  dealings  with  a  few  farmers, 
of  whom  I  took  butter,  and  cheese,  and  eggs, 
in  exchange  for  my  goods.  When  the  poor* 
[laws  were  altered,  the  out -door   relief  was 


424 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


stopped,  and  the  paupers  compelled  to  go 
insido  the  house.  Before  that,  a  good  part  of 
tlio  money  given  to  the  poor  used  to  be  ex- 
pended at  my  shop.  The  overseers  used  to 
ttave  tickets  for  flannels,  blankets,  and  shirt- 
ings, and  other  goods ;  with  these  they  used 
to  send  the  paupers  to  my  house.  I  used  to 
take  full  8/.  or  10/.  a-week  in  tliis  manner ;  so 
that  when  the  poor-laws  were  altered,  and  the 
previous  system  discontinued,  I  suffered  ma- 
terially. Besides,  the  wages  of  the  agrirul- 
tural  labourers  being  lowered,  left  them  less 
money  to  lay  out  with  me.  On  a  market-day 
they  were  my  chief  customers.  I  would  trust 
them  one  week  under  the  other,  and  give  thcni 
credit  for  In.  or  10«.,  if  they  wanted  it  After 
their  wages  came  down,  they  hadn't  the  means 
of  laying  out  a  sixpence  with  me ;  and  where 
I  had  i^een  taking  OA/.  a-week,  my  receipts 
dwindled  to  80/.  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  two  shopmen  before,  but  after  the 
reduction  I  was  obUged  to  come  down  to  one. 
Then  the  competition  of  the  large  houses  in 
other  towns  was  more  than  I  could  stand 
against.  Having  a  larger  capital,  they  could 
buy  cheaper,  and  afford  to  take  a  less  profit, 
and  so  of  course  they  could  sell  much  cheaper 
than  I  could.  Then,  to  try  and  keep  pace 
with  my  neighboui's,  I  endeavoured  to  extend 
my  capital  by  means  of  accommodation  bills, 
but  the  interest  I  had  to  pay  on  these  was  so 
loiige,  and  my  profits  so  little,  that  it  soon  be- 
came impossible  for  mo  to  meet  the  claims 
upon  me.  I  was  mode  a  bankrupt.  My  debts 
at  the  time  were  000/.  This  is  about  six 
years  ago.  After  that  I  took  a  public-house. 
Some  property  was  left  me.  I  came  into 
about  1000/.;  part  of  this  went  to  my  creditors, 
and  I  superseded  my  bankruptcy.  With  the 
rest  I  determined  upon  starting  in  the  pub- 
lican line.  I  kept  at  this  for  about  ten  montlis, 
but  I  could  do  nothing  with  it.  There  was  no 
custom  to  the  house.  I  had  been  deceived 
into  taking  it.  By  the  time  I  got  out  of  it  all 
my  money  was  pone.  After  that  I  got  a  job 
as  a  referee  at  the  time  of  the  railway  mania, 
and  when  that  was  over,  I  got  appointed  as  a 
policeman  on  the  Eastern  Union  line.  There 
I  remained  two  years  and  upwards,  but  then 
they  began  reducing  their  establishment,  both 
in  men  and  in  wages.  I  was  among  the  men 
who  were  turned  off.  Since  that  time,  which 
is  now  two  years  this  Christmas,  I  have  had 
no  constant  employment  Occasionally  I  have 
got  a  little  law- writing  to  do;  sometimes  I 
liave  got  a  job  as  under- waiter  at  a  tavern. 
After  1  left  the  waiter's  place,  I  got  to  be  very 
badly  off.  I  had  a  decent  suit  of  clothes  to 
my  back  up  to  that  time,  but  then  I  became 
so  reduced,  I  was  obliged  to  go  and  live  in  a 
low  lodging-house  in  WhitechapeL  I  was 
enabled  to  get  along  somehow ;  I  know  many 
fi-iends,  and  they  gave  me  a  litUe  money  now 
and  then.  But  at  last  I  had  exhausted  these. 
I  could  get  nothing  to  do  of  any  kind.  I  have 
bePH  to  Shorcditch  station  to  try  to  pick  up 


a  few  pence  at  carrying  parcels,  bat  there 
were  so  many  there  that  I  could  not  get  a 
crust  that  way.  I  was  obliged  to  pawn  gar- 
ment after  garment  to  pay  for  my  food  and 
lodgmg ;  and  when  they  were  all  gone,  I  was 
wholly  destitute.  I  couldnt  even  raise  two- 
]>ence  for  a  night's  lodging,  so  I  came  hero  and 
asked  for  a  ticket  My  wife  is  dead.  1  have 
three  children ;  but  I  would  rather  you  would 
not  say  anything  about  them,  if  you  please." 

1  assured  the  man  that  his  name  should 
not  be  printed,  and  he  then  consented  to  his 
children  being  mentioned. 

'*  The  age  of  toy  eldest  child  is  fourteen,  and 
my  yoimgest  nine.  Tliey  do  not  know  of  the 
destitution  of  their  father.  They  are  staying 
with  one  of  my  relations,  who  has  supported 
them  since  my  failure.  I  wouldn't  have  them 
know  of  my  state  on  any  account  None  of 
my  family  are  aware  of  my  misery.  My  eldest 
cbuld  is  a  girl,  and  it  would  break  her  heart  to 
know  where  1  am,  and  see  tlie  state  of  distress 
I  am  in.  My  boy,  I  think,  would  never  get 
over  it.  He  is  eleven  years  old.  I  have  tried 
to  get  work  at  carrying  placard-boards  about 
but  I  can't  My  clothes  are  now  too  bad  for 
me  to  do  anytliing  else.  I  write  a  good  hand, 
and  would  do  anything,  I  don't  care  what,  to 
earn  a  few  pence.  I  can  get  a  good  character 
from  every  place  I  have  been  in.** 

The  other  tradesman's  story  was  as  fd- 
lows : — 

''  I  am  now  thirty-three,  and  am  acquainted 
with  the  grocery  trade,  both  as  master  and  as- 
sistant I  served  a  five-years'  apprenticeship 
in  a  town  in  Berkshire.  The  very  late  boorH 
and  tlie  constant  confinement  made  mefipel 
my  apprenticeship  a '  state  of  slavery.  The 
other  apprentices  used  to  say  they  felt  it  so 
likewise.  During  ray  apprenticeship  I  consi- 
der that  I  never  learnt  my  trade  properly.  I 
knew  as  much  at  the  year's  end  as  at  the  fire 
years'  end.  My  father  gave  my  master  filly 
pounds  premium;  the  same  premium,  or 
more,  was  paid  with  tlie  others.     One,  the  son 

of  a  gentleman  at ,  paid  as'  much  as  ^ghty 

pounds.  My  master  made  an  excellent  thing 
of  his  apprentices.  Nearly  all  the  grocers  iu 
the  part  of  Berkshire  I'm  acquainted  with 
do  the  some.  My  master  was  a  severe  man  to 
us,  in  respect  of  keeping  us  in  the  house,  and 
making  us  attend  the  Methodist  Chapel  twice, 
and  sometimes  thrice,  every  Sunday.  We  had 
pi-ayers  night  and  morning.  I  attribute  my 
misfortunes  to  this  apprenticeship,  becansc 
there  was  a  great  discrepancy  between  profes- 
sion and  practice  in  the  house ;  so  there  could 
be  no  respect  in  the  young  men  for  their  em- 
ployer, and  they  grew  careless.  He  carried  on 
his  business  in  a  way  to  inspire  anything  else 
than  respect  On  the  cheesemongery  aide  we 
were  always  blamed  if  we  didn't  keep  the  scale 
well  wetted,  so  as  to  make  it  heavier  on  one 
side  than  tlie  otlier — ^I  mean  the  side  of  the 
scale  where  the  butter  was  put — ^that  was  filled 
or  partly  filled  with  water,  under  pretence  of 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOS. 


425 


preventiiig  the  butter  sticking,  and  bo  the  cus- 
tomer was  wronged  half  an  ounce  in  every 
purchase.  With  regard  to  the  bacon,  which, 
on  account  of  competition,  we  had  to  sell 
cheap— at  no  profit  sometimes— he  used  to  say 
to  us,  *  You  must  make  the  ounces  pay ; '  that 
is,  we  were  expected  to  add  two  or  more 
ounces,  calculating  on  what  the  customer 
would  put  up  with,  to  every  six  odd  ounces  in 
the  weight  of  a  piece.  For  instance,  if  a  hock 
of  bacon  weighed  six  pounds  seven  ounces,  at 
4.^d.  per  pound,  we  were  to  chai'ge  2s.  3rf.  for 
the  six  poimds,  and  (if  possible )  adding  two 
ounces  to  the  seven  which  was  the  actual 
weight,  charge  each  ounce  a  halfpenny,  so  get- 
ting 2«.  7^d.  instead  of  2s,  ftrf.  This  is  a  com- 
mon practice  in  all  the  cheap  shops  I  am  ac- 
quainted with.  With  his  sugars  and  teas,  in- 
ferior sorts  were  mixed.  In  grinding  pepper, 
a  quantity  of  rice  was  used,  it  all  being  ground 
together.  Mustard  was  adulterated  by  the 
manufacturers,  if  the  price  given  showed  that 
the  adulterated  stuff  was  wanted.  The  lowest 
priced  coffee  was  always  half  cliiccory,  the 
second  quality  one-third  chiccory;  the  best 
was  one  pound  of  chiccory  to  three  poimds  of 
coffee,  or  one-fourth.  We  had  it  either  in 
chiccory-nibs,  which  is  the  root  of  the  endive 
cultivated  in  Yorkshire,  Prussia,  &c.,  or  else  a 
spurious  chiccory  powdered,  twopence  per 
pound  cheaper,  the  principal  ingredient  being 
pai*snips  and  carrots  cut  in  small  pieces,  and 
roasted  like  chiccory.  A  quart  of  water  is  the 
allowance  to  every  twenty-eight  pounds  of  to- 
bacco. We  had  to  keep  pulling  it,  so  as  to 
keep  it  loose,  for  if  left  to  lie  long  it  would 
mould,  and  get  a  very  unpleasant  smell.  In 
weighing  sugar,  some  was  always  spilt  loose 
in  the  scale  opjiosito  the  weight,  which  re- 
mains in  the  scale,  so  that  every  pound  or  so  is 
a  quarter  of  on  ounce  short  This  is  the  prac- 
tice only  in  cutting  shops.  Often  enough, 
after  we  have  been  doing  all  these  rogueries, 
we  were  called  into  prayers.  In  my  next 
situation,  with  an  honourable  tradesman  in 
Yorkshire,  I  found  I  had  to  learn  my  business 
over  again,  so  as  to  CArry  it  on  fairly.  In  two 
or  three  years  I  went  into  business  in  the  town 
where  I  was  apprenticed ;  but  I  had  been  sub- 
jected to  such  close  confinement,  and  so  many 
unnecessary  restrictions,  without  any  oppor- 
tunity of  improving  by  reading,  that  when  I 
was  my  own  master,  and  in  possession  of 
money,  and  on  the  first  taste  of  freedom,  I 
squandered  my  money  foolishly  and  extrava- 
gantly, and  that  brought  me  into  difiiculties. 
I  was  150/.  deficient  to  meet  my  liabili- 
ties, and  my  friends  advanced  that  sum, 
I  undertaking  to  be  more  attentive  to  busi- 
ness. After  that,  a  man  started  as  a 
gi-ocer  in  the  same  street,  in  the  'cutting' 
line,  and  I  had  to  compete  with  him,  and  he 
sold  his  sugar  a  half^nny  a  pound  less  than 
it  cost,  and  I  was  obliged  to  do  the  same.  The 
preparing  of  the  sugar  for  the  market-day  is  a 
country  grocer's  week's  work,  and  all  at  a  loss. 


That's  the  ruin  of  many  a  grocer.  My  profits 
dwindled  year  by  year,  though  I  stuck  very 
close  to  business ;  and  in  eighteen  months  I 
gave  it  up.  By  that  time  other  '  cutting ' 
shops  were  opened  —  none  have  done  any 
good.  I  was  about  100/.  bad,  which  my 
fi'iends  arranged  to  pay  by  instalments. 
After  that  I  hawked  tea.  I  did  no  good  in 
that.  The  system  is  to  leave  it  at  the  work- 
ing men's  houses,  giving  a  week's  credit,  the 
customers  often  taking  more.  Notliing  can 
be  honestly  made  in  that  trade.  The  Scotch- 
men  in  the  trade  are  the  only  men  that  can  do 
any  good  in  it.  The  chai-ge  is  six  shillings  for 
what's  four  shillings  in  a  good  shop.  About 
nine  months  ago  my  wife — I  had  been  mar- 
ried seven  years — was  obliged  to  go  and  live  . 
mih  her  sister,  a  dressmaker,  as  I  was  too 
poor  to  keep  her  or  myself  either.  I  then 
came  to  London,  to  try  for  employment  of  any 
kind.  I  answered  advertisements,  and  there 
were  always  forty  or  fifty  young  men  after  the 
same  situation.  I  never  got  one,  except  for  a 
short  time  at  Brentford.  I  had  also  a  few 
days'  work  at  bill  deliver}' — that  is,  grocers' 
circulars.  I  was  at  last  so  reduced  that  I 
couldn't  pay  for  my  lodgings.  Nobody  can 
describe  the  misery  I  felt  as  I  have  walked 
tlie  streets  all  night,  falling  asleep  as  I  went 
along,  and  then  roused  myself  up  half-frozen, 
my  limbs  aching,  and  my  whole  body  trem- 
bling. Sometimes,  if  I  could  find  a  penny,  I 
might  sit  up  in  a  coffe^-shop  in  HusseU-street, 
Oovent- garden,  till  five  in  the  mohiing,  when 
I  had  to  roam  the  streets  all  day  long.  Two 
days  I  was  without  food,  and  determined  to 
commit  some  felony  to  save  me  from  starva- 
tion, when,  to  my  great  joy — for  God  knows 
what  it  saved  me  from,  as  I  was  utterly  care- 
less what  my  fate  would  be — ^I  was  told  of  this 
refuge  by  a  poor  man  who  had  been  there, 
who  found  me  walking  about  the  Piazzas  in 
Covent-garden  as  a  place  of  shelter.  I  ap- 
plied, and  was  admitted.  I  don't  know  how  I 
can  get  a  place  without  clothes.  I  have  one 
child  with  my  wife,  and  she  supports  him  and 
herself  very  indifferently  by  dressmaking." 

A  soldier's  wife,  speaking  with  a  strong 
Scotch  accent,  made  the  following  statement. 
She  had  altogether  a  decent  appearance,  but 
her  features — and  there  were  the  remains  of 
prettiness  in  her  look — were  sadly  pinched. 
Her  manners  were  quiet,  and  her  voice  low 
and  agreeable.  She  looked  like  one  who  ha4l 
"  seen  better  days,**  as  the  poor  of  the  better 
sort  not  unfrequently  say  in  their  destitution, 
clinging  to  the  recollection  of  post  comforts. 
She  wore  a  very  cle-an  checked  cotton  shawl, 
and  a  straw  bonnet  tolerably  entire.  The 
remainder  of  her  dress  was  covered  by  her 
shawl,  which  was  folded  closely  about  her, 
over  a  dark  cotton  gown. 

"  I  was  bom  twenty  miles  from  Inverness, 
(she  said),  and  have  been  a  servant  since  I 
was  eleven.  I  always  lived  in  good  places — 
the  best  of  places.    I  nerer  was  in  inferior 


Aiao 


LOS  vow  LADOUn  ASD  THE  LOSVOS  J'OOM. 


Iiliiri'fi.  I  havo  livnd  as  cook,  liousemaitl,  or 
wTvaiit-of-all-work,  in  Inv»Tnt;KS,  Elgin,  and 
Tttin,  a]«'(iyH  maintaining  a  good  charact4>r. 
I  Uiank  (iod  for  tliat.  In  all  my  distress  I've 
dono  nothing  wrong,  but  I  didn't  know  what 
diMtri  Ks  wos  when  in  senice.  I  contiuurnl  in 
ftenico  until  I  married ;  but  I  was  not  able  to 
ftavH  much  money,  becauso  I  had  to  do  ull  I 
could  for  my  mother,  who  was  a  very  poor 
willow,  for  I  lost  my  father  when  I  was  two 
y<»arH  old.  Wages  arc  very  low  in  Scotland  to 
what  they  are  in  England.  In  the  year  1847 
I  liv<:?<l  in  tlio  Bcr\'ice  of  the  barrack-master  of 
Fort  C»ef»rgc,  twelve  miles  below  Inverness. 
Therrj  I  liecume  acciuaintod  with  my  present 
husband,  a  soldier,  and  I  was  married  to  him 
in  March,  1847,  in  the  chapel  at  Fort  George. 
I  continued  two  months  in  service  after  my 
marriage.  My  mistress  wouldn't  let  nie  away ; 
she  was  very  kind  to  me;  so  was  my  master: 
they  all  were.  I  have  a  written  character 
from  my  mistress."    [This,  at  my  request,  she 

Iinxluced.]  **  Two  months  after,  the  regiment 
eft  Fort  George  for  L<ith,  and  there  I  lived 
with  my  husband  in  barracks.  It  is  not  so 
boil  for  married  persons  in  the  artillery  as  in 
the  hue  (we  were  in  the  artiller>'),  in  harrac^ks. 
In  our  barrack-rooms  no  smglo  men  were 
alIow(>.l  to  sleep  where  the  married  people 
w«Te  accommodated.  But  there  wen^  three  or 
four  married  families  in  our  room.  I  lived 
two  years  in  barracks  with  my  husband,  in 
diffiTfUt  ban'ocks.  I  was  very  comfortable. 
I  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  want  anything  I 
ought  to  liave.  My  husband  was  a  kind, 
Sober  man."  [This  she  said  very  feelingly.] 
"His  regiment  was  ordered  abroad,  to  Nova 
Scotia.  I  had  no  family.  Only  six  soldiers' 
wivrs  ai-o  allowed  to  go  out  witli  each  com- 
ptuiy,  and  there  were  seventeen  married 
men  in  the  company  to  which  my  husband 
b4»long<Hl.  It's  detennined  by  lot.  An  officer 
holds  the  tickets  in  his  cap,  and  the  men 
draw  them.  None  of  tlie  wives  are  present 
It  would  be  too  hard  a  thing  for  th(»m  to  see. 
My  husband  drew  a  liliuik."  She  continued : — 
*'  It  was  a  sad  Kcene  when  they  embarked 
at  Woohvich  last  March.  All  the  wives  were 
then-,  jdl  crj'ing  and  st)bbing,  you  may  depend 
upon  tliat;  and  the  children,  too,  and  some 
of  \hv  men ;  but  I  couldn't  look  lauch  at  them, 
and  I  don't  like  to  see  men  cry.  My  husband 
was  sadly  distressetl.  I  hoped  to  get  out  thei*e 
and  join  him,  not  knowing  the  passage  was  so 
long  anil  expensive.  1  hml  a  little  money 
then,  but  that's  gone,  and  I'm  bmught  to 
misiTV.  It  Would  have  cost  me  G/.  at  that 
time  to  get  out,  and  I  couldn't  manage  that, 
so  I  stayed  in  London,  getting  a  day's  work  at 
washing  when  I  could,  making  a  veiy  poor 
living  of  it ;  and  I  was  at  lost  forced  to  part 
with  all  my  good  clothes  after  my  money  went ; 
and  n»y  husband,  God  bless  him  !  always  ;,'ave 
me  his  money  to  do  what  I  thought  best  with 
it.  I  usetl  to  cam  a  litUe  in  bamicks  witli 
my  neeiUe,  too.     I  wiis  taken  ill  with  cholera  ' 


at  the  latter  end  of  August.  Dear,  dear,  what 
I  suffered !  And  when  I  was  getting  better  I 
had  a  second  attack,  ami  that  was  the  way  my  bit 
of  money  all  went  I  was  then  quite  destitute; 
but  I  core  nothing  for  that,  and  would  care 
nothing  for  anything  if  I  eoold  get  ont  to  my 
husband,  i  should  be  hiqipy  then.  I  should 
never  bo  so  happy  since  I  was  bom  beibre. 
It's  now  a  monUi  sinco  I  was  entirely  out  of 
halfpence.  I  can't  beg;  it  would  disgrace  me 
and  my  husband,  and  I'd  die  in  the  streets 
first  Last  Saturday  I  hadn't  a  fortliing.  I 
hadn't  a  thing  to  part  with.  I  had  a  bed  by 
the  night,  at  '^d.  a-night,  not  a  regular  lodging- 
house  ;  but  tlie  mistress  wouldn't  trust  me  no 
longer,  as  I  owed  hor  2m.  Od.^  and  for  that  she 
holds  clothes  wortli  far  more  than  that  I 
heard  of  this  Asylum,  and  got  admitted,  or  I 
must  have  si)ent  the  night  in  the  street — them 
was  nothing  else  for  me;  but  thank  God! 
I've  been  spared  that  On  Christmas  day  I 
had  a  letter  from  my  husband.** 

This  she  produced.  It  contained  the  follow- 
ing passage : — 

**I  am  glad  this  letter  only  costs  you  a 
penny,  as  your  purse  must  be  getting  very 
low ;  but  there  is  a  good  time  coming,  and  i 
trust  in  God  it  will  not  be  long,  my  deir  wife, 
i  hope  you  will  have  got  a  good  place  before 
this  r.iches  you.  I  am  dowing  all  in  ray  power 
to  help  you.  i  trust  in  good  in  8  montlis  more, 
if  you  Help  me,  between  us  we  make  it  out** 

She  concluded : — 

'•  I  wouldn't  like  him  to  know  how  boiUy  I 
am  off.  He  knows  I  would  do  nothing  wrong: 
He  wouldn't  suspect  me ;  ho  never  would.  He 
knows  me  too  well.  I  have  no  clothes  bnt 
what  are  detained  for  *2m,  6<f.,  and  what  I  have 
on.  I  have  on  just  this  shawl  and  an  old 
cotton  gown,  but  it's  not  broke,  and  my  under- 
clothing. AH  my  wish  is  to  get  out  to  my  hus- 
band.    I  care  for  nothing  else  in  this  world.** 

Next  comes  the  tale  of  a  young  girl  who 
worked  at  velvet  embossing.  She  was  cornel}, 
and  modestly  spoken.  By  her  attire  it  would 
have  been  diflicult  to  have  told  that  she  vms 
so  utterly  destitute  as  I  afterwards  discovered. 
She  was  scrupulously  neat  and  clean  in  her 
dress;  indeed  it  was  evident  oven  from  her 
appearance,  that  she  belonged  to  a  better  class 
than  the  ordinary  inmates  of  the  Asylum.  As 
she  sat  alone  in  Uie  long,  unocisupied  wards, 
she  sighed  heavily,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
continually  on  the  ground.  Her  voice  was 
very  sorrowful.  Her  narrative  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

**  I  have  been  out  of  work  for  a  very  long 
while,  for  full  tliree  months  now,  and  all  the 
summer  I  was  only  on  and  off.  I  mosUy  had 
my  work  given  out  to  me.  It  was  in  pieces  of 
100  yards,  and  sometimes  less,  and  I  was  paid 
so  much  for  the  dozen  yiuxls.  I  generally  had 
3|(/.,  and  sometimes  l^W.,  according  to  what  it 
was ;  3^.  was  the  highest  price  that  I  had.  I 
could,  if  I  rose  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  sat 
up  till  twelve,  earn  between  1m,  and  Is.  3i^  in 


LONDON  LABOUR  Ji^'D  TITS  LONDON  POOR. 


idT 


ft  day.  I  had  to  cut  the  velvet  after  it  had 
hccn  embossed.  I  could,  if  a  diamond 
pattern,  do  five  dozen  yards  in  a-day,  and  if  a 
h^af  pattern,  I  could  only  do  three  dozen  and 
a-holf.  I  couldn't  get  enough  of  it  to  do,  even 
nt  these  prices.  Sometimes  I  was  two  days  in 
the  week  without  work,  and  sometimes  I  had 
work  for  only  ono  day  in  the  week.  They  I 
wanted,  too,  to  reduce  the  1  \d.  <Uamond  work 
to  \d.  the  dozen  yards ;  and  so  they  would  have 
done,  only  the  work  got  so  slack  that  we  had 
to  leave  it  altogether.  That  is  now  seven 
weeks  ogo.  Before  tliat,  I  did  get  a  little  to 
do,  though  it  was  very  little,  and  since  then  I 
have  called  almost  every  week  at  the  ware- 
house, but  they  have  put  mo  off,  telling  mo  to 
come  in  a  fortnight  or  a  week's  time.  1  never 
kept  ncquaintance  with  any  of  the  other  young 
women  working  at  the  warehouse,  but  1  dare 
say  about  twenty. five  were  thrown  out  of  work 
at  the  pnme  time  as  I  was.  Sometimes  I  made 
05.  a-wc(^k,  and  sometimes  only  3s.,  and  for 
tlie  last  fortnight  I  got  Is.  Crf.  a-week,  and  out 
of  that  I  had  my  own  candles  to  find,  and 
Is.  Orf.  a-week  to  pay  for  my  lodgings.  After  I 
lost  my  work,  I  made  away  with  what  Httle 
clotlics  I  had,  and  now  I  liavo  got  nothing  but 
what  I  stand  upright  in.''  [Ifhe  teai*»  were 
pouring  down  the  cheeks  of  the  poor  girl;  she 
was  many  minutes  afterwards  before  she  could 
ouswer  my  questions,  from  sobbing.]  "1 
can't  help  crjing."  she  sjiid,  "  when  1  think 
how  destitute  I  am.  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  [slie 
cried  through  her  sobs,]  I  have  been  a  good 
girl  in  all  my  trials.  I  might  have  been  better 
off  if  I  had  chosen  to  take  to  that  Ufe.  I  need 
not  have  been  here  if  I  had  cliosen  to  part 
with  my  character.  1  don't  know  what  my 
father  was.  I  l)€lieve  ho  was  a  clerk  in  one  of 
the  foreign  confectioner}' houses.  He  deserted 
my  mother  two  months  before  I  was  bom.  I 
don't  know  whether  he  is  dead  or  not,  for  I 
never  set  eyes  on  him.  K  he  is  ahve,  he  is 
very  well  off.  I  know  this  from  my  aunt,  who 
was  told  by  one  of  his  fellow-clerks  that  he 
had  nianied  a  woman  of  property  and  gone 
abroad.  He  was  disappointed  with  my  moUier. 
He  expected  to  have  had  a  good  bit  of  money 
with  her;  but  after  she  married  him,  her  father 
wouldn't  notice  her.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  a  week  old,  so  I  do  not  recollect  either  of 
my  parents.  When  my  aimt,  who  was  his  own 
sister,  wrote  to  him  about  myself,  my  brother 
and  sister,  he  sent  word  back  that  the  children 
might  go  to  the  workhouse.  But  my  aimt  took 
pity  on  us,  and  brought  us  all  up.  She  had  a 
little  property  of  her  own.  She  gave  us  a 
decent  education,  as  far  as  lay  in  her  power. 
My  brother  she  put  to  sea.  ^ly  father's 
brother  was  a  captain,  and  he  took  my  brother 
with  him.  The  firet  voyage  he  went  (he  was 
fourteen),  a  part  of  the  rigging  fell  on  him  and 
the  first  mate,  and  they  were  both  killed  on 
the  spot.     My  sister  went  as  lady's-maid  to 

Lady •,  and  went   abroad  witli   her,  now 

eighteen  montlis  ago,  and  I  have  never  Iicard 


of  her  since.  The  aunt  who  brought  mo  up 
is  dead  now.  She  was  carried  off  two  years 
and  three  months  ago.  If  she  had  lived  I 
should  never  have  wanted  a  friend.  I  remained 
with  her  up  to  the  time  of  her  death,  and  waa 
very  happy  before  that  time.  After  that  I 
found  it  very  hard  ior  a  poor  lone  girl  like 
me  to  get  an  honest  liring.  I  have  been 
struggling  on  ever  since,  parting  with  my 
clotlies,  and  often  going  for  two  days  without 
food.  I  lived  upon  Uie  remainder  of  my 
clothes  for  some  little  time  after  I  was  thrown 
entirely  out  of  work ;  but  at  last  I  got  a  fort- 
night in  debt  at  my  lodgings,  and  tliey  made 
me  leave ;  that's  a  week  and  three  days  ago 
now.  Then  I  had  nowhere  but  the  streets  to 
lay  my  head.  I  walked  about  for  three  days 
and  nights  without  rest.  I  went  into  a  chapel. 
I  went  there  to  sit  down  and  pray ;  but  I  was 
too  tired  to  offer  up  any  prayers,  for  I  fell 
asleep.  I  had  been  two  nights  and  three  days 
in  the  streets  before  this,  and  all  I  had  during 
that  time  was  a  penny  loaf,  and  that  I  was 
obliged  to  beg  for.  On  the  day  that  I  was 
walking  about,  it  thawed  in  the  morning,  and 
froze  very  hard  at  night.  My  shoes  were 
very  bad,  and  let  in  water ;  and  as  the  night 
came  on,  my  stockings  froze  to  my  feet  Even 
now  I  am  suffering  from  the  cold  of  those 
nights.  It  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  bend  my 
limbs  at  present  I  have  been  in  the  Asylum 
a  week,  and  to-night  is  my  last  night  here.  I 
have  nowhere  to  go,  and  what  will  become  of 
me  the  Lord  God  only  knows."  [Again  she 
burst  out  crying  most  piteously.]  "  My  things 
are  not  fit  to  go  into  any  respectable  workroom, 
and  they  won't  take  me  into  a  lodging  either, 
unless  I've  got  clothes.  I  would  rather  mako 
away  wth  myself  than  lose  my  character." 
[As  she  raised  her  hand  to  wipe  away  her 
tears,  I  saw  that  her  arms  were  bare ;  and  on 
her  moving  the  old  black  mantle  that  covered 
her  shoulders,!  obsen-ed  that  her  gown  was  so 
ragged  Uiat  the  body  was  almost  gone  from  it, 
and  it  had  no  sleeves.]  "I  shouldn't  have 
kept  this,"  she  said,  "if  I  could  have  made 
away  with  it"  She  said  that  she  hod  no  friend 
in  the  world  to  help  her,  but  that  she  would 
hke  much  to  emigrate. 

I  afterwards  inquired  at  the  house  at  which 
this  poor  creature  had  lodged,  as  to  whether 
she  had  always  conducted  herself  with  pro- 
priety while  living  there.  To  bo  candid,  I 
could  hardly  believe  that  any  person  could  turn 
a  young  friendless  girl  into  the  streets  because 
she  owed  two  weeks'  rent ;  though  the  girl  ap- 
peared too  simple  and  truthfid  to  fabricate 
such  a  statement.  On  inquiry,  I  found  her 
story  true  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
The  landlady,  an  Irishwoman,  acknowledged 
that  the  girl  was  in  her  debt  but  3s. ;  that  she 
had  lodged  with  her  for  several  months,  and 
always  paid  her  regularly  when  she  had  money ; 
but  slie  couldn't  afford,  she  said,  to  keep 
people  for  nothing.  The  girl  had  been  a  good, 
well-behaved,  modest  girl  with  her. 


4*28 


LONVON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOB, 


Descbiption  of  the  Asylum  for  the 
Houseless. 

The  Asylum  for  tho  Houseless  Poor  of  Lon- 
don is  opened  only  when  the  thermometer 
reaohcM  fVeezing-point,  and  offers  nothing  but 
dry  bread  and  warm  shelter  to  such  as  avail 
themselves  of  its  charity. 

To  this  place  swarm,  as  the  bitter  winter's 
night  comes  on,  some  half- thousand  penniless 
and  homeless  wanderers.  The  poverty-stricken 
from  every  quarter  of  tlie  globe  are  found 
within  its  wards ;  from  the  haggard  American 
seaman  to  the  lank  Polish  refugee,  the  pale 
German  "  out-wanderer,"  the  tearif\il  black  sea- 
cook,  the  shivering  Lascar  crossing- sweeper, 
the  helpless  Chinese  beggar,  and  the  half- 
torpid  Italian  organ-boy.  It  is,  indeed,  A 
ragged  congress  of  nations — a  convocation  of 
squalor  and  misery — nf  destitution,  degrada- 
tion, and  suffering,  from  all  the  comers  of  tho 
earth. 

Nearly  every  shade  and  grade  of  misery, 
misfortune,  vice,  and  even  guilt,  are  to  be 
found  in  the  place  ;  for  characters  are  not  de- 
manded previous  to  admission,  want  being 
tho  sole  qualification  required  of  the  applicants. 
The  Asylum  for  the  Houseless  is  at  once  the 
beggar's  hotel,  the  tramp's  town-house,  the 
outcast's  haven  of  refAge — the  last  dwelling, 
indeed,  on  the  road  to  ruin.  ' 

It  is  impossible  to  mistake  the  Asylum  if 
you  go  there  at  dark,  just  as  the  lamp  in  the 
wire  cage  over  the  entrnnce-door  is  being 
lighted.  This  is  the  hour  for  opening ;  and 
ranged  along  tho  kerb  is  a  kind  of  ragged 
regiment,  drawn  up  foiu-  deep,  and  stretching 
far  up  and  down  the  narrow  lane,  until  the 
crowd  is  like  a  hedge  to  Uio  roadway.  No- 
where in  the  world  can  a  similar  sight  be  wit- 
nessed. 

It  is  a  terrible  thing,  indeed,  to  look  down 
u^on  that  squalid  crowd  from  one  of  the  upper 
windows  of  the  institution.  There  they  stand 
shivering  in  the  snow,  with  their  thin,  cob- 
webby garments  hanging  in  tatters  about  them. 
Many  are  without  shirts ;  with  their  bare  skin 
showing  througli  the  rents  and  gaps  of  tlieir 
clothes,  like  tho  hide  of  a  dog  with  the  mange. 
Some  have  their  greasy  coats  and  trousers  tied 
round  their  wrists  and  ankles  with  string,  to 
prevent  the  piercing  wind  from  blowing  up 
them.  A  few  are  without  shoes;  and  these 
keep  one  foot  only  to  the  ground,  while  the 
bare  flesh  that  has  had  to  tramp  through  the 
snow  is  blue  and  livid-looking  as  half- cooked 
meat. 

It  is  a  sullenly  silent  crowd,  without  any  of 
f  he  riot  and  rude  frolic  which  generally  ensue 
upon  any  gathering  in  the  London  streets ; 
for  the  only  sounds  heard  are  the  squealing  of 
the  beggar  infants,  or  tho  wrangling  of  the 
vagrant  boys  for  the  front  ranks,  together  with 
a  continued  succession  of  hoarse  coughs,  that 


seem  to  answer  each  other  like  the  bleating  of 
a  flock  of  sheep. 

To  each  person  is  given  half-a-pound  of  the 
best  bread  on  coming  in  at  night,  and  a  like 
quantity  on  going  out  in  the  morning ;  and 
children,  even  if  they  be  at  the  breast,  have 
the  same,  which  goes  to  swell  the  mother's 
allowance.  A  clerk  enters  in  a  thick  ledger 
the  name,  age,  trade,  and  place  of  birth  of  the 
applicants,  as  well  as  where  they  slept  the 
night  before. 

As  the  eye  glances  down  the  column  of  tho 
register,  indicating  where  each  applicant  has 
passed  the  previous  night,  it  is  stiurtled  to  find 
how  often  the  clerk  has  had  to  write  down, 
"in  the  streets;"  so  that  "ditto,"  "ditto," 
continually  repeated  under  the  same  head, 
sounded  as  on  ideal  chorus  of  terrible  want  in 
the  mind's  ear. 

Tho  sleeping  -  wards  at  the  Asylum  are 
utterly  unlike  all  preconceived  notions  of  a 
dormitory.  There  is  not  a  bedstead  to  be 
seen,  nor  is  even  so  much  as  a  sheet  or 
blanket  visible.  The  ward  itself  is  a  long, 
bare,  whitewashed  apartment,  with  square 
post-like  pillars  supporting  the  flat -beamed 
roof,  and  reminding  the  visitor  of  a  lai^e  un- 
occupied store-room — such  as  are  occasionally 
seen  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Thames-street 
and  the  Docks.  Along  the  floor  are  ranged 
what  appear  at  first  sight  to  be  endless  rows 
of  large  empty  orange  chests,  packed  closely 
side  by  side,  so  that  Uie  boards  are  divided  off 
into  somo  two  himdred  shallow  tanpit-like 
comportments.  These  are  the  berths,  or,  to 
speak  technically,  tho  "  bunks  "  of  the  insti- 
tution.  In  each  of  them  is  a  black  mattress, 
made  of  some  shiny  waterproof  material,  like 
varpauling  stuffed  with  straw.  At  the  head  of 
every  bunk,  hanging  against  the  wall,  is  a 
leather — a  big  "basil"  covering — that  looks 
more  like  a  wine-cooper's  apron  than  a  counter- 
pane. These  "  basUs  "  are  used  as  coverlids, 
not  only  because  they  are  strong  and  dnnble, 
but  for  a  more  cogent  reason — they  do  not 
retain  vermin. 

Around  the  fierce  stove,  in  the  centre  of  the 
ward,  there  is  generally  gathered  a  group  of 
the  houseless  wanderers,  the  crimson  rays 
tinting  tho  cluster  of  haggard  faces  with  a 
briglit  lurid  light  that  colours  the  skin  as  red 
as  wino.  One  and  all  are  stretching  forth 
their  hands,  as  if  to  let  the  delicious  heat  soak 
into  their  half-numbed  limbs.  They  seem 
positively  gi'eody  of  the  warmth,  drawing  up 
their  sleeves  and  trousers  so  that  their  naked 
legs  and  arms  may  present  a  larger  surfkoe  to 
the  fire. 

Not  a  laugh  nor  sound  is  heard,  but  the 
men  stand  still,  munching  their  bread,  their 
teeth  champing  like  horses  in  a  manger. 
One  poor  w^retch,  at  tho  time  of  my  visit, 
hod  been  allowed  to  sit  on  a  form  inside 
the  railings  round  the  stove,  for  he  had 
the  ague;  and  there  he  crouched,  with  his 
legs  near  as  a  roasting-joint  to  the  burning 


LOS  DOS  L  J  noun  ASD  THE  LONDON  FOOIt, 


4^9 


coaIs,  as  if  he  wen*  trying  lo  thaw  his  very 
morrow. 

Then  how  fnorful  it  is  to  hear  the  continued 
ooaghin<;  of  the  wretched  innmtes !  It  seems 
to  pa&s  round  the  room  from  one  to  another, 
now  sharp  and  hoarse  as  a  bark,  then  deep  and 
hollow  as  a  lowing,  or — with  the  old — feeble 
and  trembling  as  a  blent. 

In  an  hour  after  the  opening  the  men  have 
quitted  the  warm  fire  and  crei)t  one  after 
aijotlier  to  their  berths  where  tliey  lie  rolled 
round  in  their  leathers — the  rows  of  tightly, 
bound  figures,  brown  and  stitf  as  mummies, 
snj^gestinK  the  iilea  of  some  large  catacomb. 

The  stillness  is  brokt»n  only  by  the  snoring 
of  the  sounder  sleepers  and  the  coughing  of  Uie 
more  restless. 

It  is  a  mai-vellously  pathetic  scene. 
Here  is  a  ht-rd  of  the  most  wretched  and 
friendless  people  in  the  world,  lying  down 
close  to  the  earth  as  sh».'ep;  here  are  some 
two  centuries  of  outcasts,  whose  days  are  an 
unvurying  round  of  sutlering,  enjoying  the 
only  moments  when  they  are  free  from  pain 
and  care — life  being  to  them  but  one  long 
painful  operation  as  it  were,  and  sleep  the 
chloroform  which,  for  the  time  being,  renders 
thcni  insensible. 

The  sight  sets  the  mind  spcrulnting  on  the 
beggars'  and  the  outcasts'  dr«;ams.  The  ship's 
company,  staniug  at  the  North  Pole,  dreamt, 
every  man  of  them,  each  niglit,  of  feasting ; 
and  are  those  who  compose  this  miserable, 
frozen-out  beggar  crew,  now  regaling  them- 
selves, in  their  yleep,  with  visions  of  imaginary 
banquets? — are  they  smacking  their  mental 
lips  over  ideal  beef  and  pudding?  Is  that 
poor  wTetch  yonder,  whose  rheumatic  limbs 
rack  him  each  step  he  takes — is  /w  tripping 
over  grei^n  fi«*lds  witli  an  elastic  and  joyous 
bound,  tliat  in  his  wnking  moments  he  can 
never  know  again  ?  Po  that  man's  restless- 
ne-is  and  heavy  moaning  como  from  nigJitmare 
tenors  of  ixdicemcn  and  treadwheels? — and 
which  among  those  runaway  boys  is  fancying 
that  he  is  back  homo  again,  with  his  mother 
antl  sisters  weepinj^  on  his  n(?ck? 

The  next  moment  the  thoughts  shift,  and 
the  heart  is  overcome  with  a  sense  of  the  vast 
heap  of  social  refuse— the  mere  human  stivet- 
Rwoe]>inKs — the  gieat  living  mixen — that  is 
destined,  as  soon  as  the  spring  returns,  to  be 
strewn  far  and  near  over  tlie  land,  and  serve 
as  manure  to  the  future  crime-crops  of  the 
country. 

Then  come  the  self-congratulations  and  the 
self-questionings !  and  as  a  man,  sound  in 
health  and  limb,  walking  through  a  hos|)ital, 
thanks  God  that  he  has  been  spared  the  bodily 
ailments,  the  mere  sight  of  which  sickens  him, 
so  in  this  refuge  for  the  starving  and  the 
homeless,  the  first  instinct  of  the  well-to-do 
visitor  is  to  breathe  a  thanksgiving  (like  the 
Pharisee  in  the  parable)  that  **  he  is  not  as 
one  of  these." 
But  the  vain  coneeit  has  scaroely  risen  to 


the  tongue  before  the  better  nature  whwpers 
in  the  mind's  ear,  "  By  what  special  virtue  of 
yoiur  own  are  you  different  from  them  ?  How 
comes  it  that  you  are  well  clothed  and  well 
fed,  whilst  so  many  go  naked  and  hungry?- 
And  if  you  in  your  arrogance,  ignoring  all  the 
accidents  that  have  helped  to  build  up  your 
wordly  prosperity,  assert  that  you  have  been 
the  **  architect  of  your  own  fortune,"  who,  let 
us  ask,  gave  you  the  genius  or  energy  for  the 
work  ? 

Then  get  down  from  your  moral  stilts,  and 
confess  it  honestly  to  yourself,  that  you  ore 
what  you  are  by  that  inscrutable  grace  which 
decreed  your  birthplace  to  be  a  mansion  or  a 
cottage  rather  than  a  "padding-ken,"  or  which 
grantetl  you  brains  and  strength,  instead  of 
sending  you  into  the  world,  like  many  of  these, 
a  cripple  or  an  itliot 

It  is  hard  for  smug- faced  respectability  to 
acknowledge  these  dirt-caked,  erring  wretches 
as  brothers,  and  yet,  if  from  those  to  whom 
little  is  given  little  is  expected,  surely,  after 
the  atonement  of  their  long  suffering,  they 
will  make  as  good  angels  as  Uie  best  of  us. 


CnAr.iTiEs  A^'D  Sums  oiven'  to  tiie  Poob. 

AcconPiNQ  to  the  last  Report  of  the  Poor- 
law  Commissioners,  the  paupers  receiving  in- 
and  out-door  relief  was,  in  1848,  no  less  than 
1 ,870,000  and  odd.  The  number  of  criminals 
in  the  same  year  was  30,000  and  odd.  In 
184.4,  the  number  of  lunatics  in  county 
asjlmns  way  4000  and  odd ;  while  according 
to  the  Occupation  Abstract  of  the  returns  of 
the  population  there  were,  in  1841,  upwards 
of  500U  almspeoplc,  lUOO  beggars,  and  21,000 
pensioners :  these  formed  into  one  sum,  give 
us  no  less  than  two  millions  and  a  quarter 
individuals  who  pass  their  time  without  apply- 
ing to  any  gainful  occupation,  and  conse- 
quently live  in  a  state  of  inactivity  and  vice  upon 
the  income  of  the  remainder  of  the  population. 
By  the  above  computation,  therefore,  we  see 
that  out  of  a  total  of  l(;.Oi)0,0<)0  souls,  one- 
seventh,  or  14  percent  of  the  whole,  continue 
their  existence  either  by  pauperism,  men- 
dicancy, or  crime.  Now  the  cost  of  this  im- 
mense ma'is  of  vice  and  want  is  even  more 
api)alling  than  the  number  of  indiriduals  sub- 
sisting in  such  utter  dejrradation.  The  total 
amount  of  money  levied  in  1848  for  the  relief 
of  England  and  Wales  was  seven  milhons  four 
hundred  thousand  pounds ;  but,  exclusive  of 
this  amoimt,  the  magnitude  of  the  sum  that 
we  give  voluntarily  towards  the  support  and 
education  of  the  poor  classes  is  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  any  other  nation  or  ony 
other  time. 

According  to  the  summary  of  the  returns 
annexed  to  the  voluminous  Reports  of  the 
Charity  Commissioners,  the  rent  of  the  land 
and  other  fixed  property,  together  with  the 


No.  LXXIX. 


3  U 


430 


LONUON  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


interest  of  iho  money  left  fur  charitable  pur- 
poses ill  England  and  "Wales,  amounte  to 
1,200,(XjO/.  a  year;  and  it  is  believed,  by 
proi>€r  mann;,'ement,  tliis  return  might  be 
increased  to  an  annual  income  of  at  least  two 
millions  of  money  ;  and  yet,  says  Mr.  M'Cul- 
loch,  *'  then^  can  be  no  doubt  that  even  tliis 
large  sum  falls  far  below  the  amount  expended 
every  year  in  volimtary  donations  to  charitable 
establishments.  Nor  can  any  estimate  be 
formed,"  he  adds,  '*of  the  money  given  in 
charity  to  individuals;  but  in  the  aggregate 
c&imot  fail  to  amount  to  an  immense  sum.'* 
All  things  considered,  therefore,  we  cannot  be 
very  far  from  the  trutJi,  if  wo  assume  that  the 
sums  voluntarily  subscribed  towards  the  re- 
lief of  the  poor  equal,  in  the  aggregate,  the 
total  amount  raised  by  assessment  for  the 
same  purpose;  so  that  it  appears  that  the 
well-to-do  amongst  us  expend  the  vast  sum  of 
fifteen  million  pounds  per  annum  in  mitigating 
the  miseries  of  their  less  fortunate  brethren. 

But  though  we  give  altogether  fifteen  mil- 
lion pounds  a  year  to  alleviate  the  distress  of 
thoso  who  want  or  sufifer,  we  must  remember 
that  this  vast  sum  expresses  not  only  the 
liberal  extent  of  our  sympathy,  but  likewise 
the  fearful  amount  of  want  and  suffering,  of 
excess  and  luxury,  that  there  must  be  in  the 
land,  if  the  poorer  classes  require  fifteen  mil- 
lions to  be  added  in  charity  every  year  to  their 
agvnregato  income,  in  order  to  relieve  their 
pains  and  privations,  and  the  richer  can  afford 
to  have  the  same  immense  sum  taken  from 
theirs,  and  yet  scarcely  feel  the  loss,  it  shows 
at  once  how  much  the  one  class  must  possess 
and  the  other  want. 


MEETING  OF  TICKET-OF-LEAVE  MEN. 

A  MEETiNO  of  Ucket-of-leave  men,  convened 
by  Mr.  H.  Mayhew,  was  held  some  time  since 
at  the  National  Hall,  Holbom,  with  the 
Tiew  of  affording  to  persons  of  this  class, 
who  are  anxious  to  lead  a  reformed  life, 
an  opportunity  of  stating  the  difficulties 
they  have  to  encounter  in  their  endeavour  to 
obtain  a  honest  livelihood.  About  fifty  mem- 
bers of  the  body  responded  to  Mr.  Mayhew's 
invitation.  The  men  were  admitted  on  pre- 
senting their  tickets- of  leave,  and  were  re- 
quired on  entrance  to  fill  up  the  columns  of 
a  register,  setting  forth  their  ages,  their  occu- 
pations, tlie  oflience  for  which  they  were  last 
convicted,  their  sentences,  and  the  amount  of 
instruction  they  had  severally  received.  From 
the  information  thus  collected,  it  appears  that 
only  3  out  of  tlie  50  present  were  above  the 
ago  of  40,  the  large  majority  ranging  between 
18  and  35,  the  highest  ago  of  all  being  08 ; 
that  they  consisted  of  labourers,  hawkers,  cos- 
tcrmongers,  }»lacksmiths,  shoemaker^,  carpen- 
ters, and  other  handicraftsmen;  that  their 
prc\ious  pimishments  varied  from  2  years  to 


14  years'  transportation ;  and  that  more  than 
one-half  of  them  had  been  educated  either  at 
day  schools  or  Simday  schcKds.  Suspecting 
that  the  men  would  be  unwilling  to  attend  3 
the  pohce  presented  themselves,  either  in  the 
hall  or  at  its  entrance,  Mr.  Mayhew  took  the 
precaution  to  apply  beforehand  to  the  Metro- 
I>olitAn  Commissioners  on  the.  subject.  The 
authorities  at  once  acceded  to  the  request  thus 
made  to  them,  and  not  a  solitary  constable  was 
pennitted  to  overawe  the  meeting." 

jSIr.  Mayhew,  in  opening  the  proceedings, 
said : — "  The  object  of  this  meeting  is  three- 
fold. In  the  first  place,  I  wish  society  to 
know  more  about  you  as  a  distinct  class; 
secondly,  I  wish  the  world  to  understand  the 
working  of  the  ticket-of-leave  system ;  and, 
thirdly,  I  wimt  to  induce  society  to  exert  itself 
to  assist  you,  and  extricate  you  from  your  dif- 
ficulties. When  I  first  went  among  you,  it 
was  not  very  easy  for  me  to  make  you  compre- 
hend the  purpose  I  had  in  riew.  You  at  lirst 
fancied  that  I  was  a  Government  spy,  or  a 
person  in  some  way  connected  with  tlie  police. 
I  am  none  of  these,  nor  am  I  a  clergyman 
wishing  to  convert  you  to  his  particnlar  creed, 
nor  a  teetotaler  anxioas  to  prove  the  source 
of  all  evil  to  be  over-indulgence  in  intoxi- 
cating drink ;  but  I  am  simply  a  literary  man, 
desirous  of  letting  the  rich  know  something 
more  about  the  poor.  ^Applause.)  Some 
persons  study  tlie  stars,  others  study  the  ani- 
mal  kingdom,  others  again  direct  their  re- 
searches into  the  properties  of  stones,  devoting 
their  whole  lives  to  these  partictilar  vocationa. 
I  am  the  first  who  has  endeavoured  to  study  a 
dass  of  my  fellow-creatures  whom  Providence 
has  not  placed  in  so  fortunate  a  position  as 
myself,  my  desire  being  to  bring  the  extremes 
of  society  together — ^the  poor  to  the  rich,  and 
the  rich  to  the  poor.  (Applause.)  I  wish  to 
get  bodies  of  men  together  in  a  mas^ 
their  influence  by  that  means  being  mor6 
sensibly  felt  than  if  they  remain  iaolMed.  I 
know  you,  perhaps,  nearly  as  well  as  many  of 
you  know  yourselves.  I  have  had  many  of 
you  in  my  house  with  my  wife  and  children, 
and  to  your  honour  and  credit  be  it  said,  you 
never  wronged  me  of  the  smallest  article,  and, 
moreover,  I  never  heard  a  coarse  word  escape 
your  lips.  I  have  trusted  many  of  you  who 
have  been  long  tried  by  want  of  food.  I  have 
given  you  money  to  get  change  for  me,  and 
you  never  yet  took  advantage  of  me.  This 
shows  that  there  is  still  a  spark  of  good  in 
each  of  you.  That  spark  I  wish  Society  to  de- 
velope,  tliat  you  may  be  made  what  idl  must 
really  desire  to  see  you.  Sotaie  two  or  three 
Sundays  ago  I  was  at  Pentonville  prison 
during  Divine  service.  Society  believes  you 
to  be  hardened  in  heart  and  unimpressionable. 
Well,  I  saw  some  four  hundred  prisoners  there 
weeping  like  children  at  the  melting  tale 
which  the  cleiigyman  told.  He  spoke  of  the 
burial  of  a  girl  by  torchlight,  at  wluch  he  offi- 
ciated, explaining  that  Uie  reason  why  the 


TICKET-OF-LEAVE  MEN. 


.P* -e  «r 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR, 


481 


f^eral  took  place  so  late  was  that  the  &ther 
of  tlie  deceased  had  to  come  ahout  fifty  iniles 
to  be  preseot,  and  thenco  the  delay.  The  old 
man's  tears,  he  said,  fell  like  rain  on  the 
coffin.lid;  and  yet,  in  his  anguish,  the  bo- 
reavc'l  parent  exclaimed  that  he  preferred  to 
see  his  daughter  a  corpse  tlian  for  her  to  live 
a  hfe  of  infamy  in  tlio  streets.  (Sensation.) 
This  Slid  story  could  not  fail  to  touch  a  chord 
in  each  of  your  breasts.  But  to  come  to  the 
ticket- of- leave  system.  The  public  generally 
beheve  that  it  is  a  most  dangerous  thing  to  set 
you  t'r«'o  under  that  system.  I  know  this  is 
one  of  the  most  important  experiments  in  con- 
nexion with  the  reformation  of  offenders  that 
has  ever  been  tried,  and  it  has  worked  bettor 
than  any  other  of  which  I  have  had  expe- 
riencp.  In  1853,  the  old  mode  of  transporta- 
tion was  changed,  and  an  Act  passed  directing 
that  no  person  should  be  sentenced  to  trans- 
jjortation  except  for  fourteen  yeai-s  or  npwords, 
and  thnt  thencefoiward  sentence  of  penul  ser- 
vitude should  bo  substituted  for  transportation 
for  le-s  than  fourteen  years.  At  the  same 
time,  a  discretionary  power  was  given  to 
commute  sentences  of  transportation  into 
t<;rms  of  penal  senitude.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  was  it  ordained  that  it  should  b;»  law- 
ful for  her  ^Injesty,  under  the  seal  of  her 
secretary  of  state,  to  grant  any  convict, 
now  or  hereafter  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion, (»r  to  the  punishment  substituted  for 
it,  a  license  to  be  at  large  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  or  such  part  thereof  as  is  expressed 
in  the  license,  during  a  portion  of  his  term  of 
imprisonment.  The  holder  of  this  license  is 
not  to  be  imprisoned  by  reason  of  Iiis  pre- 
vious sentence ;  but  il  his  license  is  revoked, 
he  is  to  bo  apprehended  and  re-committed. 
Since  the  passing  of  that  Act,  and  between 
September  1853  and  December  31,  1855 — a 
period  of  -about  two  years  and  a  quarter — the 
number  of  convicts  released  from  public  works 
and  prisons  has  been  8880.  To  this  number 
have  to  be  added  juveniles  from  Parkhurst 
prison,  ^07 ;  and  convicts  from  Bermuda  and 
Gibraltar,  435 :  making  a  total  of  4612.  Of 
this  a;^'gregate,  140  have  had  their  licenses  re- 
voked, and  118  have  been  sentenced  to  penal 
servitude  and  imprisonment;  making  together 
5J58  who  have  had  their  licenses  cancelled  out 
of  the  entire  4612.  Out  of  this  258,  27  were 
committed  for  breach  of  the  vagrancy  law,  20 
for  ordinary  assaults,  8  for  assaults  on  the 
pohce,  6  for  breach  of  the  game-laws,  2  for 
desertion  from  the  militia,  and  20  for  misde- 
meanour; making  together  84,  and  leaving  174 
as  the  exact  number  who  have  rdapsed  into 
their  former  course  of  life.  Thus  it  appears 
that  only  five  and  a-half  per  cent  of  the  whole 
number  of  dckets-of-leave  granted  have  been 
revoked.  Now,  considering  that  the  number 
of  re-committals  to  prison  for  England  and 
Wales  averages  thirty- three  in  every  himdred 
prisoners ;  tiiis,  I  think,  is  a  very  favourable 
result  of  the  ticket-of-leave  experiment  Look- 


ing  at  the  extreme  difficulty  of  a  return  to  an 
honest  life,  it  is  almost  astonishing  that  so  low 
a  per-centage  as  five  and  a  half  of  the  licenses 
in  all  England  should  have  been  revoked. 
You  know  that,  during  your  imprisonment, 
there  are  four  stages  of  probation.  In  certain 
prisons  you  have  to  do  a  prescribed  amount  of 
work,  for  which  you  receive  a  certain  gratuity. 
The  shoemakers,  for  instance,  get  £iL  every 
week  if  they  make  two  and  a-half  pairs,  ^d.  for 
three  pairs,  and  %d.  for  four  pairs.  The  tai- 
lors get  -kd,  if  they  make  two  suits  of  prison 
garments,  ed.  for  three  suits,  and  8rf.  for  four. 
The  matmakers  get  4(i.  for  thirty-six  square 
feet  of  their  work,  6rf.  fbr  forty-five  feet,  and 
8rf.  for  fifty-four.  The  cotton-weavers  get  4d, 
for  twenty-four  yards,  (Sd,  for  thirty,  and  Brf. 
for  thirty-six.  The  cloth- weavers  are  paid  in 
a  similar  manner.  These  sums  are  entered  to 
yoiu:  credit,  and  pass  with  you  from  prison  to 
jirison  tmtil  they  at  last  accumulate  into  an 
amount.,  which  is  handed  over  to  you  under 
certain  restrictions  on  leaving.  In  the  second 
stage  of  probation,  you  receive  6rf.  in  a«ldition 
to  the  ordinary  weekly  gratuity ;  in  the  third 
stage  you  receive  an  addition  oi\)d, ;  and  in  the 
fourth  stage  one  of  1*.  or  1«.  3rf.  This  sum — 
large  or  small,  according  to  the  term  of  impri- 
sonment— ^is  placed  to  your  credit  on  quitting 
the  prison,  and  is  thus  distributed  : — 5/.  to  be 
paid  immediately  on  discharge,  or  by  post-office 
order  on  the  convict's  arrival  at  his  native 
place.  If  the  sum  is  over  5/.  and  under  8/. 
he  receives  4/.  on  Ins  discharge,  and  the 
balance  at  the  end  of  two  months ;  if  over  8/, 
and  under  12/.,  half  is  paid  on  his  discharge 
and  tlie  balance  at  the  end  of  tliree  months  ; 
if  over  12/.  and  under  20/.,  5/.  is  paid  on  his 
discharge,  half  the  bnlance  in  two  months,  and 
the  remainder  in  tliree  months.  In  order, 
however,  to  obtain  tliis  balance,  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  be  provided  with  certificates  as  to 
cliaracter,  either  from  a  clergyman,  a  magis- 
trate,  or  the  employer  with  whom  the  holder 
of  tlie  license  is  then  at  work.  The  appli- 
cants fbr  these  balances  have  been  124d  in 
number  up  to  the  31st  December  last.  Of 
these,  1225  have  sent  in  certificates  of  asatis- 
factoiy  nature,  only  17  having  been  sent  in  of 
a  contrary  character — 851  certificates  were 
furnished  by  clergymen,  214  by  magistrates, 
and  177  by  employers  under  whom  the  per- 
sons liberated  were  engaged.  In  the  1226 
cases  above-mentioned,  after  the  expiration  of 
the  prescribed  number  of  months,  the  mon^ 
was  paid  to  the  applicants.  Considering  the 
difficulty  these  persons  must  experience  in  ob- 
taining the  certificates  required  of  them,  the 
figures  I  have  stated  are  higlily  satisfactory  as 
to  the  working  of  the  system ;  and  I  cannot, 
therefore,  understand  how  society  should  have 
gone  80  fiur  astray  on  this  point  as  it  has  done. 
The  public,  however,  believe  ticket-oMeave 
men  to  be  very  dangerous  characters — ^it  does 
not  know  the  training  they  undergo  while  in 
prison.    A  high  authority  teUs  me,  that  it  is 


432 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  FOOR. 


impossible  for  a  gentleman's  son  to  bo  trained 
with  greoiLT  core  ai  Eton  or  at  any  of  the  other 
public  ftchools  than  each  of  you  have  been. 
When,  howev<!r,  Society  sees  two  or  tlir^e,  or 
even  some  half-dozen  of  yon  relapse  into  your 
Ibnner  practiof>s,  they  jump  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  same  is  the  case  with  you  alL  They, 
in  liftct,  think  that  relapses  are  the  rule  and 
amendment  the  exception,  instead  of  the  Ikct 
being  quite  the  other  way.  This  is  like  the 
8elf<4L']usion  of  the  London  apprentices,  who 
fancy  tliero  are  moro  wet  Sundays  in  a  year 
than  rainy  week-days,  simply  because  they 
want  to  gt-t  out  on  Sundays,  and  are  particu- 
larly vexed  when  the  bad  W4*ather  ki-eps  thcni 
at  home.  (LaughUT.)  Now  I  have  tried 
many  experiments  at  the  reformation  of  crimi- 
nals, aiiif  one-half  of  them  have  foiled.  Yet  I 
am  not  discouraged ;  for  I  know  how  difQcult 
it  is  for  ni'-n  to  lay  aside  their  past  habits. 
Every  ollowance  ought,  therefore,  to  be  made, 
because  tliey  cannot  be  expectod  to  become 
ani^'els  in  a  moment.  The  vice  of  the  present 
system,  in  lact,  is,  that  miless  a  criniin:d  sud- 
denly become  s  u  pattern  man.  and  at  once  for- 
gets all  his  old  associati/s.  Society  will  have 
nonet  nf  you,  and,  as  a  certain  gentleman  lios 
expressed  it,  *  you  must  all  bo  shot  do^-n,  and 
thrown  into  Society's  dust-bin.'  (Applause.) 
A  well-known  literazy  gentleman,  who  ha*! 
movtnl  in  goo^l  society,  had  a  ilmigliter,  with 
whom  he  lived  at  the  east  end  of  London.  He 
wan  ratlnT  lax,  perhaps,  in  the  rearing  of  Ids 
chilli,  allowin*;  her  to  do  pretty  much  as  she 
likcMl.  Slio  once  went  to  a  concert,  and  got 
ocqimiiit'^d  with  a  *  mobsman,'  who  accoin- 
pani<Ml  her  lumie,  and  at  last  introduced  him- 
self to  her  futlicr  as  his  dauj?liter's  suitor. 
Being  a  well -dressed,  respectable -looking  jkt- 
Bon,  the  father — gooil,  easy  man! — took  a 
liking  for  liim,  and  nr>t  being  particular  in  liis 
inquiries  as  to  the  lover's  course  of  life,  al- 
lowed them  to  marry.  After  their  marriage, 
however,  the  daughter  discovered  wliat  her 
husband's  pursuits  really  were.  She,  of 
course,  acquainted  her  father  with  the  fact, 
who,  in  great  distress  of  mind,  called  his  son- 
in-law  to  him,  and  telling  him  that  he  had 
never  had  a  stain  upon  his  name  or  character, 
implored  him  by  every  argument  he  coiUd 
urge  to  lead  an  honest  life.  The  mobsman 
promised  to  comjdy.  His  fiither-in-law  re- 
moved him  ft'r)ra  the  neighbourhood  in  which 
ho  was  stayinj^,  and  placed  him  in  the  service 
of  n  large  nulway  carrier.  In  this  employ, 
having  one  day  to  take  a  parcel  to  a  gentle- 
man's house,  up-stairs  on  the  mantelpiece  he 
saw  a  gold  watch.  This  temptation  was  too 
much  for  him,  md  he  seized  the  article  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket.  The  theft  was  disco- 
Tcrod  before  the  offender  had  gone  any  dis- 
tance ;  the  roan  was  soon  arrested,  but  the 
father,  by  dint  of  great  exertion,  got  him  off^ 
on  returning  the  watch  and  commmricating 
with  its  owner  before  the  complaint  was  made 
«t  tho  police-office.     The  father  again  en- 


treated his  son-in-law  to  abandon  his  erfl 
courses,  but  the  latter  said  his  old  associa- 
tions  were  too  strong  ibr  him,  and  that  he 
saw  no  other  resource  open  for  him  than  to 
leave  London  altogether.     The  old  man  ac- 
cordingly took  him  with  liim  to  a  reaidonee 
on    the   banks   of  the    Thamcj^    where,   at 
lengtl),  some   of  his  old  companions  ui^or- 
tunately  met  him,  and  told  lum  of  a  '  crib ' 
tliey  were  going  to  *  crack,'  and  of  the  heavy 
'  swag '  they  were  likely  to  geL    The  prodi- 
gal's  old  habits  were  again  too  much  ibr 
him.    He  accompanied  his  former  associates 
in   their   criminal    enterprise,  was  captured, 
and  thrown  again  into  prison — his  father-in- 
law  died  in  a  mad-house,  and  his  wife  com- 
mitted suicide.     Thus  fcauful,  then,  are  tlie 
effects  of  criminal  associations,  and  therefore 
I  am  only   surprised  that  so   small  a  per- 
centage   of    the    ticket-of-leave    men    have 
}-ielded  to   a  relapse.     Successful,  however, 
as  the  system  has  thus  lor  proved,  I  yet  see 
a  considerable  amount  of  evil  in  connexion 
with  it;   and  this  is  the  reobcm  why  I  Iiave 
called  you  together,  hoping  that  some  of  tho 
tales  you  have  to  relate  will  &cn'e  to  rouse 
the  public  to  a  sense  of  your  real  position, 
and  induce  thein  to  stretch  forth  a  baud  to 
save  you  from  the  ruin  that  on  every  hand 
threatens  you.    AVhen  you  come  out  of  pri- 
son, destitute  as  you  are  of  character,  there 
are  only  two  or   three  kinds  of  employment 
open  to  you,  ond  I  thcn:foro  wish  Society  to 
institute    some    association    to    watch    ov<^ 
you,  to   give   you  every  x>ossible  advice,  to 
lead  you  to  good  courses,  and,  moreover,  to 
provide  you  with  the  means  of  getting  some 
honest  livelihood.     (Applause.)    1  know  that 
as  n  I'hiss  you  are  distinguished   mainly  by 
your  hive  of  a  roving  life,  and  that  at  the 
bottom  of  all  your  criminal    practices   lies 
your  indisposition  to  follow   any  settled  oc- 
cupation.   Continuous  employment  bf  a  mo- 
notonons  nature   is  so  irksome  to  you,  that 
immediately  you  engage  in  it   you  long  to 
break  away  from  it.     This,  I  believe,  after 
long  observation  of  your  character,  to  be  true 
of  the  minority  of  yon ;  and  you  are  able  to 
jndgo  if  I  am  right  in  this  conclusion.    So- 
ciety, however,  expects,  that  if  you  wish  to 
better  yourselves,  you    will  at    once  settle 
down  as  steadily  as  it  docs,  and  immediately 
conform  to  all  its  notions;  but  I  am  satisfied 
that  if  anything  effectual  is  to  be  done  in 
the  way  of  reforming  you,  Society  must  work 
in  consonance  and  not  in   antagonism  with 
your  natmie.     In  this  connexion  it  appears 
to  me  that  tho  great  outlet  for  you  is  street 
trading,  where  you   are  allowed  to  roam  at 
will  unchafed  by  restndnts  not  congenial  to 
your  habits  and  feelings.    In  such  pursuits 
a  small  fund  for  stodk-mon^  suffices,  and 
besides,  no  character  is  required  for  those  who 
engage  in  them.  From  the  inquiries  made  by 
a  gentleman  who  lately  visited  the  places  in 
wMeh  most  of  you  lire,  I  find  that  the  greaA 


LOSnoN  LABOUR  ASD  THE  LONDON  POOB, 


^ua 


majority  of  you  foUow  some  form  or  other  of 
street  occupation.  Still  there  is  this  difficulty 
in  your  way.  The  public  requires  its  tho- 
roughfares to  be  kept  dear  of  obstruction, 
and  I  know  that  the  police  hare  been  ordered 
to  drive  you  away — to  make  you,  as  the  phrase 
is,  *  move  on.'  You  may  fancy  that  the  police 
act  thus  of  their  own  acconl ;  but  I  learn  from 
communication  with  tho  Commissioners,  that 
the  police  have  to  receive  requisitions  from 
the  shopkeepers  and  other  inhabitants  to  en- 
force the  Street  Act,  and  are  compelled  to 
comply  with  them.  In  one  instance  a  trades- 
man living  in  a  street-market,  where  about 
five  hundred  poor  persons  were  obtaining  a 
livelihood,  complaine<l  to  the  police  of  tho  ob- 
struction thus  occasioned  to  his  business, 
which  was  of  a  'foshionablo'  nature.  The 
consequence  was  tliat  the  thoroughfare  had  to 
be  cleared,  and  these  five  hundred  persons 
were  reduced  almost  to  a  state  of  starvatioi], 
and  many  of  them  were  forced  into  the  work- 
house. Now  I  don't  believe  that  this  is  right ; 
and  I  am  prepared  to  say  to  Society,  that  no 
one  man  in  tlTo  kingdom  sliould  have  the 
power  to  deprive  so  large  a  body  of  poor  i>er- 
sons  of  all  means  of  gaining  an  honi'st  subsist- 
ence. (Loud  applause.)  At  the  same  time, 
certtiin  regulations  must  be  respected;  the 
streets  even,  you  will  allow,  must  not  be 
blocked — (hoar,  hear) — there  must  be  a  free 
passage,  and  it  is  necessary  to  consider  wlie- 
ther  a  plan  may  not  bo  devised  which  will 
answer  both  ends.  It  strikes  m(>  tliat  a  cer- 
tain number  of  poor  men's  markets  might  be 
established  very  odvantpgoously ;  for  tlie  poor 
are  so  linked  together  that  they  wouhl  rather 
buy  of  the  poor  than  the  rich  ;  and  it  is  much 
to  their  credit  that  it  is  so.  If  sjjots  of  ground 
for  markets  of  this  kind  were  bought  by  be- 
n<»volent  individuals,  and  a  small  toll  levied  on 
wlmissiou  to  them,  I  am  sure  the  specula- 
tion would  be  profitable  to  those  who  cm- 
Inirked  in  it,  as  well  as  beneficial  to  the  int^- 
ppsts — moral  as  weU  as  pecuniar}- — of  the 
street  traders.  Connected  with  these  estab- 
lishments  there  ought  to  be  a  school  for  the 
children  of  the  tradi-rs,  a  bank  for  presen-ing 
your  money,  a  cook-shop  to  prevent  30U  from 
being  obliged  to  take  your  meals  at  the  public- 
house,  together  with  many  other  useful  ad- 
juncts which  might  bo  grouped  round  the 
market  Such  experiments  have  been  tried 
before  now.  There  is  tho  old  Rag-fair  at 
Houndsditch,  where  formerly  old  clothes  were 
sold  in  tlio  streets.  In  that  case  a  Jew  bought 
a  piece  of  land,  to  which  poor  traders  were  ad- 
mitted on  payment  of  a  half^Mmny  per  head, 
and  the  project  succeeded  so  admirably  that 
the  owner  of  tho  ground  soon  become  a  rich 
man.  At  Paris  fdmilar  markets  have  been  in- 
Btituted,  and  with  success,  by  M.  Delamarre ; 
and  in  the  same  city  there  ore  also  pubUo 
Idtehens,  where  cooked  meat  can  be  had  at  a 
eheap  rate,  so  as  to  keep  the  poor  people  out 
of  the  publie-hoasM.      Lodging-houses   for 


such  of  the  men  as  choose  to  come  to  them 
would  likewise  bo  a  valuable  appendage  to  the 
suggested  street-markets,  but  they  must  be 
firee  from  tlie  almost  tyrannical  supervision 
which  prevails  in  the  existing  model  lodging- 
houses  in  London.  Whilst  so  much  vexatious 
restriction  is  put  upon  men's  liberties,  they 
cannot  be  expected  to  frequent  these  places 
in  the  numbers  they  otherwise  would.  Lodg- 
ing-houses fdr  the  reception  of  tickct-of-lcave 
men  on  leaving  prison  might  prevent  them 
from  being  thrown  loose  upon  the  world  until 
they  have  some  prospect  of  a  livelihood  before 
them.  I  wish  Society  to  take  these  men  by 
tho  hand — to  be  lenient  and  considerate  to- 
wards them,  and  not  to  be  annoyed  if  ono  or 
two  should  recede  from  their  good  resolutions; 
for  the  experience  of  the  reformatory  institu- 
tions of  London  shows  that  tliere  are  often 
twenty-five  per  cent  of  relapses  among  their 
inmates.  Therefore,  if  only  five  and  a-ludf 
per  cent  of  you  foil  in  your  laudable  endea- 
vours, as  the  returns  I  have  quoted  show,  to 
bo  tho  whol*^  proportion,  then  I  say  that  you 
are  a  class  who  ought  to  be  encouraged.  By 
this  means  we  shall  be  able  to  grapple  effec- 
tually with  this  great  troubh  — viz.  how  to  re- 
form the  gi'cnt  bulk  of  our  criminals.  Under 
these  circumstances  I  have  invited  you  here 
to-night,  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  telling 
Society  what  are  your  difficulties.  There  is 
a  gentleraan  i)resent  who  will  pubUsh  your 
grievances  all  over  tho  kingdom,  and  I  choi'ge 
you  all  to  speak  only  the  ti-uth.  You  cannot 
benefit  by  any  other  course,  and  therefore  be 
you  a  check  tln^  one  upon  the  other ;  and  if 
any  ono  departs  from  tho  strict  fact,  do  you 
pull  him  up.  Thus  you  will  show  tho  world 
that  you  have  met  here  with  an  earaest  desire 
to  bettor  yourselves — tlms  you  will  present  a 
spectacle  that  will  go  far  to  convince  Society 
that  it  runs  no  risk  in  giving  you  your  libejrty 
— and  prevail  upon  it  to  regard  not  wholly 
without  compassion  the  few  members  of  your 
class  who,  yielding  in  an  evil  hour  to  the  try- 
ing temptations  which  beset  them,  sink  un- 
happily into  their  former  delinquencies."  (Loud 
and  prolonged  opplause.) 

The  men  were  then  requested  to  ascend  the 
platform,  and  relate  their  own  experience,  as 
well  as  to  state  their  views  of  how  their  class 
could  best  be  assisted.  The  first  to  respond  to 
this  invitation  was  a  young  man  of  neat 
and  comparatively  respectable  appearance,  who 
seemed  to  be  known  to  the  rest  by  tho  name 
of  *  Peter,'  and  who,  with  great  fluency  and 
considerable  propriety  of  expression,  pro- 
ceeded to  narrate  his  o^n  past  career  as 
follows : — 

*•  Friends,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  any  hesi- 
tation or  stammering  on  my  part  while  I 
stand  in  this  unusual  position.  All  the  edu- 
cation I  have  received  has  been  picked  up 
in  prison  —  understand  thai.  As  to  the  diffi- 
culties encountered  by  ticket-of-leave  man 
I  knov  nothing,  save  from  my  own  personal 


4U 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THS  LONDON  fOOB. 


Yoa  eaanoi  Judge  ngopailj  of 
the  inteDtumi  of  the  eomiet*  vnlees  joo  be^ 
with  his  caner  from  the  llni  time  theft  he 
enters  prison.  Wdl,  yon  most  knov,  theft  I 
was  tranqKMled  for  sefeo  jeers.  I  wes  sent 
to  BliDbenk,  end  there  pot  to  the  teikcing 
business.  IVom  the  ootMt  I  hsd  e  greet  per- 
tielity  for  hodkM,  end  I  then  leemt  to  reed 
end  write  better  then  I  eonld  dabefore.  I  slso 
eoqnind  e  little  grammar  end  eiithmeticL 
simply  to  improve  my  mind ;  end  if  mentel 
improvement  is  eny  pert  of  mond  improve- 
ment, I  wss,  of  course,  monJUj  imj^oving 

"hen  then  I 


I  knew  more  erithmetie  then 
do  now,  having  lost  itkj  knowledge  in  eon- 
aeqnence  of  excessive  mdnlgence  in  intood- 
eating  liquors.  In  feet,  I  got  as  fiv  as  the 
beginning  of  algebra— certainly  a  very  ab- 
stmse  sdence  to  tackle.  After  spending 
fimrteen  months  in  MUlbank  I  went  to  Post- 
land,  where  I  had  to  ulieel  barrows  from 
morning  to  night  I  still  pemvered,  how- 
ever,  with  my  books;  and  the  great  anxiety 
that  constantly  weighed  on  my  mind  wa», 
what  wonld  become  of  me  when  I  was  liber- 
ated. I  knew  that  the  woik  I  was  doing 
mrald  be  well  done;  and  I  waa  fax  hi 
then  than  I  am  now,  becaose  I  feel  that  tnere 
is  no  breakfiuBt  fbr  me  to-morrow  morning 
tin  I  go  and  thieve  it;  and  that  is  the  simple 
truth.  (Applanse.)  I  supposed  that  if  I  went 
to  the  Giunilain,  who  had  delivered  several 
charitable  discourses,  very  much  in  accordance 
with  my  own  feelings,  he  might  assist  me. 
I  therefore  stnted  my  case  to  him,  telling  him 
that  I  really  wished  to  become  a  better  member 
of  society.  Ho  listened  to  my  tale,  and  wished 
me  to  sec  liim  once  o-weok,  which  I  did.  Bnt 
the  Chnpluin  at  this  time  was  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Moran  (as  wo  understood),  and  when  I 
wanted  books  he  would  not  encourage  me, 
unb^ss  I  consented  to  become  a  commimicant 
If  I  bad  done  that  I  should  have  had  more 
finvour  8hoA\-n  to  me,  and  been  provided  with 
whatever  I  wished;  but  not  feeling  myself 
fit  for  sucli  a  thing,  I  therefore  refused.  I 
then  waited  till  a  cbanj^e  took  place,  and  the 
Bov.  Mr.Ubridgc,  (as  we  understood),  a  lover 
of  science  and  literature,  come — a  clergyman 
whose  system  was  altogether  different,  having 
none  of  these  Homan  Catholic  restrictions. 
We  wore  then  allowed  to  think  and  do  as  we 
liked  in  regard  to  religion,  and  no  man  was 
forced  to  attend  the  communion-table  unless 
he  thought  himself  as  fit  for  it  as  the  Mi- 
nister. I  applied  to  the  new  Chaplain,  and  told 
him  I  considered  my  mind  to  have  been  much 
enlightened.  I  suppose  everybody  fancies 
Uie  same,  who  knows  a  Utile,  though  not 
much.  When  my  turn  to  be  liberated  ap- 
proached they  came  to  mo  in  my  separate 
ceU,  and  I  told  them  there  was  no  chance  of 
my  bettering  mys^  unless  I  could  get  an 
honest  living.  I  said  that  I  must  go  back  to 
London,  where  I  had  first  been  transported, 
and  that  the  only  tibing  I  expeoted  was  to 


be  tnunported  agrfn;  ftr  my  bs 
would  be  no  neommendslioii  lo  aw^tlM 
police  an  knenr  ma,  aoad  wherever  they  anr 
me  they  woold  point  na  out  as  a  tid»t-of. 
lecreman.  (Ap^aosei.)  On  my  raleaae  I  re- 
eehred  61.  18c  I  eame  to  Sorthamplon  with 
ooe  of  the  i^Been  of  the  estaUidnnent^  who 
was  kind  enon|^  to  ask  me  to  take  %  drop 
of  bnn4y.  Not  having  bad  any  i^iritB  Ibr 
fonr  yean  pwvions,  this  little  got  into  my 
head,  and  having  drank  another  i^aaa  or  two 
I  was  intoadeated,  andl  spent  aU  my  mooey 
that  ni^t — yea,  and  got  lo^ed  Jsp  into  the 
bargain.  (Lraghter.)  If  I  £d  noft  qnite 
^end  aU  my  mon^  mysell^  somebodty  dse 
helped  me  to  spend  it  I  eame  to  London 
withoat  a  fiuthing.  I  hadnt  a  ikieod  hi  the 
woild,  and  even  aft  preaent,if  I  want  n  meal, 
I  have  no  one  to  say  *  Here  it  is  ibr  yon.' 
What  is  a  man  in  snch  a  case,  being  without 
woEk,todo?  Ishetostarver  W^  I  wore 
oat  two  pairs  of  ahoes,  walking  the  streets 
for  three  months  together,  looking  for  a  aitaa- 
tion,  but  an  in  vam;  and4  beeame  aa  ema- 
ciated as  this  post,  (pointing  to  the  pillar  of 
the  lamp  on  the  plallbim,)  having  had  no- 
thing b^er  than  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  hening 
to  eat,  and  not  one  oonee  of  animal  Ibod 
during  an  that  period.  I  had  a  little  pridcL 
which  kept  me  Inom  begging.  An  the  good 
feelings  engendered  in  prison  passod  away. 
I  returned  to  my  old  oompamons,  with  whom 
I  went  for  about  two  months,  when  I  was 
at  length  caught,  and  received  another  twelve- 
month's imprisonment,  which  expired  only  last 
Monday  fortnight.  During  the  two  months  I 
was  with  my  old  companions  I  got  a  good 
living — I  could  always  make  my  5/.  or  6/. 
a-week  by  practices  which  I  «iid  not  like, 
but  which  I  was  driven  to  adopt,  bec-ause  the 
public  would  not  let  me  earn  1/.  honestly. 
Since,  however,  I  received  the  card  of  ad- 
mission to  this  meeting,  I  have  not  put  my 
hand  to  a  dishonest  act,  and  if  the  promise  it 
holds  out  is  ftilfilled  I  never  wiU.  I  have 
little  more  to  say.  I  attended  here  to-night 
in  the  hope  of  reaping  some  permanent  be- 
nefit, and  also  to  encourage  those  who,  like 
myself,  wish  to  become  honest  members  of 
society.  (Applause.)  I  trust  the  benevolent 
gentleman  who  has  so  humanely  interested 
himself  in  this  cause  will  be  successful  in  his 
exertions  on  behalf  of  a  body  of  unfortunate 
and  persecuted  beings,  who,  I  should  say, 
are  more  knocked  about  by  the  police,  and 
more  discouraged  by  the  opinions  of  the  pub- 
lic at  largo,  than  any  other  class  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  (Applause.)  May  Gkxl  and  right 
reason  direct  this  movement,  and  bring  it  to 
a  speedy  and  prosperous  issue."  (Loud  cheers 
greeted  "Peter,"  as  he  descended  from  the 
"  tribune.") 

The  next  spokesman  was  a  thin-faced  and 
diminutive,  but  shrewd-looking  oostermonger, 
of  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  tidier 
in  appearance  than  many  of  ms  dass,  who 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


43d 


said : — "  Friends,  I  am  only  a  little  one,  and 
yoa  can't  expect    much  firom    me;    indeed, 

*  Peter  '  hasn't  left  me  mnch  to  say.  I  will, 
however,  begin  at  the  beginning.  At  the  age 
of  ten  I  was  left  without  father  or  mother, 
and  others  here  could  say  the  same.  I  was 
taught  to  get  a  living  by  selling  oranges  in 
the  streets,  and  I  kept  at  that  for  twelve 
months.  I  was  afterwards  induced  to  go  along 
with  a  few  Westminster  boys,  who  went  about 
thieving ;  and  I  had  nobody  to  look  after  me. 
Having  no  friend,  I  neverUieless  always  got 
a  good  *  lift'  from  the  police.  I  was  soon 
anested,  and  at  Newgate  received  seven  years' 
transportation.  I  spent  three  years  and  seven 
montiis  at  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  eleven 
months  nt  Portsmouth.  I  would  not  have 
been  kept  so  long  at  the  Isle  of  Wight  if  I  had 
been  religious;  but  as  I  could  not  act  the 
hypocrite  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  re- 
ligion. During  this  time  I  never  took  the 
sacrament,  as  they  wanted  me  to  do.  Well, 
I  gets  my  liberty,  and  I  had  several  poimds 
put  into  my  hands  when  I  left.  I  came  to 
London-bridge  station,  and  thought  it  was  the 
Waterloo  station,  and  fancying  I  was  near 
Westminster,  I  looked  about  for  the  Victoria 
Theatre.  A  chap  then  said  to  me,  *  You  had 
better  not  be  seen  in  those  clothes.*  I  after- 
TtnrJs  changed  my  dress  and  sold  the  other 
clothes.  I  soon  found  myself  with  only  about 
three  half-crowns  in  my  pocket  My  only  friend 
was  a  cousin,  who  was  engaged  in  buying  hare- 
skins  and  rabbit-skins  about  the  streets,  and 
he  recommended  me  to  do  the  same.  This  was 
in  the  winter  time,  and  I  hardly  knew  one 
kind  of  skin  from  another.  However,  X  did 
pretty  well  at  this  for  two  or  three  weeks; 
when,  one  day,  as  I  was  walking  with  a  sack 
of  skins  upon  my  back  through  Tothill-street, 
Westminster,  two  policemen  came  up  to  me, 
and  demanded  to  look  into  my  bag.  Rather 
than  consent  to  this  I  went  to  the  Police 
Court  along  with  them.  "When  I  got  there 
a  policeman  said  to  the  inspector,  that  I  was 
a  '  ticket- of-leave,'  and  had  something  in  my 
sack.  I  insisted  on  seeing  the  magistrate, 
and  the  inspector  brought  me  to  him,  but 
instead  of  allowing  me  to  speak  to  his  wor< 
ship,  he  spoke  first,  saying  that  I  was  very 
violent  and  saucy,  and  a  •  ticket-of-leave.'  In- 
stead  of  hearing  what  I  had  to  say  under  these 
circumstances,  the  magistrate,  too,  burst  out, 

*  Oh,  you  are  an  insolent  fellow,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  society;  if  the  Secretary  of  State 
knew  of  your  doings,  he  would  banish  you.' 
And  his  worship,  also  muttering  something 
about  sending  me  to  *quod'  for  contempt  of 
court,  I  thought  it  better  to  *  hook  it*  During 
two  years  and  a-half  of  my  term  at  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  having  learnt  something  of  shoe- 
ma^g,  I  now  travelled  down  to  Northamp. 
ton,  but  could  get  no  work  becanse  I  had  no 
tools.  Even  what  I  did  know  of  the  trade 
was  not  enough  to  enable  me  to  get  a  living 
by  it    I.then  went  on  to  Derby,  and  was  near 


starving.  I  had  no  lodging.  I  was  not  quite 
so  proud  as  'Peter,'  for  I  went  up  to  a 
gentleman  and  told  him  the  strength  of  it  I 
said,  I  am  a  *  ticket-of-leave.'  He  hardly  un- 
derstood me,  but  I  tried  to  explain  it  to  him, 
and  he  gave  me  a  shilling.  With  this  aid  I 
got  my  shirt  washed,  put  myself  to  rights, 
polished  my  boots,  and  up  I  goes  to  a 
magistrate  to  see  what  he  would  say  about  it 
I  told  him  I  wanted  to  go  to  London,  and 
could  not  walk  all  the  way.  This  magistrate 
can  teU  whether  I  am  now  speaking  the  truth. 
I  got  an  interview  with  him  at  Derby,  and 
told  him  I  was  a  ticket-of-leave  man.  He 
would  scarcely  believe  me,  and  imagined  ra- 
ther that  I  was  a  returned  convict  The 
pohce  jeering  me,  said,  *  How  well  polished 
his  boots  are !  but  we  think  him  an  impostor.' 
So,  with  no  other  help  than  the  shilling  I 
had  obtained,  I  trudged  along  in  my  misery 
imtil,  with  the  worms  and  maggots  gnawing 
my  belly,  I  reached  London.  Here  my  cousin 
got  me  into  the  <  market'  again,  and  I  married 
last  Christmas  twelvemonth,  and  have  one 
child.  I  am  now  just  managing  to  *  crack 
an  honest  crust ; '  and  while  I  can  do  that  I 
will  never  thieve  more.  (Applause.)  I  am 
not  much  of  a  talker,  therefore  I  can  only 
hope  that  the  kind  gentleman  who  has  called 
us  together  will  succeed  in  his  praiseworthy 
endeavours  to  secure  fair-play  to  our  ill-used 
class.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say."  (Loud 
cheers.) 

The  third  speaker  was  a  stonemason,  of 
about  thirty,  and  of  a  honest  and  industrious 
aspect,  who  said: — "  My  friends,  I  have  but 
little  to  say  regarding  myself.  I  was  sent 
away  from  Newgate  to  Wakefield  in  1851,  and 
put  to  work.  As  to  gratuity  money  given 
to  convicts,  certainly  none  was  allowed  at 
Wakefield  while  I  was  there.  As  to  our  treat- 
ment there  and  at  other  places,  I  can  say  that 
I  never  had  a  bit  of  sweet  meat  all  the  time 
I  was  at  Wakefield.  I  never  had  anything 
but  mince-meat  chopped  up,  always  green, 
and  others  can  testify  to  the  same  thing. 
One  man  got  three  days  o£  bread  and  water 
for  complaining  of  this.  After  staying  thir- 
teen months  at  Wakefield  I  went  to  Ports- 
mouth, where  X  remained  about  three  years 
and  a  half,  during  which  time  I  certainly 
worked  hard.  There  the  treatment  of  the 
men  differs  greatly,  according  to  their  con- 
duct A  man  who  behaves  well  is  treated  well; 
but  those  of  a  volatile  spirit  are  treated  badly. 
For  myself  I  never  had  a  report  made  against 
me  all  the  time  I  was  there,  and  I  obtained 
my  liberty  under  ticket-of-leave,  although  I 
was  sentenced  to  ten  years'  imprisonment,  at 
the  end  of  four  years  and  four  months.  A 
few  others,  who  came  later  than  I  did,  were 
fortunate  enough  to  get  their  freedom  about 
the  same  time.  I  was  not  jealous  about  that, 
but  was  glad  to  get  away  myself.  I  had  a 
mother  and  sister  to  go  to ;  end  though  my 
sister  was  in  employment,  I  did  not  cost  them 


il;g 


hOXDOS  LAHUUn  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


anything.  I  ffot  work  at  my  own  trade,  and 
C'Xfieriencod  few  of  the  hardships  which  most 
of  my  class  do  when  first  liberated.  I  know  one 
poor  man  who  ssid  this  meeting  was  the  last 
place  that  he  would  come  to,  as  it  would 
expose  him.  lie  has  worked  five  weeks  for  n 
person  in  Oray's-Inn-lane.  lie  had  ham  in 
f?ood  circumstanct?8,  was  a  clerk,  and  under 
tlie  ere  nf  a  minister.  He  haul  to  sleep  in  a 
place' where  the  Termia  erawled  over  his  bod, 
and  he  had  to  get  up  in  the  night  and  remore 
his  clothes  to  keep  them  clean.  For  the  tiro 
weeks  he  has  been  at  woric  he  has  scarcely 
had  the  barest  necessaries  of  subsistence.  I 
have  been  to  see  this  man  e\'cry  Sunday,  and 
can  safely  say  that  he  has  not  had  sixpence 
in  his  pocket  ever  since  he  has  been  out  of 
priMon.  He  was  engaged  at  iiro-work  making, 
but  this  trade  becoming  slack  after  the  5th 
of  Kovembi»r,  he  was  thrown  upon  the  streets 
again.  I  will  not  say  what  became  of  the 
man  aiterwards,  because  that  is  not  neces- 
sary. I  will  merely  mention  that  Iw  is  now 
struggling  on,  depending  entirnly  on  the 
public  Ibr  a  meal  of  victuids.  1  have  myself 
been  to  work  in  the  city  for  two  months,  and 
have  not  been  intoxicated  once.  1  am  not 
fond  of  drink.  I  am  steady  and  meun  to 
continue  so,  and  I  trust  every  one  hern  will 
resolve  to  do  tJie  same,  for  you  will  tnid  it 
much  moi-o  to  your  comfort.  I  am  fortunate 
enough  to  be  able  to  earn  a  livelihood  at  my 
tnido  OS  a  mastm  ;  but  thont^h  I  am  not  in 
want  myself,  I  could  not  retrain  fh)m  coming 
here  t*>  tlimw  what  light  I  oould  on  this  sub- 
ject, and  showing  my  roodim^s  to  heli>  otlu^rs 
who  are  iu  distress."  ( Api>lausc.) 

The  next  who  moimted  the  platform  was  on 
elderly  man,  evidently  much  ro<luce<l  in  cir- 
stances.  lie  statitd  —  '*  1  am  a  <look-labourer, 
and  in  184S  was  convicted,  thougli  innocent, 
at  the  Old  Bailey.  I  was  within  three  miles 
of  the  place  whoi-e  the  ixjbbny  of  which  1 
was  aocusM  was  committed.  I  was  certainly  in 
company  with  the  female  who  was  robbed  three 
hours  before  the  theft  occurred ;  but  I  had  no 
hand  in  it,  and  yet  I  was  sentenced  to  four- 
teen years'  transportation.  I  jMMsed  my  first 
eleven  months  at  Millbank ;  then  I  went  to 
Woolwich,  and  next  to  Gibraltar.  At  the 
latter  place  Mr.  Armstrong  is  the  overseer  of 
the  convicts,  and  he  is  tlio  severest  man 
ever  knOwn ;  not  a  worse  being  in  tlio  Aus- 
tralian or  any  penal  settlements.  Flogging 
went  on  there  firom  before  daylight  till  long 
after  dark.  I  was  aix  years  and  eight  months 
imder  his  system,  and  I  received  4i.  lis,  Qd. 
on  leaving  Gibraltar,  2/.  lOf.  of  ^ich  was 
stopped  to  pay  my  passage  to  England.  When 
I  came  home  I  strived  as  hard  as  any  man  to 
get  an  honest  livelihood.  I  tried  every  expe- 
riment—I went  an  up  and  down  Whitechapel, 
but  no,  the  poHce  would  not  allow  me — they 
picked  me  out  as  a  mariied  man.  Then  I 
^worked  fifteen  or  sixteen  months  at  the  Docks, 
but  lately  that  employment  has  been  Tety 


slack,  and  I  h«ve  triad  all  the  offices  in  vain 
for  the  last  fortnight  I  leave  you  to  oonsider, 
therefi^re,  what  a  man  is  to  do  when  he  strives 
to  get  a  living  and  can't  No  man  in  all  Lon- 
don has  seen  more  trouble  than  I  have.  In 
1840 1  got  three  years'  impriionment  When 
I  came  out  a  man  borrowed  my  coat  to  walk 
through  the  City  with,  and  next  day,  aa  I  was 
going  past  Bow  Church,  I  was  taken  np  for  a 
robbery  which  that  man  had  committed,  my 
coat  being  sworn  to,  as  it  had  a  stain  on  the 
collar.  I  was  taken  before  Alderman  Gibbs 
that  morning,  and  fully  committed  for  trial ; 
and  when  I  appeared  at  Newgale  I  got  twelve 
months  in  tlio  Compter  gaol,  though  innocent 
I  had  not  been  three  months  out  of  the 
Compter  before  I  was  taken  np  for  beating  a 
pclieeman,  who  said  I  threw  a  atone  at  hun, 
but  I  never  did.  A  fortnight  afterwards  the 
man  who  <lid  it  got  fourteen  days,  and  I  gets 
two  yeui-s  for  it,  Uiough  I  was  not  nigh  the 
place.  No  man  in  London  has  suffered  as  I 
hove  done  wrongfully,  and  none  has  been  so 
'  worked  up '  as  I  am  at  tliis  moment.  For  the 
last  fortnight  the  winds  have  been  such  as  to 
prei'ent  a  single  ship  from  coming  up  tlie 
Channel,  and  morning  after  morning  between 
five  hundretl  and  six  hundred  men  regularly 
wait  at  the  Docks  for  employment  and  cannot 
got  it  When  I  am  employed,  it  is  at  the 
West  Quay;  but  tlic  permanent  labourers  ai« 
served  first  Such  men  as  1  liave  yery  little 
chance,  as  they  bring  persons  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Doi*k  sooner  than  engage  ^casualty' 
labourers.  During  the  eighteen  months  that 
have  elapsed  sin<.'e  I  came  fh.>m  Gibraltar,  I 
have  walked  the  streets  of  London  whole  days 
without  breaking  my  fast ;  and  sdnce  twelve 
o'cl(jck  yesterday  up  to  tliis  moment  I  have 
not  done  so.  1  really  wi^h,  sir,  that  some- 
thing could  be  done  for  us  alL" 

Mr.  ]SIayhew  atiked  the  men  whether  they 
thought  tiie  formation  of  a  society,  and  a 
system  by  which  tliose  who  were  in  work  could 
assist  those  who  were  out  of  it,  would  boueflt 
them? 
To  this  many  voices  answered,  "  Yes !  yes ! " 
Mr.  Mayhew  continued :  "  I  know  that  if 
your  stock-money  is  onco  gone  you  are  com- 
pletely helpless.  A  man  who  had  been  tried 
for  his  life  and  sent  to  Australia  came  io  me 
one  day,  when  let  out  of  prison,  with  a  loaf 
under  his  arm,  and  said,  *■  This  is  all  I  have 
got  to  keep  mo,  and  if  I  ask  for  work  thete  is 
a  polioeman  at  my  heels  to  tell  every  one  that 
I  am  a  returned  convict.'  His  case  became 
desperate,  when,  about  the  time  of  the  Great 
Exhibition,  I  offered  to  give  him  a  little  Buwey 
if  he  would  pledge  me  his  word  to  do  all  that 
he  could  to  lead  an  honest  life.  He  ahook 
hands  with  me,  and  promised  to  do  so.  He 
tiien  had  cords  printed,  and  tried  to  make  a 
living  by  selling  gelatine  aweets.  After  a 
little  time  he  took  a  small  huckster's  dliop, 
and  subsequently  aanied  a  lod||iiig-hoii»> 
keeper,  and  hae  since  bean  doing  Toy  wdL  J 


LONJJOX  LABOUR  AND  THE  JX)KDON  POOR. 


4M1 


know  that  the  period  between  the  ages  of 
twenty.five  and  fifty  is  the  time  when  a  roving 
life  has  its  strongest  attractions;  but  after 
that,  when  a  man  is  hunted  like  a  dog,  he  gets 
tired  of  it.  I  have  seen  frequent  examples  of  i 
tliis,  and  known  whole  families  of  poor  people, 
with  only  sixpence  at  their  command,  to  invest 
that  small  sum  in  sprats,  and  live  a  month 
upon  it  by  turning  it  over  and  over. 

"I  once  took  a  poor  boy  (a young  tliief)  and 
got  him  a  place  at  the  Daily  News  office,  when 
the  printer  and  editor  told  me  he  was  as  good 
and  as  well-behaved  as  any  boy  on  that  estab- 
lishment. The  difficulty,  however,  was  to  sepa- 
rate him  from  his  old  *  pals.'  He  got  among 
them  on  an  Kaster  Monday,  and  was  found 
picking  pockets  at  a  fair,  and  taken  to  prison ; 
it  was  *  all  up  with  him  *  till  he  had  seen  the 
miseiy  of  his  course  of  Hfe,  but  I  am  sure,  if 
taken  by  the  hand,  ho  will  ultimately  become  a 
good  member  of  society.  I  mention  this  to 
show,  that  if  a  little  leniency  and  kindness  are 
evinced  towards  the  men  we  may  beat  down 
the  crime  of  the  country  to  an  enormous  ex- 
tent. But  wo  must  not  fancy  it  possible  tbat 
such  persons  can  be  made  model-men  in  an 
instant.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  the  disj^osition 
sho>vn  to  make  converts  to  religion  of  you 
produces  a  large  amount  of  hj-pocrisy.  (  Cries  of 
Yes !  yes ! )  If  this  leads  you  to  become  better 
men,  in  Heaven's  name,  say  so ;  but  if  it  en- 
genders the  worst  form  of  evil,  let  it  bo  ex- 
posed. That  there  are  such  things  as 
miracles  of  instantaneous  reformation,  I  don't 
deny;  but  the  first  thing  wanted  is  some 
society  to  give  men  what  will  keep  them  from 
starving,  clothe  them,  and  find  them  in  a 
lodging;  and  when  they  are  tlius  placed  in 
decent  comfort,  and  made,  as  a  necessary  con- 
sequence, more  kindly  in  their  nature,  other 
people  may  then  come  to  them  and  try  to 
make  them  religious.  To  attempt,  however, 
to  proselytise  men  who  ai'e  famishing,  appears 
to  me  a  mockery-  and  a  delusion,  and  only  the 
most  depraved  class  of  criminals  would,  I  be- 
lieve, yield  to  it."     (Applause.) 

The  fifth  ticket-of-leave  man  who  addressed 
the  assembly  was  a  man  of  middle  stature, 
slightly  made,  and  between  twenty -five  and 
thirty.     He  said : — 

"  I  was  sentenced  to  seven  years'  transport- 
ation at  the  Old  Bailey.  I  went  to  Wake- 
field and  con  confirm  the  statement  of  a 
previous  speaker,  that  no  gratuities  are  allowed 
there.  I  next  went  to  Portsmouth,  where  I 
remained  two  years  and  two  months,  when  I 
was  discharged  on  ticket-of-leave.  I  returned 
to  the  neighbourhood  from  whence  I  was  com- 
mitted. A  master  who  promised  to  give  me 
constant  employment  had  before  this  given  me 
a  certificate.  I  was  discharged  about  eighteen 
months  ago.  Whilst  I  was  at  work  for  my 
master  a  female  came  up  to  me  and  asked  me 
if  I  had  seen  two  other  women  pass.  I  an- 
swered, *No,'  when  she  imited  me  to  have 
something  to  drink ;  and  knowing  the  female, 


I  accepted  her  offer.  While  walking  with  her, 
only  two  doors  from  where  I  lived,  a  poUceman 
came  np  and  took  us  both  into  costody. 
This,  I  suppose,  was  because  I  was  known  to 
be  a  returned  con\'ict  The  woman  wbs 
charged  with  being  concerned  with  otbezs  of 
her  own  sex  with  robbing  a  gentleman,  toad 
on  being  searched  a  portion  of  the  money  was 
found  on  her,  but  none  on  me.  Moreover, 
the  gentleman  stating  that  there  was  no  man 
engaged  in  the  theft,  I  was  discharged.  I 
then  resumed  work,  but  was  taken  again  npon 
a  charge  of  burglary.  Many  of  you  may  have 
heard  of  the  case.  I  was  in  my  shirt-sleeves 
when  I  was  arrested.  The  case  was  tried  be- 
fore Mr.  Brenham.  I  did  not  deny  my  name, 
and  being  a  ticket-of-leave  man  I  was  re- 
manded for  a  week.  I  was  afterwards  brought 
up  and  re-examined,  and  after  a  careful  in- 
vestigation I  was  discharged.  If  there  had 
been  the  slightest  suspicion  attaching  to  me, 
from  my  chai'acter  being  known,  I  must  have 
been  either  imprisoned  for  three  months,  or 
committed  for  trial.  I  again  returned  to  my 
work,  but  in  three  weeks  afterwards  I  was 
dragged  out  of  my  bed  and  locked  up  for  three 
hours  in  the  Bagnigge-wells  station,  whence 
I  was  taken  to  Bow-street.  Three  policemen 
had  burst  my  bedroom-door  open  before  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  while  it  was  yet 
daik.  They  said  they  wanted  me,  because  I 
had  been  concerned  with  a  female  in  the 
robbery  which  had  occurred  two  nights  pre- 
vious, on  Pentonville .  hilL  The  inspector 
told  me  he  hod  received  an  order  from  the 
Secretary  of  State  to  send  me  bock  to  Ports- 
mouth prison,  my  license  being  revoked. 
When  I  got  to  Bow-street  I  was  placed  before 
Mr.  HaU,  not  in  open  court,  but  in  a  private 
room.  That  gentleman  also  told  me  that  my 
license  had  been  revoked,  on  the  alleged 
grounds  that  I  was  living  by  dishonest  means. 
I  was  sent  back  to  prison  accordingly;  but 
through  the  intercession  of  my  brother — a 
married  man,  who  showed  that  I  had  been 
working  for  twelve  months — I  was  again  re- 
leased. There  was  no  just  ground  whatever 
for  sending  me  back  to  prison.  I  have  only 
been  home  a  fortnight,  and  liaving  no  tools 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  The  master  who 
employed  mo  before  has  got  another  man." 

Mb.  Mathew  here  remarked,  that  it  would 
be  a  great  encouragement  to  Society  to  help 
them,  if  those  who  were  doing  well  asftisted 
those  who  were  doing  badly ;  whereupon 

p£T£B  observed  that  *'  it  was  little  help  that 
the  one  could  possibly  give  to  the  other.  An 
Association  (he  said)  was  what  was  wanted, 
whereby  the  men's  present  urgent  necessitieB 
could  be  relieved  before  they  fell  into  mischieL 
A  few  days  after  a  man's  liberation  he  gene- 
rally found  that  he  had  acted  foolishly,  and 
returned  to  his  senses.  If^  therefore,  a  Bodety 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and  gpave  him  tem- 
porarj'  shelter  and  counsel,  it  would  be  the 
best  lhiuglhat4)ouhi  happen  to  him." 


4:JS 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  POOR. 


Those  of  the  lads  and  mon  present  who 
had  been  lofl  without  father  or  mother  from 
■n  early  age,  wore  then  requested  to  hold  up 
their  hands ;  when  twenty  out  of  the  forty- 
eight  did  HO. 

A  lame  blacksmith  and  fitter,  of  about  forty, 
whose  garb  and  complexion  were  in  strict 
keeping  with  his  craft,  and  who  spoke  with 
not  a  few  grains  of  stem  bitterness  in  his 
tone,  next  mounted  the  rostrum.  Ho  said  : 
•*  I  have  been  transported,  and  am  a  *  spotted 
man,'  with  whom  the  police  can  do  as  they 
like.  J  w&s  a  long  time  at  Dartmoor,  one  of  tlie 
hardest  convict  stations  a  man  can  po  U\  and  I 
did  the  prison  work  there.  I  went  there  in 
IrtSl,  when  nn  eminent  doctor,  Mr.  Mcintosh, 
belonged  to  the  place,  but  having  good  health 
I  did  not  need  liis  assistance.  While  in  the 
infirmarj'  on  several  occjtsions,  but  not  for  ill- 
ness, I  saw  the  medicine  that  was  given  to 
the  patients.  It  was  only  a  large  bottle  of 
salts.  I  have  known  a  man  to  be  cut  out  of 
his  hammock,takcn  dov^Ti-stidrs,  and  buried,  all 
in  three  boiu*s ;  and  I  liave  heurd  the  doctor 
say  of  a  sick  man,  *  I^t  him  drink  out  of  a 
pail  till  he  biursts.'  (Some  sensation.)  I  was 
a  privileged  man  because  I  was  handy,  and 
fitted  up  almost  the  whole  iron-work  of  tlio 
place.  Once  some  books  were  pilfered ;  and 
at  dinner-time  there  was  a  general  turn  over 
and  search  at  parade.  The  •  searcher '  was  a 
very  sedate  man,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Governor,  but  he  was  the  most  malicious  per- 
son that  ever  stripped.  After  feeling  the 
pockets  of  the  man  next  to  me,  this  person 
called  me  out,  and,  contrary  to  the  rule,  took 
me  into  the  yard  and  stripped  me  naked.  I 
remonstrated,  and  wished  him  to  choose  a 
place  not  in  the  open  air,  but  for  this  I  was 
ordered  to  a  cell,  and  while  on  my  way  there 
he  borrf)wed  a  sword  from  an  officer — the 
foreman  of  the  smith's  shop — and  made  a  cut 
at  me  with  the  back  edge  of  the  weapon,  in- 
flicting a  wound  of  eighteen  inches  long.  I 
went  to  my  cell,  and  next  morning  I  was,  to 
my  astonishment,  charged  with  attempting  to 
knock  this  very  man  down  with  a  hummer ! 
The  Governor  would  not  hear  a  word  that  I 
had  to  say.  I  was  insi>ected  by  the  doctor, 
and  then  put  back,  to  appear  afterwards  before 
the  directors.  The  charge  against  me  was 
wlioUy  false.  The  foreman  of  the  smith's 
shop  was  a  straightforward  man,  and  when 
applied  to  about  my  character,  he  told  the 
governor  that  a  quieter  man,  and  one  more 
capable  of  doing  his  work  than  me,  he  could 
not  wish  to  see.  The  accuser  could  not  look 
me  in  the  face ;  but  if  the  foreman  spoke  the 
truth  to  the  directors, — and  he  was  a  man  who 
would  speak  nothing  else, — he  would  have 
been  sure  to  have  his  band  removed  from  his 
cap.  So,  instead  of  my  being  taken  before  the 
directors,  I  was  sent  to  my  dinner;  and  I 
never  received  the  least  redress  for  the  wrongs 
I  endured. 

"  Before  returning  home  I  was  classed  as  a 


permanent  invalid,  and  yet  I  was  kept  at  work 
on  iron-work  of  three  tons  weight.  After 
acting  four  years  as  a  mechanic  and  a  *  first- 
rater  •  at  Dartmoor,  I  got  invalided  pay,  and 
went  home  with  about  7/.  in  my  pocket.  That 
is  all  tlie  reward  given  to  a  good  workman  and 
well-conducted  man  at  Dartmoor.  I  have 
heard  much  of  Wakefield,  and  believe  the  sys- 
tem there  will  reform  any  man.  It  has  a  fint- 
rate  character ;  but  as  to  Dartmoor,  a  man 
lea\'ing  it  can  have  no  reformation  in  him. 
At  Dartmoor,  when  visitors  wish  to  try  the 
prisoners'  soup,  a  basin  of  nice  beef  tea, 
standing  smoking  on  the  hob,  and  fit  to 
show  gentlemen,  is  offered  them  to  taste. 
But  this  is  not  the  soup  which  is  really  given 
to  the  convicts ;  that  is  merely  a  little  rice  and 
water.  In  fact,  Dartmoor  is  one  of  the  most 
villnnous  places  a  man  can  be  put  into.  You 
have  tliere  to  swab  up  two  or  three  pails  of 
water  before  you  can  rise  in  the  morning. 
The  brutality  practised  is  terrible;  and  re- 
main l>er,  when  a  man  is  pre^judiced  against 
the  treatment  he  receives,  no  permanent  im- 
provement of  his  character  is  possible.  Let 
any  Dartmoor  man  here  get  up  and  deny 
what  I  say  about  the  place,  if  he  can.  The 
aristocracy  fancy  that  it  is  an  excellent  convict 
station,  but  it  is  not  I  have  seen  clean  and 
comfortable-looking  men  taken  off  parade,  bt*. 
cause  they  would  not  do  an  officer's  dirty 
work,  and  conducted  to  a  covered  passage,  from 
which  they  have  not  come  out  again  until  they 
did  so  with  faces  cut  about  and  bleeding,  and 
with  clothes  all  torn  to  pieces.  I  don't  say 
that  all  the  other  convict  establishments  are 
like  Dartmoor.  I  have  seen  bodies  of  seventy 
and  eighty  men  come  there  iVom  Wakefield—* 
good-intentioned  persons,  and  evidently  having 
undergone  religious  impressions,  to  juilge  by 
their  regularly  kneeling  down  to  prayers ;  but 
Dartmoor  must  contaminate  them,  and  make  , 
them  worse  than  ever  before  tliey  leave  it  I 
never  had* any  particular  religious  feelings 
myself  while  at  Dartmoor;  but  I  am  sure  that  j 
a  pious  life  is  the  most  comfortable  one  imder  . 
the  canopy  of  heaven.  I  was  very  wrongfVilly  j 
sent  away  to  that  penal  establishment  I  had  I 
never  been  convicted  before ;  and  my  only  > 
ofi^ence  was  being  concerned  iu  a  tap-roem  I 
drunken  fight-,  for  which  I  was  charged  with  a 
misdemeanour.  It  was  stated  that  I  intended 
to  do  a  man  some  grievous  iKMlily  harm,  but 
it  was  proved  that  I  had  no  weapon  at  the 
time  larger  than  a  penny-piece.  I  only  left 
Dartmoor  six  or  seven  montlis  ago.  If  I  were 
in  work,  I  should  be  most  happy  to  g^ve  my 
mite  towards  the  society  that  this  gentleman 
(Mr.  May  hew)  speaks  of^  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor  ticket-of-leave  men ;  but  the  slackness 
of  trade  has  thrown  me  out  for  the  last  month, 
and  I  have  maintained  myself  and  four  others 
who  are  on  my  hands  for  half-a-year." 

The  concluding  speaker  was  a  young  and 
deanly.looking  working  man,  of  preposse&sing 
address,  who  stated : — ^  I   have   experienced 


LONDON  LABOUR  AND  THE  LONDON  I'OOii, 


400 


considerable  oppression  from  the  x>olice,  who, 
I  think,  want  as  much  showing  up  as  anybody. 
In  January,  1852,  I  was  sentenced  to  seven 
years'  transportation.  I  stopped  at  the  House 
of  Correction  for  some  time,  and  then  went  to 
Northampton  borough  gaol^  where  I  lay  eleven 
months.  Thence  I  was  sent  to  Woolwich, 
where  I  stayed  about  two  years  and  five 
months,  and  was  employed  in  dragging  timber 
from  one  end  of  the  yard  to  the  other.  How- 
ever, I  did  very  well  there,  and  I  find  no  fault 
with  the  place.  When  I  got  my  liberty  I  re- 
turned  home,  where  I  had  a  father  and  mother 
and  a  sister;  but  as  they  were  in  humble 
circumstances,  I  did  not  like  to  throw  my- 
self on  ihem  for  my  support,  and  so  I 
looked  about  fbr  someOiing  to  do.  I  am  now 
keeping  company  with  a  young  woman.  One 
night  as  I  was  going  home,  at  half-past 
twelve,  after  sitting  some  hours  with  her  and 
her  faiher,  a  policeman  suddenly  comes  up  to 
me,  and  tappmg  me  on  the  shoulder,  says : 
'  Holloa,  George ;  so  here  you  are !  Mind  I 
dont  send  you  somewhere  else  for  twelve 
months.'  I  answered :  *  So  you  may,  when  I 
have  given  you  occasion  for  it'  My  landlord 
saw  us,  and  said  that  I  had  done  nothing. 
*No,'  said  the  policeman,  *or  I  would  not 
allow  him  to  go  free ;'  and  he  then  told  me  to 
move  on.  My  young  woman's  father  keeps  a 
barber's  shop;  and  ^bis  policeman  goes  up  to 
him  and  acquaints  him  with  my  character, 
asking  him  whether  he  is  aware  that  the 
young  man  his  daughter  keeps  company  with 
is  a  returned  convicL  The  father  tells  her  of 
it,  at  least  she  gives  me  broad  hints  that  imply 
as  much.  This  man  then  shows  me  up,  and 
exposes  me  several  times  to  the  tradesmen  in 
my  neighbourhood.  I  then  see  what  I  can  do. 
I  cannot  get  a  certificate  of  character,  and  I 
try  to  write  one  myselt  Then  I  get  several 
monthc'  imprisonment,  and  now  I  have  been 
out  seven  weeks.  But  I  have  not  done  any- 
thing dishonest  Still,  if  it  goes  on  like  this, 
I  am  sure  I  must  be  compelled  to  do  that  A 
fortnight  ago,  as  I  was  going  home,  the  same 


policeman  again  interfered  with  me,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  put  up  with  his  insults.  Last  week 
I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  captain  of  the  hulks  at 
Woolwich,  telling  him  of  the  oppression  I 
sufier.  I  received  a  letter  from  the  chaplain, 
of  course  containing  religious  advice,  but  the 
answer  I  obtained  from  the  captain  of  the 
hulks  was,  that  the  next  time  I  am  insulted  I 
should  write  to  him  again,  when  he  will 
acquaint  the  Secretory  of  State  with  it,  and 
put  it  down,  if  possible.  How  can  we  hope  to 
get  employment  from  any  tradesmen,  if  the 
policemen  persist  in  telling  who  we  are  ?  I 
know  that  if  I  were  an  independent  gentleman 
myself,  I  would  not  trust  a  man  who  had  no 
reference  of  some  kind." 

Mb.  Mathsw  :  '<  We  will  now  break  up  this 
meeting.  I  will  let  you  know  when  to  meet 
again.  When  I  can  arrange  the  formation  of 
a  committee  of  gentlemen  willing  to  connect 
themselves  with  the  undertaking  I  have 
sketched  out,  we  can  hold  another  assemblage 
in  public.  (Cheers.)  In  the  meontipie,  if  I 
can  assist  any  of  you  with  the  loan  of  a  few 
shillings — but,  mind  you,  come  to  me  gently, 
and  not  thick  and  fast — ^I  will  do  what  I  can 
to  help  you.  (Hear,  hoar^  I  am  a  person 
who  work  myself  for  all  I  get,  and  remem- 
ber I  call  myself  a  *  shilling  man,'  and  not  one 
of  your  *  sovereign  people  *  (Laughter) ;  and 
wlien  I  say  *■  a  loan,'  I  want  you  all  to  feel  that 
by  doing  yoiur  best  to  repay  me,  you  will  en- 
able  me  to  extend  the  same  assistance  to  a 
greater  number  of  your  class.  (Hear,  hear.) 
Colonel  Jebb  looks  on  you  almost  with  the 
eye  of  a  father,  and  it  touches  him  to  the 
quick  to  hear  of  any  of  you  relapsing.  I  trust 
that  we  shall  prove  successful  in  our  object ; 
but  let  me  in  conclusion  entreat  you  il  to 
adhere  faithfully  to  your  good  resolves ;  and 
I  hope  you  will  find  far  greater  happiness  in 
pursuing  honest  courses  than  dishonest  ones.** 
(Cheers.) 

The  meeting,  which  lasted  from  eight 
o'clock  to  half-past  ten,  and  was  most  orderly 
throughout,  then  quietly  dispersed. 


THi:    END 


INDEX. 


Acrobats,  or  streeirperfonnen      -     -     90 
Actors,  strolling      -----   139 

Bagpipe-players,  the      -      -      -  161,168 

Ballad-singers,  street     -      -      -      -  195 

Ballast-getters,  the  -      -      -      -      -  269 

Ballast-heavers,  the        -      -      -      -  272 

irives,  meetmg  of      -  285 

Ballast-lightormen,  the  -      -      -      -  271 

JBallast-men,  the      -----  265 

Ballet  perfonners    -----  144 

Befrtlc-destroycrs     -----  40 

Billy  BjitIow     ------  138 

Birds  and  mice,  exhibitor  of  -      -      -  219 

Bluck,  Jr.ck,  statement  of     -      -      -  11 

Black-beetles,  natural  history  of  -      -  39 

Blind  reader,  the     -      -      -      -      -  154 

—^— performer  on  the  bells-      -      -  161 

—  fenude  violin-player    -      -      -  161 
*- Scotch  violoncello-player   -      -  162 

—  Irish  piper     ^      -      -      -      -  162 
Boy  inmates  of  the  oonxal  mxda  of  the 

London  workhouses,  statements  of  -  388 
Bug-destrover,  Her  Majesty's  -  -  36 
Bugs  and  fleas,  natural  history  of  -      -     34 

Cabmen,  character  of     -      -      -      -  851 

— crime  amongst       -      -      -  856 

Cabs,  introduction  of      •      -      -      -  850 

regulations  for      -      -      -      -  354 

Carmen  and  porters        -      -      -      -  857 

Carmen,  the  London      -      -      -      -  361 

Carrying  trade,  the-      -      -      -      -  361 
Casual  wards  of  London  warkhonaes, 

stixtcmenta  of  boy-inmates  -      -      -  388 

— _— — —  number  of  applicants  392 

Catch-'em-alive  sellers  -      -      -      -  28 

Cholker  on  flag-stones    -      -      -      -  214 

Charities,  and  sums  given  to  the  poor  -  429 

Cheap  lodging-houses     -      -      -      -  312 

— ^--^-^— ^-^  inmates  of  -      -  31S 

Chinese  shades,  the        -      -      -      -  74 

Clown,  street,  the    -      -      -      -      -  119 

penny-gafi^  the   -      -      -      -  121 

canvas,  the  -----  126 

Coal-backers,  statements  of  -      -      -  243 

Coal-heavers,  the,  statements  of  -      -  233 

Coal-moters,  the       -----  260 

Coal-porters,  the,  statements  of   •      •>  261 

Concertina-player  on  the  steamboats  -  182 

8: 


Conjuror,  street,  the       -      -     -      -  107 

statement  of  another  -  110 

Crickets,  natural  history  of    -      -      -     41 

Dancinff-dogs,  the  -----  181 
Dock-lfU)ourers,  the  -  -  -  -  800 
Doll's-eye  maker,  the  -  -  -  •  flSl 
Dominion  of  fancy,  or  Pondi's  opera  -  58 
Dram  and  pif^es,  perfonnen  on  -  -  189 
Drunkenness  in  different  taides,  table  of  245 

Fantoccini  man,  the  -  -  -  -  80 
**  Farm-yard "  player  -  -  -  -  161 
Flies,  natural  liistory  of  -  -  -  -  24 
Fly-papor  maker  -  -  -  -  -  81 
French  hurdy-gurdy  players,  and 
dancing-children-      -      -  -  171 

Qarret-masters,  statements  of       -      -  221 
Glee-singers,  street  -----  194 

Gun-exercise     exhibitor,     on&-lQggod 
ItaUan   -------155 

Guy  Fawkes  man    -----     87 

boy 70 

Guy  Fawkescs  ------     64 

Hackney-coach  and  cabmen  -  -  -  847 

Happy  family,  the,  exhibitor  -  -  214 

1  original   -      -  -  -  215 

Harp-player,  the  poor     -      -  -  -   174 

Inland  navigation  -----  828 
Italian  with  monkey  -  -  -  -  179 
Italian  pipers  and  claiionot-players     -  177 

Jester,  penny  drcnsb  the  -  -  -  181 
Juggler,  street^  the         .      -      -     -  104 

Labonxers,  timbeiKlock  -      -     -      -  292 

casual    -----  800 

dock      -----  800 

Lightermen  and  bargemen,  the  -  -  382 
London  Dock,  tho  -  -  -  -  -  301 
London  omnibus-drivers  and  conductors  336 
London  vagrants  -----  368 
London    vagrants,    asylums    for    the 

houseless      ------  406 

London    watermen,    lightermen,    and 

steamboat-men  -----  828 
Lumpers,  the   -----      -  288 


442 


na)EX 


PAO* 

Mechanical  flgnrcfl,  exhibitor  of  -  -  77 
llr*rcantile  marine,  the  -  -  -  -  818 
Microicopc,  exhibitor  of  the  -      -      -     63 

NojTTo  8cn*na(lcra,   street,    ■tatemenia 
of   -------  190. 191 

OldSarali 159 

OnmiboAca,  origin  of      -      -      -      -  839 

■  proprietors  -  -  -  -  842 
drivcra  -----  344 

conductors  -      -      -      -  845 

■  timekeepers        -      -      -  846 

Organ-man,  the,  irith  flnto-harmoninm 

organ     -------  174 

Peep-shows      ------  88 

Penny  circns-jcster  -----  181 

Penny  mouse-trap  maker,  tlio       -      -  21 

Penny  profile-cutter,  tlie       -      -      -  210 

Photographic  man,  statement  of  a       -  206 

Phutugi,^pU>,  kUvt  t        -      -      -      -  204 

Partora,  th^daal&patioiiof-      -      .  S64 

tio3ckp1lia-      -      -      -      -  805 

ticket^ the-      -      -      -      -  865 

packen,fhe      -      -      -      -  366 

street,  the  -----  866 

fellowship,  the  -      -      -      -  867 

Profile-cutter,  penny,  the      -      -      -  210 

blind,  the        -      -      -  213 

Punch       -------43 

talk 41 

—   'tt  ri^freahm^iut      -      -      -      -  48 

^      ]iij*li>ry  of     -----  48 

■  'sfignrea       -----  50 
's  frame  and  i>ro8coniuui    -      -  53 

•^—-*8  opera  described  -  -  -  53 
Punclimon  at  the  theatre  -  -  -  48 
Punchmon,  scene  with  two    -      -      -     47 


tRdBo       -      - 
'  pentonfl  employed 


Bat-ktUcri  the 

Jttmm  Bhaw  - 

. Jack  Black     -      - 

the  Suwerman 


821 

823 

825 

1 

9 

11 

20 

5 

8 

152 


Hat-kiUinp.  niia^ht  al       -      -      -      - 
Ilatif  ntttuzul  hiatoij  of  ' 
Hi^citeri  slroet*  the  -      -      -      -      - 
Eefuge  for  the  homdoGB,  Playhouse 
Yard,  Oripplcigflto  -      -  407,417 

statements  of 

inmatea  -      -      -  407 
description  of  428 


Returned  convict,-  statement  of 
Kisley,  street,  the  -      -      - 


TACM 

-  423 

-  94 


Si  Katherine*s  Docks    -      -      -     -  311 

pewtiTDim^  tbe*  a  rotcalcliC'r  -       -       -  2i) 

Scotch  piper  and  dancing  ^irl       -      -  IG4 

&lniWt  Jt*mmy»  Htatcmont  of  -      -       -  9 

Bhowman,  (itretjt,  au  old         -       -      -  79 

Silly  Billy        ------  134 

6niiki^  ffword,  and  kdfe  ewallower,  the  117 

I  Stcvm  navigation    -----  333 

Stilt'Tunltcra            -----  148 

Btr^iit  ftliowmatit  an  old  -      -      -       -  72 

pODtman,  the  -----  <«> 

Kisley,  tho     -----  Ot 

jut^^ler,  the  -      -      -      -      -  104 

coi^uror,  tho  -----  107 

clown,  the     -      -      -      -      -  119 

reciter,  the     -      -      -      -      -  151 

' "  negro  eerenAdeiiv  statements  of  -  1 JX) 

pie©  Ainjc^ero    -----  im 

ballad  iiiaf^era  or  chauntens        -  195 

Btrtjut  pbotogTtiphy  -----  204 
SlnMjt  btt«d3»  English      -      -       -       -103 

— — German      -      -      -      -  104 

fitTolliiife^  actor*        -      -      -      -      -  139 

Strong  man,  tho       -----  yg 

Telescope,  exhibitor  of  -      -      -      -  79 

Thamfti  watermen,  the  -      -      -      -  328 

Tiokei-of4eft¥o  men^  meeting  of  -      -  4M 

I                         BtaiL*inc*nta  of      -  431 

1  Tighl-rope  danoen  and  stilt-vaulters  -  118 

I  Timber-dock  lalKmrers  -      -      -      -  2ji2 

Timberimd  deal  trefll*;.  tho   -      -      -  :iu5 
,   Tom4um  pliiyt^ri,  ftidi-mt-n(rf  of   -   isr>,  1j<S 

I  Tumpikc'-roads  and  stage-coaches       -  319 


Vagrancy,  causes  of  -  -  -  -  303 
Vagrants,  tho  London  -  .  -  -  368 
— —  cladsiiication  of  -  -  -  'Ml 
— -  statements  of  -  -  -  -  :178 
— ^—  number  and  cost  of  -  -  ''»y7 
routes  of  tho    -      -  -  -  3y8 

Watermen,  tho        -----  353 

tho  Thamea  -      -  -  -  3*28 

West  India  DoekH,  tho    -      -  -  -  :U0 

Wlii8tliii|L?  man,  tho        -      -  -  -  1U7 

unci  dancing  boy,  the  -  -  ll»0 

Hilly '2(n) 

Writer  without  lioiuls     -      -  -  -  *J13 


Lonwert  racmD  sr  w.  aowu  axd  soxs,  tTAvroKD  btbrt.